Chapter 7 Brighton
Sunday and Rhea crash through the front door of the Hollow twenty minutes before puck drop, and I instantly regret hiring one of my sister’s friends. I remember quickly why I haven’t allowed it before: Sunday is going to be a menace.
“You’re late,” I say, cleaning one of the high bar tables that surround the dance floor as Boone sets up the projector in the corner for the game.
“Coach ran us hard because Rhea’s a dumbass,” Sunday giggles, throwing her bag behind the bar.
“Punishment for being a tough guy.” She holds her hand in the air and smiles at me.
I roll out my shoulders and go back to cleaning.
Ignoring them both and their excuses. Sunday walks Rhea through some of the easy stuff, like where to put her crap and where all the important things are behind the bar.
It’s all things Rhea knows from being around for so long, but Sunday insists.
I keep my eyes on them as they move around the Hollow, stopping periodically to talk to people flooding in from the streets to catch the game.
The Huskies are looking good, better than they have in a long time, and if they want to make the playoffs, they’ll need to keep that energy up. They were playing Pittsburgh tonight, and it’ll be a hard-fought game. I personally don’t care, win or lose, people will drink.
“Brighton?” Rhea’s voice floats over the white noise from behind me, and I turn to see her standing at the end of the bar as I fill the ice buckets.
“Bright,” I remind her, and she winces but nods. “What do you need?”
“Where do you want me tonight?” she asks.
“Uh—” I clear my throat. “Just keep an eye on the girls tonight. Sunday, and Ida are working tables. If anyone gets handsy or rough, toss them out. No warnings, just get rid of them.”
“I can handle that,” she says, looking around.
She’s wearing a tiny black crop top that scoops around her muscular, tattooed arms and shows off the dark ink on her stomach above the waist of her skin-tight black jeans.
“Did you hear me?” she asks, and I look up from her boots to meet her gaze. “Do I… like need a name tag?”
“That could be fun! Think of all the stupid shit I could put on mine!” Boone interjects from behind me as he hops down from the stage and rounds the bar.
“I actually have something for you,” he says to her, and starts digging in a bin on the floor.
He holds up a Hollow T-shirt that doesn’t look big enough for her and flips it around to show her the back.
“I make grown men cry?” Rhea says, cocking her head to the side.
For a second, I think she might say no. The alternative is worse.
She whips off her tank top, standing in the bar in nothing but a sports bra, and she does this stupid grabby thing with her hand.
Boone laughs and chucks it at her so she can pull the T-shirt over her head.
She motions scissors with her fingers as Boone pulls them out and starts laughing as he helps her cut off the bottom half of the already tiny shirt.
Fuck me.
“It’s perfect, Bobo,” Rhea coos, and Boone stands back to admire his work.
“Not quite,” he says, his fingers pick at the now ratty hem around her taut abdomen.
I bite down on my tongue to suppress the unreasonably jealous groan that rumbles at the base of my throat.
Boone pulls the fabric away from her ribcage and cuts two narrow slits in the sides that flatten into rough diamond shapes as the shirt stretches back over her skin.
He does the other side to match and puts the scissors between his smile as he backs away to admire his work.
“What do you think?” At first, I think she’s asking Boone, but she’s staring at me with her arms out at her sides.
I swallow tightly, watching her bare, tattooed stomach rise and fall with each shallow breath she takes as she waits for me to answer. I’m going to kill Boone.
“Cat got your tongue, Bri?” He teases like he can feel my thoughts imploding. I want to flip him off, but that would tell Rhea exactly what I’m thinking, and that’s quite possibly the most dangerous answer possible.
“It’s not workplace-appropriate,” I clip.
“Perfect,” Boone says with pride. He takes her hand and gives her a twirl before tying the discarded length of her shirt around his forehead to push back his unruly brunette hair.
“I can change if—” Rhea asks, clearly concerned by the tight expression on my face, but I can’t tell her I’m not pissed off with her, because that would mean admitting all the other reasons why I’m trying to keep a straight face.
“It was a joke,” I say, “as long as you’re in a Hollow shirt, you’re dressed for work.
” She shrugs, seemingly satisfied with that answer.
“And Reaper, no drinking if you’re working,” I warn her, and take the chance to pull myself out of her gravity.
If I stood there any longer, I’d burn a hole through her.
I start to restock the bar, and as the Hollow starts to reach capacity, I take a second to scan the crowd for her.
She’s leaning against a booth, talking to some of Kaia’s firefighting buddies with a smile on her face, but her body language suggests she’s telling them off.
Boone rests against the bar with his arms crossed as Sunday slides up to sit on top.
“That’s unsanitary, Day. Get down.” I smack her thigh with the back of my hand, but she doesn’t budge.
“She’s doing really well,” she says, reaching for a bottle of water. “Some of them in the back were getting rough and almost knocked over Ida, but she calmed them down really fast.”
“Good, that’s why she’s here,” I say in a clipped tone.
“Game’s turning sour, keep an eye on table nine, and the line back there.
” I point to a group of guys along the wall who are more drunk than I’d like.
As I say it, Rhea pushes off from her spot and crosses the bar to two of them, shoving once before she grabs the larger one by the back of the collar.
All three of us watch as she cocks her head to the side and smiles brightly at him. It’s not a friendly smile; it’s the kind that says I could kill you if I wanted to, and it makes Sunday giggle like an idiot beside me.
Thankfully, the noise comes from her because the heat that licks across my chest is embarrassing and shouldn’t be there.
I curse myself for helping her the other night because it’s easier to keep myself separated from Sunday’s friends by avoidance, and I had let Rhea walk right in the front door.
Get your shit together, Brighton. I flex my hands and dig my fingers into my bicep as she herds the group of men out the front door as the Huskies score to win the game with seconds left on the clock.
The Hollow erupts in cheers, and somewhere in the bar, a loud crash sounds, causing my entire body to seize up in defence. Boone’s hand wraps around my bicep, his grip tight enough to ground me in reality before I can even think about slipping.
“Breathe,” he says, scanning the bar. “It’s just a tipped table. I’ll go help Rhea.”
He says it, but it’s harder than that to fill my lungs, and it feels like someone dumped ice down my spine. My finger itches for a trigger like my hands are still permanently attached to a weapon. I blink slowly, and it’s not until that first, deep breath that Boone’s grip disappears.
I didn’t even notice Sunday slip from the counter, but she hands me a cup of water and helps two girls with their drinks, her eyes constantly drifting toward me in concern.
I hate that they have to be on guard like that, or maybe I hate that they’re so good at it after all this time.
They shouldn’t have to be the first line of defence between me and the PTSD that blankets my senses at any small moment of trouble.
It’s just a tipped table.
In my head, it never is. To my reflexes, it’s gunfire.
“Focus, Major.” Ghosts of my past flicker across my mind and paralyze me.
I inhale slowly and bring the ice-cold water to my lips, downing it all and letting the frigid temperature shock my system out of defence mode.
I nod to Sunday, who’s still staring while she works, and she gives me a small smile in return.
Six years of tours, back and forth, balancing the line between warzone and what should be normal life.
But the lines blur, and normal life quickly becomes a battlefield, and my siblings are the only people willing to stand in the contact zone.
I spend hours reminding myself that I did this for Daisy, joining the military, doing what I did.
I did it for her, and now the fight continues to hold myself together long enough to show her that I could be a good dad on home soil, too.
I have to make all the blood and sweat worth it. So much blood.
My fingers itch for a drink.
“Brighton?” Rhea’s voice makes me huff with relief. Her timing is impeccable, and it’s going to drive me insane.
“Bright, Rhea. It’s Bright,” I remind her, and her dark brows furrow. “What?”
“Where’s the broom?” she asks, her fingers rapping against the black bar top.
“Not your job,” I say with a shake of my head.
“There’s glass everywhere,” she argues, and it takes everything in me to keep a straight face. She doesn’t look as sad as she did the other day, her eyes have a little color back in them, and her cheeks are rosy from the heat in the bar.
“Boone will sweep,” I say above the chatter.
She opens her mouth to push the subject, but studies the expression on my face and thinks better of it as Sunday slides in front of me to grab a few menus from the slot below.
“Why don’t you both throw an order in and take food upstairs to Daisy?” I say to Sunday, who gives me a sweet smile, her little hand squeezing into mine before she hands the menus off.
“Are you sure? There’s still an hour until close,” Rhea asks.
“Everyone needs to eat, and you threw the only rowdy people out. It’s dead in here now,” I say without looking around. I can tell by the noise that it, in fact, is not a dead bar, and she stares at me like I’m insane, but once I make up my mind, it’s rare that I budge on a statement.
“Go,” I say as Sunday comes around the bar. “I’ll bring it up when Boone has it ready.”