Chapter 4 Brighton
Derek barks insults all the way around the corner and out of sight.
“I’ll clear out the front,” Boone yells, and slaps my shoulder on his way past. I scan across and spot the Hillcats that stuck around, huddled in a tight circle, talking, and lean on the bar with both hands flat to the surface as I watch them.
Rhea handled herself well—better than expected—and I admire her for sticking up for Sunday.
My sister may be tough; she may come into the Hollow covered in bruises from rugby or exhausted after a twelve-hour shift.
But she’s still my little sister, and those are things I can’t stop from hurting her.
Creeps inside my bar are a different story.
I try to keep my distance, give her space—but tonight, with Derek…
Sometimes I wish self-control weren’t my best trait.
I wet my bottom lip and stare at the liquor above my head, calling to me like a bad habit.
Rum makes the tremor stop, but it would make everything else worse.
I roll my neck out and listen to the string of complaints as Boone clears the bar forty-five minutes before closing.
There’s an impossible knot between my shoulders, created from tension and the weight of my own bullshit.
"Brighton?” A voice breaks through the thick blanket of stress fog and settles at my feet. I look down to see Rhea standing there, cradling her hand. No one really calls me that anymore, I want to say to her, but she speaks again. “Do you think I could get some ice?”
“You hurt yourself?” The words slip out with a hint of concern, and I grind my teeth together to keep my mouth shut.
"It’s not that bad—”
“Killjoy!” Boone cuts her off with a sharp bark of the name they call me on the field to get my attention, ‘it’s because you’re a fucking buzzkill, Bri.
Loosen up.’ I turn to see him at the other end of the bar, waving me down.
I close the gap, running my hand through my hair as I go, trying to get straight before my mind wanders too far and I can’t get it back.
“What?” I snap, leaning into his gravity.
“Cosy is too drunk to drive, so I’m going to play taxi driver,” he says, “let Rhea know to meet us out front in five?”
I look over my shoulder at her, still standing by the bar. She looks smaller than usual as she tries to hide the pain on her face.
"I’ll take her,” I blurt out.
“You’ll what?” Boone’s face curls up in confusion.
“I should check out her hand, just in case. I don’t want her suing the Hollow cause she broke something and can’t play rugby,” I say.
“Suing—” Boone stares at me like I have five heads. “Never mind. Just don’t screw any of Sunday’s friends. That's not a mess I’m equipped to clean up,” Boone says quickly as if I’m the brother with that kind of agenda.
I narrow my eyes at him.
“I’ve never tried to fuck her.” The look has him confessing like he can’t hold it in.
Boone’s been in love with Kaia Keegan since he laid eyes on her.
She strutted into our house like she always belonged there after only knowing Sunday for a single day.
I remember when she was all pigtails and attitude.
Not much has changed, not her attitude or the way Boone loves her.
She was strictly Sunday’s annoying best friend for a long time.
It wasn’t until later that Kaia demanded his friendship, too.
Boone crossed a line that day, and we all knew he’d never come back from it.
I personally hate it. I hate seeing him sad that way, but he knows what he wants, and settling is something Boone has never been good at. So torturing himself is the only answer in his mind.
“Yeah, following her around like a kicked dog is so much better,” I grumble, and his jaw clenches tightly. “Go. I got this Hillcat. Lock the door on the way out, take the rest home.”
“If something happens to her, you’re dealing with Sunday,” Boone warns.
“She’s five foot three and weighs a hundred pounds, even full of booze,” I say, acting scared, but Boone pulls a smile to my face, and some of the tension seeps out.
“She bites,” he reminds me, pointing to the Sunday-shaped scar on his arm; it’s one of the only places not covered in tattoos. Boone says it’s a branding and deserves as much respect as the story behind it, but I think both my siblings are full of shit.
“Take her home before she starts gnawing on the furniture.” I grab a few bottles of water we keep under the bar for the staff and hand them to him before he leaves.
I inhale, rolling out my shoulders before I turn back to Rhea, her massive brown eyes on Boone as he goes.
I know what an adrenaline high looks like.
A lot of the guys overseas slip in and out of them like it’s second nature because over there, being on high alert will save your life.
But she’s standing alone in the Hollow, nursing a bruised hand, half-cut on cheap drinks and too many shots.
I take a second to think about it before filling a bucket of ice and moving out from behind the bar. “Follow,” I say, and she snaps out of her trance, her head tracking my every step.
“Are you going to kill me?” Rhea asks. “'Cause I think I could take you…” she stops to hiccup before she finishes, “but I’m down a hand, and if I’m being honest for a whole minute, I thought Boone was standing beside you.”
“My first aid kit is upstairs,” I explain to her.
“Right.” She narrows her eyes at me, “...just Brighton here.”
“No one calls me that, it’s just Bright,” I tell her.
“Has anyone ever told you that you aren’t very bright?” She narrows her eyes at me and snorts, “Okay, that makes you sound stupid, but I didn’t mean it like that… I mean like…” she giggles, and the sound makes my jaw clench. Please stop.
“Spit it out,” I tell her, just trying to get her to focus.
“I meant like…” Her feet shift against the floor and echo through the empty bar. “It’s so quiet in here…” She gets distracted and looks around. “We are super alone, cool…” She giggles again, and the sound is surprisingly sweet and unexpected from a woman who looks like her.
Rhea Drake is all sharp curves and even stronger lines. She’s six one, maybe six two, with a body built to contest most of the guys on the men’s rugby team. She snaps her fingers at me and then hisses when the pain trickles up her arm from using them.
“And I’m the stupid one between the two of us,” I huff.
“I meant that you aren’t bright in aura,” she explains.
“Aura?” I stare at her.
“You glow really dark red, almost black. Everyone has one. Sunday glows butter yellow, and Cosy is blue!” she says, and it’s then that I realize she’s lost the plot and there’s no coming back from her tangent.
“They even change! Like human mood rings.” Her face gets sad again as she remembers something.
“Alright. Let’s go get that hand looked at, and you can tell me about this aura thing…” I say. I have no idea what she’s talking about, but it works because she follows me to the stairs. “Just be careful, they’re steep,” I tell her, and let her go first.
The last thing I need is her slipping and falling down the stairs.
I keep in time with her, and as I reach the top, I tell her that it’s open.
She looks back at me nervously, and I sigh, stepping up to share the narrow step, chest to chest, before I pop the door open.
She’s staring at me when I turn my head back.
Even in the dark, she’s bright like a star.
Have you always been this warm? Too close, Brighton.
Take a step back. She smells like booze, sweat, orange, and sage.
It fills my nose and makes it hard to listen to myself when she’s staring at me like that.
I watch her throat bob roughly as I gently nod my head toward the open door.
“In you go,” I say, swallowing the unexpected warmth.
I close the door behind us as she wanders into the apartment.
It’s industrial, like most of downtown Harbor is, with exposed brick walls, metal in the high ceilings, and cold, dark flooring.
I’m not much of a decorator, and the only thing in the apartment is a large rug that my daughter, Daisy, picked out when I moved into the place. I think it’s ugly, but she loves it.
“I like your rug,” Rhea says.
I close my eyes with a sigh. Of course she does.
“Sit down,” I instruct, and she sinks onto the old leather couch with a pout.
I grab the first aid kit from under the sink, a bottle of water, and a towel from the cupboard, along with the ice, to bring back to her.
I lower to the coffee table across from her and rest on it, holding out my hand to her.
“Let’s see,” I say, and she allows me to take it.
Two busted knuckles, but the hand doesn’t seem to be swelling too badly, other than that.
“I’m going to clean those cuts,” I tell her, and she looks like she’s going to be sick.
“Anyone ever tell you that you suck, Killjoy?” She hiccups again.
Often.
“What color is, uh—” I dig in the bag for the antiseptic wipes, ignoring her protests, “—Kaia?”
“Like a hazy pink,” she hisses as I touch the wipe to the open cut. I hold her wrist tighter to keep her from pulling away. “Same as Boone,” she slurs, and I give her an eyebrow. “I don’t pick the colors, I just see them.”
“Water.” I hand the bottle to her from beside me, and she scowls like she might argue with me, but I stare back, and she quietly concedes to being taken care of.
“What about you?” I ask her as she struggles with the bottle between her knees.
I reach out and unscrew the lid for her, still holding onto her sore hand.
“I can’t see my own,” she scoffs, bringing the bottle to her lips.
“Oh, sorry, I didn’t know there were rules to seeing invisible color clouds…” I groan, almost cracking a smile as I clean the other hand.
“Ow,” she grumbles, the sound coming from the base of her throat. “Reading auras is a serious thing, Brighton Black.” Her face is twisted into a grouchy, pain-licked expression. “The color of your invisible cloud,” she mocks, almost spilling her water, “means something important!”
“Alright, Hellcat. Simmer,” I warn her, and she smiles at the nickname, making that tingle of warmth make a secondary appearance in the depths of my chest. She might actually be the most agreeable person I’ve ever met, and that’s saying something for my sister's friends.
“You said Sunday is yellow. What does it mean?” I ask her as I finish with her hand and give it back. I lay the towel in my lap and start piling the ice into it with my hand as she inspects the cleaning job I did.
“Warm, authentic,” Rhea says, taking another sip of water. She pushes a piece of her thick, black hair behind her ear, “— joy. Sunday radiates joy.”
“I can’t argue with that.” I tie up the towel in a knot to close the ice inside. “Hand.” I put my palm up for hers, and she slowly obliges. I could just as easily give her the ice to hold herself, but I’m selfishly enjoying our conversation, as silly as it might be. “And the pink?”
She stares at me for a long moment, no doubt trying to decipher whether or not I’m messing with her or really want to know.
“Come on, tell me.” I encourage her.
“Unconditional love, but super sensitive to others' emotions, and it makes them wild cards,” she says with a shrug when I nod. Not exactly as dead-on as Sunday’s, but pretty close.
“And dark red?” I ask her, prodding at what had started this whole conversation. She’s searching my face for something, but I can’t quite figure it out. I want to ask her when she opens her mouth again. Red is bad, I can see it without her even explaining.
“You’ve been really nice to me, Brighton, and I’m feeling much better. Maybe I should just—” She pushes from the couch, but the booze hits her like a brick wall, and she gags once, almost trips, and then sinks back to the couch.
“Why don’t you just lie down here, and I’ll take you home once I get all this cleaned up?”
“Yeah.” She nods, “That's a…” She starts to clumsily kick off the boots she's wearing, but the zippers are stuck, so I lean down and run my fingers along the back of her calf, pulling it down and off her foot. She curls up on the couch without finishing her sentence and is out cold before I can even tell her that she can’t sleep here.
“You’re an idiot.” I tilt my head back and scold myself for even bringing her upstairs.
“Stable,” she hums in her half-awake state, and I look down at her, hair splayed across her face as she wiggles deeper into the couch. “But…angry. So angry.”
I couldn’t tell if it’s adorable or annoying that she talks in her sleep, but I cover her with the patchwork blanket hanging over the back and leave her there to sleep.