18. Bay
EIGHTEEN
bay
“Country Grammar” by Nelly is vibrating through the air on another successful and packed night at The Stowaway. I had stopped wiping the sweat off my forehead hours ago to keep myself from looking presentable and less like a drowned rat, but by closing time, I was just happy to close up and clean up.
Jake left me the keys like he does almost every night I close for him. He’s got two little kids at home, and since he’s here all the time, I give him a break for doing me a favor by letting me work here.
The bell to the door chimes as I’m wiping down the opposite side of the bar, and I’m immediately gritting my teeth at some asshole who didn’t bother to read the closed sign.
“We’re closed, dude,” I call out, turning to meet the idiot head-on, but it’s not just any idiot. It’s a well-dressed and powerful Emilio Wildes who strides into the bar with the one dickhead from the other night who bit the shit out of me and three other beefed-up guys with leather jackets and wandering eyes.
That’s a huge problem.
Because not only are they here , but Levi has dudes outside for my protection. Ever since the thing with Cairo at Oceanview College, he’s been on edge.
Though, I haven’t seen him.
I’m entertaining the idea that he’s looking for the man who now has a faded cut and those dark pools of brown eyes that currently don’t pay me any mind as he browses the liquor bottles behind me and allows his elder to speak.
“Haven,” Emilio coos, taking it upon himself to pull an upside-down stool off the bar top and place it down so he can sit. “You’re a hard girl to get ahold of.”
“We’re closed for the night, gentlemen.”
“I’ll only be taking five minutes of your time,” he replies smoothly, then nods at the boy with gauged ears and that faint scar along his cheek. I wondered the other day where he got that from.
Although, I’d have to care.
Because without another word, Cairo rounds the bar to grab his boss—or whatever he is to him—a drink, when I step directly and petty in his way.
“You still owe me a window, asshole,” I growl in his face. “And a fucking apology. What makes you think you’re getting a free drink?”
He flicks his gaze behind me to Emilio, looking all the part bitch because he can’t make a move without him. It’s then that I really wish I would’ve done more than punch him in the face.
“I have a family dinner next Friday,” Emilio quips, as if nothing is happening over here. “I’d like you to come.”
“This could’ve been a text,” I shoot back, keeping my ground so sticky fingers over here doesn’t go helping himself.
His dark, almost colorless eyes cling to my glare, as if it means absolutely nothing to him. A complete contrast to the other day when he sucked on my neck like I was something he wanted to taste.
“I’m more a show up in-person type of guy,” Emilio informs me as if I was wondering about that fact for days.
“You can’t summon me like a fucking dog, dude. I have a life. I go to school.”
“Haven.” I hate how my body follows that order. How, just that name that I’ve never heard in my life, has me glimpsing over my shoulder at him. “You’re going to need to face this.” His tone dips, the warning label of his patience hitting the rational side of my brain, and I’m more than outnumbered here.
But he wouldn’t hurt me, right?
I’m his fucking daughter. One he claimed in front of his stepson and proclaimed that I’m going to be part of his big, bad empire.
“I want him out from behind my bar,” I order, clenching my hands into fists. Emilio doesn’t hesitate, jerking his head and silently signaling for his lackey to get the fuck out so I’ll listen to him.
Pivoting to face my sperm donor, I inhale deeply, knowing that Emilio has me cornered. I’d be stupid if I didn’t just get this over with soon and as quickly as possible. And somehow, Emilio already has a bottle of bourbon and a shot glass in front of him.
I clench my jaw again and will send him the bill when I chip a tooth from keeping my words from leaving my mouth about how entitled he is.
“Am I going to be expecting you there?” Emilio pours himself a healthy glass, and my temples begin to throb at how utterly fucking stupid my life has become.
“Where?”
“Friday night dinner.” I’m so confused about what part of my not wanting anything to do with him he’s not understanding.
“Why, so your boys can harass me?” I finger-gun his associate who just attempted to squeeze behind my bar. “I need you to call your dogs off.”
My so-called biological father lifts a brow over the rim of his drink. “Are you still running your dope through my streets?”
Let’s be real here, when would I ever admit to that?
“Nope,” I lie without an ounce of remorse. “Ask him if he found anything. I’m allowed to drive to where I need to go.”
Emilio hits me with a you’re full of bullshit stare. “Don’t lie, Haven. It doesn’t suit you.”
“ Ask him. And my name is Bay.”
He sighs and waits, but nothing is said from behind him, which is good enough for Emilio because he rolls his attention back to me. “Just because they didn’t find anything doesn’t mean you haven’t been around. Regardless…I’ll need a cut if you’re running your shit through my town.”
It was worth a shot.
“No family discount, eh?”
“Cairo”— Emilio jerks his head to his right—“let me and my daughter speak alone.”
I hear shuffling footsteps, then Emilio is crooking his finger at me like a petulant child.
Reluctantly, I follow his instruction, because the sooner he gets out, I get to go home, and obtain some shut-eye for school tomorrow.
“Would you like a drink?” My blues slit against his, almost identical, and I wish I never would’ve noticed that before. I’m not enjoying all these new changes and people in my life. “I think our relationship could be beneficial for both of our towns. There are?—”
“I already told you that I’m not your in to South Shore. So, if that’s your idea to obtaining a relationship with me, might as well off that one, too.”
“It’s not for me,” he retorts calmly, smelling the bourbon he just poured into his glass, examining it for poison or something. “It’s for you and the boys.”
“Why would you want to hand anything to me when you’ve known me for less than a week?”
“I’ve known about you for months.”
My face twists and my immediate thought blurts from my lips, “Why, you could’ve just gotten my life insurance policy when you thought I was dead and went on with your life?”
Emilio’s face matches mine when he replies, “What the hell is a couple of thousand dollars going to do for me when I get it every day?” I shrug, and he releases an exasperated sigh. “You’re just like your mother.”
My snappy curiosity is provoked by the mention of a woman who may have loved me. How did she die? Did she, in fact, love me as a child when Paisley couldn’t?
These things can be answered by Dad, and I’m going to hold off on my excitement about another female being my true mother instead of the one I claimed.
“You’re doing yourself a disservice by not allowing yourself to see the flip side,” Emilio advises. “You were raised to hate me. Just as you were thrust into this life, one town at the throat of another’s.”
“And you’re the good guy?”
“Never claimed to be the hero in this story. In fact, I’m a royal prick.” I stare at him while Emilio regards me for another minute before finishing off his drink in one giant swoop. Rising from the stool, he buttons his navy suit jacket and tucks his chin into his chest as he does. “I’ll help free up some of your time. You must be extremely busy, and I want to make sure you have the headspace to realize what good of an opportunity you have.”
“I can give you my answer now.”
“Talk to Levi Wallace about it.” He plucks a black leather wallet from his slacks. “I’m sure he can see the benefits of this arrangement.” His crystal blues latch onto mine. “Unless it’s our little secret for now.”
I swallow the bile that stirs in my stomach. “Why would I keep my enemy a secret?”
“Because I haven’t had any bullets flown my way yet.” Maybe I should finally cut this dumb shit free after all. “I guess keeping me a mystery would be in your best interest. You wouldn’t want anyone to turn on you.”
Levi would never, EVER turn his back on me.
Keep telling yourself that. You’re linked straight up to the enemy he hates now.
“You’re just making this too easy for me, Wildes,” I leer through a tight jaw, shoving past the growing anxiety he just created.
He only offers me a shitty smirk and, without another word, he pridefully strides toward the exit with Cairo and the three dudes at his heels.
Pivoting, I grab my cell phone to call Levi and ask him where his guys are who were supposed to be out in the parking lot watching my six, when the crash of something hard hitting the floor causes me to jolt back around.
The flick of a lighter licks up my spine as my heart leaps into my throat. I couldn’t mistake the crackling sound of fire if I wanted to. Nor the smell of gasoline that two dudes are currently dumping all over the fucking place.
Red and yellow flames climb the furniture as I rip my sweatshirt over my head and try to stop it from spreading. I’m to the two steps that lead up to the pool table and dartboards when I’m scooped up and thrown across the room, hitting the surface of the table and almost flipping it over.
As quickly as I can, I get to my feet, just to have a fist slam into the back of my head, sending me back to where I had just come from. Lifting a chair, I swing it and myself around to connect with the guy behind me. I’m successful in my hit, but not with the flames that are beginning to scramble up the walls.
Panic ramps up my chest as I scurry to get some water.
It’s too much.
It’s way too much.
With a running start, I jump up on the counter, only getting to my waist as I scramble to get on top of it and get to my phone, to no avail. I’m hurled back and spun around, another fist from someone I don’t catch slamming into my temple.
I stumble back, my jaw and the whole side of my face violently throbbing and numb to the point where I’m becoming disoriented. I can feel the heat from the flames, and allow my feet to clumsily find myself back against the bar.
The bells to the door chime once more, and I don’t have to look to know that the assholes left me alone to handle this mess. Glancing down at my cell, I poorly aim my fingers to dial 911, having to try three times before getting it right.
“911, what’s your emergency?”
“There’s a fire at The Stowaway,” I drawl, rubbing at my temple. “Please, hurry.”
Pocketing my phone, I hear the operator still speaking as I do. The blaze has already covered so much of the far side of the bar that, in all reality, I’m never going to get it out alone, and black smoke looms blame all above and around me.
I did this.
I lost Jack his bar.
I brought my shit into his business and got it burnt to a crisp.
Hopping to the other side of the bar, I grab my small backpack with all my stuff and sprint for the exit. The vapors, gas, and whatever else fire consists of fill my lungs, causing a cough to shoot from my lips. Heat covers me like a blanket, causing sweat to pour down my face and every crevice of my body the closer I get. And when my hand touches the already warmed knob, I push…and push again with my shoulder.
The door doesn’t budge.
What the fuck.
I shove with all my weight, coming to the only conclusion this story holds.
Those motherfuckers locked me in.
Whirling around, the crack of wood warns me to get out and quick. The fumes are getting too thick that it’s hard to breathe and my visibility is growing darker from the smoke, but I know the bar like the back of my hand. Except flames block my path to the back exit and are crawling up to the bartop.
I’m not going to die here.
I remember sometime in school they told us to get low to the ground to keep away from the deathly fumes of smoke; however, with all the flames consuming the floor that was not an option for me.
Gathering some courage, I run through some, feeling the hot element lap up my naked legs. I trip, either from fear or just not being able to hold my own during a crisis that doesn’t settle well with me. My palms and knees slam into the unforgiving hardwood floors as I force myself to stand. The room begins to spin, and I can’t inhale anything that isn’t contaminated. My next exhale is shaky as the threatening fire behind me laughs that it’s coming. That the air I need is now toxic as fire crests and roars around me like the enemy it is.
I move to the back exit, slowly it seems, my head tucked into my chest to keep as much of the poisonous air out of my lungs. The heat from the fire licks up my spine as I continue to move, and I feel exhausted already. Black rims the fine edges of my gaze as I demand my body to keep trudging forward. A coughing fit attacks my chest, deep and desperate for clean oxygen.
This shouldn’t be so hard. I should be able to run through all this and escape.
My world tips as my feet are hurled upward, my side pressed into something warm and hard. We’re moving quicker than I was, like at warped speed as the air gets thinner and less contaminated. Within the next couple of seconds, a gust of cool air hits my frame, and I relax in the arms of whatever is holding me right now. The alley is dark as we stride through it. I open my mouth to speak, but my chest cavity hurts, and my throat is dry from breathing in unsafe fumes.
A light over the small boardwalk flickers on its last legs above the deck overlooking the ocean as I’m set down on a bench. Consciousness messes with me, wanting to take me over but fighting to back off in the same hand. The sounds of sirens waft off in the background over the gentle waves of the water behind me as I’m gently laid down, my cheek hitting the rough and dry-rotted wood. At that moment, I search for something to know who my hero is, but I only smell a smokey odor, like leather being burnt over a flame.
“Th—” I cough, hard, feeling as though my whole lung is going to come up. It literally knocks me on my ass and out for the count until medics arrive and revive me back to par with pure oxygen and the world of the living where I’m still Emilio Wildes’s daughter.