Chapter 4 - Porter
W hy can’t I ever get any good gods damn help in this town? Another girl fucking quit because she wants to chase her dreams and make it in the big city.
What a fucking joke.
I didn’t have the heart to tell her unless you got a rich daddy or know people who can pull the right strings, the furthest she’d go on talent alone is a show tunes bar or performing topless at some club.
It’s been four days since Charlie arrived in Hidden Valley and I haven't seen her once. My irritability is beginning to creep through my carefully sculpted facade. I gave Nova four meals for her to eat and I’d hoped by now that she would have come in for more or at least to say thank you. A small part of me hoped that maybe she would come in because she just wanted to see me. I don’t even know if Nova told her the meals were from me. Those women do not stop talking when they are together so surely she would have said something.
I’ll never admit it, but it’s my own fault for not asking any further questions. I froze at the notion of her moving to town. Nova was pretty vague about it, only saying that she was coming to help out for a while.
What does that even mean?
Coming to help out for a while.
It’s not as if she’s a carpenter who can help Dante build his and Mila’s house. I haven’t heard of any staff shortages at the medical centre, but then again I don’t exactly hang out there either. I’ve learnt many tricks over the years and can quite easily patch myself up when required. But that’s not something I’ve had to do in a while. A hint of my old life peeking through as I clean the beer glasses behind the bar, my knuckles showing the silver shine of healed scars.
I never would have thought my life would look like this, that it even could look like this. I’m a bar owner in a small town and more often than not I can convince myself that this is all I’ve ever known. My only regret so far in starting over is that I wasn’t creative enough to name my bar anything other than after myself. Not Bruski’s, or Guzzlers, even though Guzzlers sounds more like a strip club. I called it Porters after the first P name I found at an old cemetery I took a break in when driving here. It was the name I chose for myself and one that’s served me well. A name that is welcoming but also has a hint of mystery about it, at least I like to think so.
I was raised to be violent. I watched my father kill a man at seven years old and it was at that moment I knew I was destined for more. The way I stood mesmerised as the blood sprayed out while my father slit the man's throat. A few drops sprinkled on my face, the warmth of it noticeable against my cold skin. The gurgles he made as he tried to breathe, willing his body to work as he needed it to. The sheer look of terror he had as he clawed at himself, trying to undo the damage that had already been done by my father’s hand.
My brother was standing at my side as we watched the man crumble to the ground, taking my hand and holding it tightly. The small gesture of togetherness my father witnessed, deciding our fates.
The next time I was called to his workshop, my brother was not with me. I was alone in a room full of men while they tore apart someone who had wronged us, who had wronged the family. Slowly all of the wrongdoers blurred into one and no amount of screaming or torture could separate them.
My life turned hollow.
Empty.
That was until I saw her. Alone and sitting at a park bench in the middle of a brisk autumn day. She was like a siren calling me. Her face tilted to the midday sun, a small smile on it as she drank in its warmth. It was as if at that moment she knew I was entranced. Knew that I was watching her. As her eyes opened and she looked in my direction, we simply stared at each other. The faint chill in the air doing nothing to distract me from watching.
Even though it’s been just over six and a half years and I can no longer remember her laugh, or the way her body felt when I held her. I can still see that small smile she made when she was sitting alone on that park bench, waiting for me to find her.
It’s because of her that I should know better than to even think of getting involved with Charlie. Despite everything that happened all those years ago, a part of me still craves that kind of soul shattering love. To have just one person I can be myself with, to find peace with.
I just don’t know if I can survive it again.
Because ultimately, what happened that night ... was my fault . The blood that was spilled that day and afterwards was simply because I couldn’t give her up.
Charlie can only be an acquaintance, a friend. Someone I chat to occasionally when she swings by for a drink at my bar after a long day of helping .
Whatever or whoever she’s coming to fucking help can share her at least a little bit. Not that it makes a difference because I’m not interested in starting anything but it would be nice to see her. Have a catch up with a friend and see how she’s settling in, maybe sit her on the bar while I eat her pussy and hear her scream my name.
I’m fucked.
Absolutely fucked.
△△△
The night is slow and steady. At least half a dozen locals are scattered across the room. Some sit directly at the bar which curves along one side of the large space. It allows me to walk the length of the room freely rather than bump into people all the time when we’re busy.
I'm constantly scanning to make sure everyone behaves and stays respectful. My bar is definitely on the more casual side of establishments within Hidden Valley, but it doesn't mean there aren't any rules.
Within these walls, I am the judge, jury and executioner. Every local knows what to expect when they step across the threshold, and every tourist learns quickly and usually the hard way if they step out of line.
A couple sits in one of the booths along the wall opposite the bar, waiting in hushed conversation as their dinner is prepared by the kitchen staff. The space between the bar and booths is scattered with tables and chairs, leaving more room for diners to sit and enjoy a meal, and more capacity for dancing in the empty space by the entrance. For once I'm not complaining that it's a slow night because I'm all that's running the front of house, and if my two other girls quit on me, I'm going to be screwed harder than a virgin in an orgy.
Taking a final scan of the room I reluctantly turn my back and start taking a quick stock check of the hard liquors we have displayed on the mirrored wall behind the bar, noting a few whiskeys are on the low side. The entrance to the cellar is annoying to access when it's busy as you have to prop the door open in the floor space behind the bar. It's near impossible to do when we're open but because we're so quiet tonight I may as well make use of the time I have and restock a few bottles.
Stuffing the list into my pocket, I kneel down to grab the latch when I hear the hard slam of the entrance door closing. A shadow flickers past me and it must be whoever walked in needing a drink.
Looking up, I'm convinced it's an illusion. My memories of her at the wedding no longer do her justice. Her long dark hair is in a loose plait draped across her shoulders. Her green eyes sparkle as she looks at me, the colour of fur trees in the winter light. A dark and moody shade that's at odds with the most beautiful smile spread across her face as she leans over the bar, her breasts getting pushed up high in the process. It makes me realise that I never got to truly experience them that night in the basement. A regret that I shouldn't want to change, but desperately do.
“Hi,” she says, grinning down at me.
Such a simple low-key word but enough of a jolt to get me to leap up from kneeling and grin right back. She's a tall woman but the top of her head still falls underneath my chin. I want to say how beautiful she looks and how I've thought of her every day since our night together. That it was more than a one night stand and I want to have that same moment over and over with her. My earlier inner turmoil being completely forgotten as the woman who caused a spark of emotion in me suddenly reappears into my life.
Running my fingers through my hair, I try to be suave and rest my elbow on the bar, leaning over to be at eye level with her.
“What's a big city girl doing in a town like this?” I practically purr, trying to ignore her nipples hardening beneath her sweater but doing a poor job of it and glancing at them anyway.
“Porter.”
She says my name like a breath escaping her. A heat flashing across her eyes as she looks at me.
Leaning closer to her still, her lips mear inches from mine, I want to take her, possess her, consume her. Have her ruin me and build me back up as a man worthy of her. She moves closer still and the smell of vanilla with a hint of jasmine washes over me. The tension falls away from my shoulders almost instantly. Closing my eyes for a moment, I breathe her in.
“Charlie,” I whisper, moye spaseniye [1] .