Chapter 4 Everett #2
Before I grab more glasses, I shove ten pounds into the side pocket of Clint’s shirt pocket and whisper, “Don’t tell Lloyd you’re the hardest-workin’ man here,” then take several glasses toward the bar.
“Th-thank ya, sir!” Clint spurts out, then continues his work with an ear-to-ear smile.
The twins, Lloyd and Lyle, have become father figures to Clint, and luckily they have taken to him. As I walk into the bar, the noise of talking and laughter assaults my ears.
Though I could see the commotion from the double mirrors, they dull the noise of the environment.
I still hate large gatherings; they make my skin crawl and I find myself to be on edge. As I set the glasses near Lyle and Lloyd, a loud crash erupts from one side of the counter. A patron has drunkenly lost their glass to the floor and shouts erupt.
My nerves are wrecked after the sound, and they try to throw me back into a prior scene where shells were dropped, shrapnel was exploding and soldiers were screaming.
I brace my hands on the countertop, trying to keep my composure as the war tries to rage in my mind. As my nostrils flare from trying to inhale as much air from the room as possible, a reassuring voice comes from my right.
“Boss? Ya all right, boss?”
Lyle.
I nod slowly as I scan the crowd looking for threats. I know there aren’t any. We are in a pub, my family’s pub. There’s great music, good drinks and lively people—not dead people.
Still, my body is on high alert for every sensation.
I can feel Lyle come a little closer, but he understands what could be going on.
“Boss, why don’t cha go to the third floor. I think some books need checked and you can take ’em up dere, ya know?”
I fill every inch of my lungs to capacity with air, then slowly draw out a breath .
“Good idea, Lyle,” I curtly state, trying not to sound like an asshole but finding my controlled tone can only come out as such.
He slides a small glass of amber liquid my way. “Here, boss, to take the edge off. From the shelf we reserve for ya.”
I nod. “Yer a good man, Lyle. You and your brother. Thank you.” I take a small sip, scan the crowd once more then head to the back toward the spiral staircase.
With each step, the clang of the metal staircase echoes from the walls under my oxford shoes. I focus on the sound and count each step. Each step, I control my breath.
Once I get to the third floor, I peer around the office, still easing my alerted body.
I note the desk, the bookcase and shelves.
Nothing is out of the ordinary as I palm my handgun within my tweed coat.
I peer through the doubled mirrors, I see the third floor lounge is empty.
Some tables have chairs adorning the tops, while other chairs rest on the floor, awaiting the next time they’ll be used.
It is calm.
It is quiet.
It is what I need.
I took the accounting books Lyle mentioned off the desk and decide to sit in the dark lounge room.
I pick the farther side of the room so I may concentrate and take the vantage point, watching for any movement if someone were to enter the third floor.
Thumbing through the pages for nearly a half an hour, I notice the discrepancies and can match them with the same familiar patterns Kenneth and I had noticed the last time we were suspicious of stealing.
It only confirms the culprit I had in mind. I shake my head and take a long drink of my whiskey, then drag a hand over my face.
This isn’t going to be pretty.
My thoughts are interrupted as I hear small footsteps coming up the stairs. If my hearing is correct they are near, coming towards the third level, rather than distant and on the previous set of steps.
I turn my table light off and sit back, draping myself in darkness, then take note of the two lamps cascading light over the smaller tables in the far corners of the room.
An attacker still wouldn’t be able to see my silhouette and I have mastered silently assassinating unwelcome personnel.
I know every creek in the wooden floorboards and made acquaintance with every shadow within my establishments. The shadows are my home.
My fingertips pull up my pant leg and slide alongside to find the hard hilt of my blade. I pull it silently from the ankle holder as I wait for the unknown guest.
Steadying my breaths, I see a figure emerge from the top step. Small in stature, easy to take out.
A woman?
A woman with long, wavy brown hair, and she looks like she is about to pass out. Her breathing is heavy, and she appears to be hyper focused on her steps. She has a drink with clear liquid in one hand, that holds a slight tremor.
Is she drunk on vodka?
One part of my mind wants to get up and assist her as the other protests and believes it could be a stunt.
She proceeds to one of the small round tables with a dim table lamp, then slowly sits within the chair. It makes a low creaking sound as she tries to get comfortable and attempts to control her breathing. I can hear it.
One slow controlled inhale, another slow controlled exhale.
She isn’t trying to breathe through a drunken haze.
She’s having a panic attack.
I wonder what set her off?
She outstretches her arms and rests her forehead atop the table with a large exhale. I wonder what she will think when she realizes she isn’t alone.
I cease the readiness of my blade, then silently, carefully, I get up and walk toward her, the shadows keeping me hidden.
When I am within range, I tip my upper body to where her glass sits in her outstretched hands. With my keen sense of smell, I recognize her glass isn’t filled with vodka, but water and the remnants of old whiskey.
I straighten my spine, studying her from the dark.
She is still trying to control her breathing. I haven’t seen her in the pub or around town before.
Her hands are working hands; the nails are cut short, kept clean. Her attire is conservative, not flashy, charming or seductive like that of some of the women around town.
She doesn’t appear to be wearing much makeup either.
My conclusion—she didn’t want to come here .
Now I’m intrigued. I place my hands in my pockets, hoping to look nonthreatening.
Preparing for her startle, I cock my head to the side and open the dark with the light of my voice. “Why, pray tell, is a woman like you sitting here?”
Her eyes go wide as she makes a tiny, cute gasp. Her lips are slightly parted and I notice the bow to her top lip.
Why am I so intrigued by her? This is annoying, yet entertaining both sectors of my mind.
She fumbles for words, “I’m s-so sorry, I didn’t think anyone was up here and I needed some air. You see, it’s raining outside and I couldn’t go there and I…” She trails off but I stop listening as she over explains.
Instead, my mind is enraptured by the panic in her beautiful, familiar emerald eyes. The small movements of her slender, tender hands. The way her lips arrange around vowels.
Something is seriously wrong with me and…I might like it.
For the first time in a very, very, very long time, there is an unspecified feeling ignited within my soul.
She’s continued to ramble and overexplain, so I calmly ask, “May I sit down?”
Her words cease as she looks up at me and makes a nod.
“Again, I can leave, I didn’t know anyone was up here, I am so sorry.”
I make a subtle wave of my hand. “No, it’s all right. I came up here to escape the noise. What’s your name?” I pull the chair around so I’m straddling either side with my legs.
Her throat bobs as she takes a gulp. I’m really making her feel uneasy.
“My name is Brielle.” She pulls her arms toward herself then takes another drink of her water as she watches me through long, thick eyelashes.
I rest my arms atop the back of the chair, leaning into her atmosphere and ask, “I don’t think I’ve seen you around here, are you new to Lockham?”
She takes another drink as I follow the movement of her throat. A small trickle of water has escaped and is running down the side of her cheek. I become slightly jealous of the back of her hand before she swipes it away .
“I’m sorry, I don’t get out much—I work a lot.
Mainly I am a nurse at the hospital. Then I work in the flour factory and then the funeral home.
Been here for almost a year now. I just do a lot and don’t have much time for personal pleasures.
” She appears to be relaxing into the chair, hopefully realizing I am not pursuing other intentions.
A small smile edges the corner of my mouth. “You apologize a lot for things you don’t have control over, or don’t need to.” I gesture with one hand as I grip the back of the chair. “Why are you working so much? You don’t have anyone to help you?”
She looks down, almost ashamed as a beautiful rose-kissed coloring adorns her high cheekbones. She taps the glass with one fingertip.
“I—I don’t have help. I’m also saving up so I may get out of my apartment.
Though the big goal is to save up and have a small farm in America!
” She looks up at me with her last statement.
Her eyes light up once she mentions her goal.
It is amusing and delightful to see her face turn to such happiness for a mere second, but then the light dims within her eyes.
“At least, that is my dream. I don’t know why I told you that. When I told my colleagues they started taking the piss of me. I’m sor—” She tries to say that damn word again but I outstretch my arm, holding out my long, slender finger to her soft, pouting lips.
“Don’t ever apologize for your dreams,” I rush out, sounding more stern than I mean to.
Her eyes slightly cross in an adorable way as she glances at my outstretched arm.
What the hell is wrong with me? What is this? Adorable? I only find things children do adorable, and even then, that is rare to come by.
I need to get away from this woman.
Slowly, I glance at my watch and act as if our time is up. Returning to my cold demeanor, I state, “I need to go. Nice chatting with you. Keep working hard, I know you’ll get your dream one day.” As I rise, I turn the chair back under the table.
Brielle offers a tiny, crooked smile from those pretty pouting lips and replies, “Thank you, sir.”
Oh? I like that .
I like her calling me sir .
Then I gather my belongings from my table and head toward the main stairs, acting as if I cannot hear her as she asks for my name.