Chapter 30 Brighton
“We’re at capacity,” Judd says in passing, banging his hand on the bar top to get my attention. The shirt he’s wearing says, MISSIONARY SO WE CAN KEEP FIGHTING, and he’s wearing a dark blue bandana to push back his unruly sandy blond hair.
“Already?” Boone calls out, and I shrug. “Where’s Rhea?”
“Tagging the firefighters,” Judd says, nodding toward the group of men clustered around her in the back hallway. I grind my teeth, watching them crowd her as she wraps bright red bracelets around their wrists. She’s doing her job. Or at least that’s what I’m trying to tell myself.
“Remind me again why I agreed to this?” I slam the fridge door closed beneath the bar and turn to Boone and Kaia.
“Because of that,” Kaia says with a wicked smile on her face, the bruise on her cheek is fading, but the sentiment of what she did for me, for Daisy, will last forever. It’s been a week, and I’ve only gotten one vague text from Riona: It’s resolved.
No thanks to your diplomacy.
I turn to see him, leaning against a booth, talking to some of his buddies a few feet from Rhea. Her shoulders are tight, and her eyes flicker occasionally in his direction when he laughs loudly or makes a comment to someone in the group.
A week after the date Boone came to me on Kaia’s behalf, throwing down a Harbor Fire association calendar and pointing to it like I was supposed to understand why.
“They need a venue to host this year's competition on the calendar,” Boone said, and I shrugged.
Told him that they could fuck off and find somewhere that needed the business.
But then he told me who was on the list of contestants.
Now they’re invading my bar—and her space. But there’s a reason. I need eyes on that piece of shit, and now that I’ve seen him, all I want to do is wrap my hand around his scrawny neck and squeeze.
“Right,” I mutter, turning back to them.
“Keep it together, stick to the plan,” Boone warns.
“No drinks. Dry all night,” I repeat.
“Separate him from his friends. Keep him busy,” Kaia purrs with a smile. “And the girls will handle the rest.”
“Don’t get caught, I don’t have the money to bail you out again.” I point at her with a towel gripped between my fingers and palm to steady my hand. I shouldn't have agreed to this at all but it's better than beating the shit out of him myself and then explaining why I did.
“Yes, sir.” She salutes as she slides from the stool and disappears into the crowded bar.
“I’ve got two grand in savings,” Boone says, suddenly less confident.
“We’re going to need a lot more than that if all three of them end up in lock up,” I grumble, and he agrees, “go help Rhea,” I say.
“Why? She’s fine?” Boone scowls.
“They’re crowding her. She’s uncomfortable,” I clip, not looking up at her, and just hoping that Boone follows the order.
“What about that is uncomfortable?” He laughs, leaning over the bar with his eyes on her across the room.
I follow his gaze to find her laughing and flirting with one of the guys; his hand swallows her wrist while she fights the sticky backing off the bracelet.
She’s wearing that tiny, shredded Hollow t-shirt and a tiny pair of black, patchwork jean shorts that stick to her thighs.
If her purpose is to get attention tonight, she has it. From nearly everyone in her vicinity.
“Boone,” I snap. “Go make space.”
“Fuck me, man. You’re a piece of work,” he scoffs, but listens this time and wanders away.
The crowd parts for him, and he takes his time to talk to people who say hello, but eventually he slips in behind Rhea and leans against the wall.
He asks her for a stack, and she hands him some with a smile.
It’s only when the firefighter breaks contact with her that my shoulders relax, and Boone smirks at me, spotting the change in my muscles from across the way.
“Hey man,” a voice calls to me, “can I get a beer?” I turn to see that scummy shit bag standing at the end of my bar with his hat pulled down over his hair and his eyes raking over the tiny, barely legal blonde girl next to him. Right.
“Sure,” I say. And walk away. I push around to the kitchen and find a moment of solace in the back. I pop open the fridge to grab a water and slam the door behind me before leaning against the counter and closing my eyes.
“Brighton?” I flex my hand around the bottle as I bring it to my lips.
“Yeah?”
She’s standing there, with a tentative smile on her face and those big, sad brown eyes as the bar rages around her in the background.
It’s nearly impossible not to make note of all the intricate ways her tattoos flow together when she’s wearing so little clothing: the inky details that swirl and stain her shoulders, arms, and stomach, all like giant works of art that seem to highlight every strong muscle in her body.
How do you do that—look pretty under fluorescent kitchen lights?
“The fire guys are all tagged, Judd is just setting up the host, but I think they’re ready to start so I’m going to watch the area around the stage.
” Rhea angles toward the opening of the kitchen with her arm out and her back muscles flex.
It’s the most graceful part of her, almost mesmerizing to see her inky skin stretch to accommodate them.
“What’s that?” I ask, pointing to the pen on her inner arm.
“Turns out not all the firefighters are assholes,” she says with a tiny smile that shouldn’t bother me. That’s mine. I press my tongue to the roof of my mouth. You are out of your fucking mind, Brighton Black.
“I’m not picking you up if this date goes bad,” I warn, trying to ignore every other thought in my brain.
“I promise to charge my phone this time,” she brushes it off, and I find myself wishing she didn’t.
Grow up. You’re friends. That’s what you do, you let your friends date people.
Rhea wouldn’t give a shit if you dated someone.
“What?” she says, and I stare at her for a moment, praying that I didn’t say any of that out loud.
“Quit chasing my best drinkers away,” I tease, and she laughs, the sound vibrating through me.
“It’s not my fault they can’t handle me,” she argues playfully. You don’t need to be handled.
“Go watch the stage,” I tell her, and she doesn’t hesitate to find her way back into the chaos.
When I turn back to the kitchen, Kaia is standing by the exit door with her eyes on me and her jaw strung tight as her fingers rotate a small, shiny hunting knife between them. This woman enjoys jail.
“Tread lightly,” she warns.
Sunday said that same thing.
At least now I have an idea of why they’re all so careful with my sad girl.
“Get out, Kaia.” I snap at her, and she narrows her eyes but pushes out of the door with her back and disappears into the night-soaked parking lot.
With her busy outside, doing God only knows to the idiot's truck, I wade back into the busy section of the bar.
Boone is waiting tables with some of the girls, and Judd is manning the bar by himself, completely drowning in orders.
I wander back around and start to help, watching Boone swipe the nearly full beer off the table in front of Miles as he starts to rub himself down with oil.
These firefighters are full of themselves, but the female presence in the bar is blossoming more than on dance nights.
When he turns back, he throws his hands up and starts accusing his friends of stealing it as they all get ready for their turn on stage.
Some radio personality with a stupid name is hosting, and before long, the Hollow’s main floor is packed with drunk women screaming over shirtless men that parade around on the stage to horrible mainstream pop music.
Rhea’s laughing with a few of the women who are around the front, and she says something to Judd as he passes by to collect drinks off the long, standing tables piled with dirty glasses.
The firefighter she had been flirting with all night stomps across the stage, stripping from his damp uniform and kneeling across from her.
She’s standing just close enough for him to wrap it around her neck and pull her in tight to whisper something in her ear that makes her cheeks turn pink.
I’m going to break both his hands.
He kisses her cheek and straightens out as the host introduces him, and he flexes his muscles under the warm yellow lights for all the girls scream his name.
Never again. The glass in my hand creeks uncomfortably as my fingers close around it tightly.
Whatever Kaia is doing to Miles’s truck better be worth the heart attack I'm having watching Rhea flirt with these assholes.
“Can I get some vodka shots to the back table?” one of them asks from my left, and I turn to see what table he’s talking about with a nod.
I fill nine glasses with vodka and then rim the other with it, but fill it with water.
Just enough to smell like booze but give no buzz.
I carry them over, tray high, to avoid spilling as the crowd parked around me.
I hand out the shots to them, personally giving Miles the water with a deadpan face. He lifts it to his lips without a word and takes back the water as it burns. I laugh to myself as I swing away back into the crowd.
Intermission has started, and the judges are being introduced on stage as ballots get passed around to outstretched hands to choose the people’s favorite.
I grab a water bottle and slip through the tightly packed bodies toward where she towers over a circle of women.
They’re looking at the extensive list on the ballot, and Rhea is pointing out certain names with a smile on her face.
“Hellcat,” I call out and chuck the bottle as she looks up at me.
She catches it without flinching, popping the top with a tiny thank you from her lips before she takes a drink.
Just a moment of her attention— to remind me none of these douchebags matter.
She comes home with me when the doors get locked.