Nothing To Lose

Prologue- Isaac

PROLOGUE- ISAAC

It’s surprisingly busy when I enter The Nook . They rarely have a wait at this time of night, less than an hour from closing. Brenna, the owner's daughter, notices me standing at the back of the line, bewildered by the amount of people in the small space. She smiles and gestures to a sign that says, "Open Mic Night at The Nook". Ah, okay. That makes sense. I haven't been around long enough to actually witness one of The Nook's events, aside from the drag brunch I walked in on about a month ago when I first started coming here. That was another busy day, and I stuck around to watch the show for a while. That was the day I met the owners, Mac and Anders, and introduced myself as one of their new neighbors. I'd just leased a building only a block away, and since then, I've been a regular, especially since they insist on giving me a deep discount, making eating here cheap enough that I'm here a few times a week. It's good, healthy food and I've felt more welcomed in this little cafe than anywhere else I've been since moving into town.

By the time I make it to the register to order, Brenna is already holding up a bag.

"Dad saw you come in, and told Pops to make you something good," she says with a wide smile. "It's a California burrito, no pico since you don't like cilantro, and a side of cut fruit. That okay?"

"Sounds amazing," I say, my stomach already growling. "I got busy with the renovations today and forgot to eat lunch."

"Hmmm. I think you might need some pumpkin bread too, then." She grabs three slices from the display case and wraps them before adding them to my bag, even though I already paid. I shake my head, but thank her and wave to Anders, who works the front of the house. "Give Mac my thanks as well," I tell Brenna, bending to let her kiss my cheek the way she always does.

"Don't look now, but your cutie is here," she whispers.

I immediately straighten and follow her line of sight when she pointedly looks to my left. It doesn't take more than a second to find him in the crowd, thanks to Anders not so discreetly standing behind him and pointing excitedly. My " café cutie," as Brenna likes to call him, is sitting at a small two-person table towards the back of the room. I can't see who he's sitting with, but he looks uncomfortable.

"I think he might be on a date," Brenna whisper-yells. "Or maybe it's a job interview. Either way, it doesn't look like it's going well."

A date? Part of me deflates, as if I have any right to be disappointed about a guy I've never even spoken to being on a date. Hell, I've only seen him around here a handful of times since the day I literally collided with him. There was something about the shy way he looked up at me, the flush on his cheeks, and the little squeak noise he made that struck me as adorable. I've never been a big talker, but I couldn't seem to find any words at all. It was like my tongue swelled up in my mouth and I basically stood there like an idiot while he made an unintelligible apology for spilling his drink on me before running away. Brenna said I probably scared him off with my resting bitch face, and she's probably right. I'm a nice guy, but I tend to come off a bit gruff. Especially when I'm struck speechless by a random stranger with deep blue-green eyes and a blush that did things to my stomach.

In the handful of times I've seen him since, I've tried to make myself look friendlier by smiling when we've caught each other's eye, but by the way he always looks away so quickly, it's clear he isn't interested. Either he's put off by my overall demeanor, isn't interested in guys, or just isn't interested in me—which might be the case considering his date is definitely a dude. At least, I think it’s a date.

From what I've observed, my café cutie is a bit preppy. His clothes, shoes, and the messenger bag he carries are all expensive-looking. His overall style is very clean cut and preppy, whereas I'm… not. I look down at my paint-splattered jeans and the wrinkled hoodie I pulled over my equally grimy shirt. My work boots are worn, and the backwards ball cap on my head is frayed. Compared to the guy sitting across from him, I'm not in his league. Even facing away from me, I can tell from the set of his shoulders and the huge, expensive watch he's wearing that he doesn't have to rely on charity from nearby businesses to stay fed.

I make a neck cutting motion with my hand to signal for Anders to stop his not-so-subtle gesturing, but he's apparently having too much fun being a meddlesome neighbor, and it gets the date's attention. He looks over his shoulder. I quickly avert my attention back to Brenna, but not before I get a flash of an upturned nose and condescending sneer.

"That guy is on his third beer, and they haven't even gotten their food yet," she says, eyeing the guy with a frown.

"Stop staring at them like that!" I laugh.

Brenna ignores me, sending more daggers towards the table before looking back at me and pouting. "Poor Tyler doesn't seem to be enjoying himself."

"Tyler?"

She gives me a knowing smirk, and I wonder how long she's been sitting on his name. Then again, this is the first time I've all but admitted my interest, considering the way I'm staring and my reaction to hearing his name. I didn't think I was being obvious in my curiosity about the preppy guy who soaked my shirt in iced chai and now blatantly avoids me, but Brenna and her dads are perceptive, and apparently meddlesome. Maybe they don't have enough to do. I don't know why else they'd be so interested in a non-existent connection between me and a guy that won't even make eye contact with me.

Risking another glance, the pretentious prick has turned back around, but another set of eyes is looking my way. For the first time since we locked eyes over a spilled drink, he doesn't look away immediately.

Feeling brazen by having his attention now that I know his name, I quirk an eyebrow at Tyler and give him a smirk that I hope reads as friendly and not judgmental, even though I can't help thinking, really? That guy?

Is that the kind of guy he's into? Maybe it's wishful thinking, but Brenna's right. He doesn’t seem like he’s having a good time. For once, he doesn't look away immediately, and I think his lips quirk into an almost-grin. Tyler snaps his gaze from mine when the guy suddenly whips around. I turn back towards the counter, but in my periphery, I see him reach across the table to touch his date's arm.

Yeah, I'm pathetic. At least I didn't wink at him, or something equally cringey.

"See you," I tell Brenna, and wave to a dramatically sulking Anders. Without looking back at Tyler or his date, I make a beeline for the door.

* * *

The music blaring through my speakers cuts off, the sound of my phone ringing replacing the grungy sound of a guitar riff.

The phone’s computer voice alerts me that, “Mom is calling.”

Straining to hold up the sheet of drywall I'm working on, I yell at my phone's voice controlled assistant feature to answer.

"Hey Asshole!" I yell, using the name I gave the mostly useless AI assistant. "Answer!"

Finally, just when I think I'm going to miss her call, it connects.

"Hey, Ma! Hold on a sec," I call out, stretching to keep the wall in place while taking a large screw from between my lips. Fitting the screw into the notch I pre-drilled to help keep the screws steady with one hand, I reach for my drill. The angle is awkward, but I'm able to secure enough screws that the drywall stays in place. Once I'm satisfied it won't come down, I brush my hands off and walk over to my makeshift worktable to pick up my phone.

"Sorry about that," I say into the phone once I switch it off from the Bluetooth speakers. "What's up?"

"Nothing's up, I'm just checking in," she says. "I haven't heard from you in a few days, and I need proof of life. I don't like you doing all that dangerous work on your own."

"It's not dangerous, Ma. It's just drywall."

"Uh-huh. Pretty sure that's supposed to be at least a two-man job."

Yeah, well, I can't afford an extra pair of hands. I don't say that out loud, though.

"I'm doing just fine, thank you."

I'm doing everything I can on my own before I have to hire someone for the stuff I can't do, like any major plumbing or electrical work. Luckily, I have enough experience having worked in construction for so many years to do most of the work myself. I've picked up enough skills that this renovation hasn't been as bad as I’d anticipated. It's been more expensive than I anticipated, though, thanks to inflation. Hiring someone to help me isn't an option if my savings are going to get us through to my next rotation on the rig.

Speaking of savings…

"Are you doing okay?"

"Yes, dear. I'm really just checking in on you."

"Are you sure? Do you need more money? Is Chels doing okay?" I'm mentally calculating how much I have in the bank, and whether there might be any fights I can pick up to make some extra cash so I can focus my days on finishing this renovation.

"She's fine. We both are. Seriously, Isaac. You don't need to worry over us so much."

She's deflecting, but I ignore it. "How's your pain?"

"I'm having a good day. I went for a long walk and reorganized the pantry."

"I'm glad to hear that," I say, forcing myself not to remind her to not overdo it. She's lived her whole life with chronic pain due to an autoimmune disease. She doesn't need to be reminded that overdoing it on a good day could make the next day worse. It's impossible for her to sit still when she has even a moment of relief, and she always feels guilty that she can't do much around the house or work a steady job. She hates having to rely on her children, but ever since our dad died when I was fourteen, I've had to be the main breadwinner. Mom gets a disability check from the state after a social worker helped us fill out the paperwork a couple of years ago, but it isn't enough to make ends meet. I've been working on the same oil rig my dad worked on and doing construction jobs between rotations ever since.

"Chelsey just left for work. She loves her new job at the retirement home, but working nights has been an adjustment."

My sister is almost six years younger than me and recently graduated from a LPN program after working as a certified nursing assistant for the past couple years. She's the one that convinced me to move an hour away to open my gym. She insisted she wants to live at home and has a decent paying job. She can pitch in with the bills and help keep mom comfortable while I pursue my dreams. I still send them money whenever I get paid from a big job on the rig, and I've been saving every penny for the last several years to be able to make this happen, but it wasn't until Chelsey found the listing for this building that I ever even considered it a reality.

"Can she switch to day shift?"

"She could. I told her she should, but the shift differential pay is a whole two dollars more."

I start searching around for my earbuds so I can use my hands while talking. If she's in a chatty mood, Mom can talk for hours. I never want to take away from a good day when I can make the time to chat.

"Tell her I can send more?"

"That's exactly why she pushes herself, hon."

"What do you mean?" I ask, finding one earbud on the ground in the mess of dust and debris that litters the entire floor.

"Your sister is bound and determined to push herself just as much as her big brother does. Neither of us wants you working yourself to death to take care of us. I've got my disability, and Chelsey has a good job. Stop worrying about what's happening here and focus on you. Hire some help with the money you keep sending us, so you can get that gym open and live your dream. Get a boyfriend and stop moping around."

"I do not mope."

"Fine, brood then."

"I don't brood, either."

"Oh, you do too. When's the last time you even went out and tried to meet someone? Doesn't even have to be a boyfriend, you know. I'm mostly joking about that. Though I would like grandbabies someday before I can't pick them up and hold them myself." I wince, almost telling her she's barking up the wrong tree, but I don't want her pressuring my sister instead just because she's the girl.

I mostly tune her out while looking for my other missing earbud. Crouching down, I reach beneath the worktable I made with some old sawhorses and a large plank of wood. It's currently laden with huge sheets of drywall that are a bitch to hang on my own since I got a bunch of type X from my local Habitat for Humanity Restore . Considering it's sound proof, fire-resistant and is less likely to take damage if it's hit or run into by an over-eager athlete, it seemed like the best option. Good choice or not, hanging it on my own is rough. But I've made do with just my own two hands and some clever ingenuity, and I'll continue to do so as long as possible. It's hard work, but I'm managing, and I'm finally starting to see my vision come together.

A loud bang from outside startles me enough that I flinch and hit my head on the bottom edge of the sawhorse table.

"Fuck!"

"Jesus, Isaac. Are you okay?"

Fucking ouch.

"Yeah, I'm fine." I stand, rubbing the sore spot on my head. "I just banged my head a bit." When I pull my hand back, blood coats my fingers. Well, that's just great. At least it's my head and not my hands, though. I can take a hit, but I need all of my fingers intact for this project. "I'll call you back in a bit, okay?"

"You're sure you're okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. Just made a mess."

In the bathroom, I wet a wad of paper towels to clean the cut. Some blood has trickled down my temple. It's not a bad cut, but head wounds always bleed a lot. Once I'm satisfied the cut is done bleeding, I turn on the shower head and stick my head under the water, watching the blood and drywall dust swirl down the drain while examining my tile work for imperfections. It seems every time I come in here, I find something that needs touching up, but for my first time tiling a bathroom, I don't think it's too bad. I can see the differences between where I started on the project and where I ended, and how much I improved by the end. Hopefully, no one will spend as much time as I do studying the tiles around the toilets in the bathroom stalls. Well, once I put the stalls in. For now, it's just one big open room with a long counter of sinks, two exposed toilets, two urinals, and three shower heads. Since I'm the only one that comes in here, it's fine the way it is for now. I need to hire a plumber before I install any of the partitions or anything else.

I finish rinsing and grab a towel. As I'm walking back out of the bathroom, rubbing the towel over my wet hair, I hear another bang and what sounds like muffled voices. A quick glance at my phone says it's nearly eleven at night. Who could be in my alley this late? I tuck my phone into my back pocket and pick up a crowbar to scare whoever it is away.

The closer I get to the back door, the more obvious it is that some drunk assholes are fighting. They probably took a wrong turn leaving The Nook . Brenna mentioned they were serving beer for the open mic tonight, but I've never had any issues with rowdy customers from any of my neighbors before. Then again, I only bought the lease to this place a little over a month ago, and this isn't considered the best part of town. Nowhere that I could afford a building like this would be considered nice. Not that I can really even afford this place. It's practically falling down, and it still took almost all my savings. Since I have basically no credit, I had to agree to pay six months upfront. And unless I magically come into some money by then, I need to be up and running before I'll have the funds to pay for another six months, otherwise I'll be back on the oil rig full time. Picking up a fight here and there won't be enough to pay for this mess.

The sound of glass breaking and a garbled cry for help has me moving faster. I pull the lock and remove the security bar, pushing the door open and letting me out into the poorly lit area between my building and the shopping center. At first, I don't see anything, but when I walk further into the alley, I'm met with a sight I know will haunt me for the rest of my life.

Partially hidden by the dumpster, there's a guy lying face down on the asphalt. His face is obscured by blood and his hair. He's not moving at all, and I can't see who else is there other than a hand pressing the guy's face into the ground.

I yell. I'm not sure what I say. It’s an unintelligible mix of "Hey!", "Stop!", and "What the fuck!?".

Whatever comes out of my mouth is enough to get the assailant's attention, though. There's a brief flash of pale skin, blonde hair, and a dark peacoat running down the alley, disappearing into the darkness. I barely consider going after him, too worried about the guy lying motionless on the ground. I drop to my knees, checking for a pulse when he doesn't respond to my shouts or shaking his shoulders. I look over his body as I pull my phone out and dial for an emergency. His clothes are torn and disheveled, but mostly intact. There's blood on the back of his thigh, and a few feet away, I see the top of a broken bottle, the sharp edges covered in blood.

I rattle off the address to my building and try to answer the dispatcher’s questions, but I feel like I'm in a fog.

No, he's not conscious.

Yes, he appears to be breathing.

I follow her instructions to carefully roll him onto his back and make sure his airways aren't blocked. I'm careful to not jostle him too much. As I turn him over, it's obvious he has a head injury, if the blood matting his hair is any indication.

No, I don't know him.

No, I didn't see where the attacker ran off to.

No, I don't think he's nearby anymore.

Yes, I'm good to stay with the victim until the ambulance arrives.

Absentmindedly, I brush the man's hair back from his face and my stomach drops. Acid rises in the back of my throat.

No. No no no no no.

I don't know him, not really. But I know his name. I recognize his face despite the blood and swelling.

It's my cute café guy. Tyler.

He's unconscious outside my gym, battered and beaten. And I let whoever did this to him get away.