Chapter Six #2
I pull my attention back as customers order new drinks and request refills. A few moments pass, and from the corner of my eye, I see Jackass approaching the bar by himself. I close another customer’s tab and turn my attention to him.
“What can I get you?” I ask as I throw a hand towel over my shoulder.
He glances at the drink menu, tapping his fingers repetitively on the wooden bar.
He then clicks his tongue. “I’ll have a Jack and Coke.
” I give a slight nod—typical choice for newcomers.
I wait patiently, thinking he’s ordering something for the girl he’s with, but he continues tapping his fingers, watching others at the bar.
“Will that be it?”
He shakes his head, as if I’ve snapped him out of a silent daze.
He then laughs through his nose. “Oh, right. Yeah, my girl will have the same as me.” He points back at the booth where she’s sitting.
“It’s her 21st birthday.” I nod as I open a new tab on the screen.
That’s an unusual drink choice for a lady, but it’s not the first time I’ve seen it.
Everyone has their own preferences. The words his girl ring in my mind.
I clear my throat. “Got it, I’ll need to see IDs.”
He squints, leaning in closer. A small snort escapes from his nose. “Seriously, dude?” he replies.
I rest my palms on the bar and give him a calm, hard stare. “Do I look like I’m joking?”
He pulls his head back slightly. “Aw, dude, I’m just messing with you.” He quickly turns his head to the right and whistles. I glance over at her just as she shifts her focus to the bar. He waves his hand to call her over.
I watch carefully as she grabs her purse and approaches the bar.
She places her bag on the counter, and they exchange quiet words.
Both turn to face me while retrieving their IDs.
He’s the first to pull his out and hand it over.
I nod as I quickly glance at it. Scottie, age twenty-four.
Who the hell names their kid Scottie? I silently disapprove inside my mind.
I go to hand back his ID, and he pauses as he grabs it.
I notice him scanning my hand, his eyes traveling up my covered arm to my neck.
“Gnarly ass flame tattoos, dude! Holy shit, are those scars?” If this motherfucker calls me dude one more time.
I flick my eyes at her; she peeks at my hand, then quickly looks back down, fidgeting with her ID before gesturing for me to take it.
I glance at her photo, then at her name—Raina Adele Hope.
Such a unique name. She’s twenty-one today, born on September 7th.
We share a birthday. I hope hers actually means something to her, at least. I give her a slight nod with a quick, tight-lipped smile.
As I hand her ID back, her fingers graze mine, making me wince.
She quickly looks up at me, her expression unreadable.
I notice the faint freckles that scatter across the bridge of her nose and cheeks.
Her eyes are vibrant, shimmering with different shades of green.
Her pupils flick back and forth between mine.
For a moment, I wonder if she sees the fire burning me alive behind them.
My thoughts are quickly interrupted by Jackass.
“So is your whole body scarred up like that? Was it a bear attack or something?” I notice her nudging him with her elbow.
He shrugs in response, still examining my hand.
Heat rises around my neck, burning me from the inside out.
I slowly push up the sleeves of my hoodie, revealing more scars and tattoos running up my right arm.
His eyes widen at the sight of it—something I’m used to when someone new notices my scars for the first time.
I roll my shoulders, place my hands firmly on the counter, and lean forward.
I leave my face unreadable. “Do you always ask strangers stupid ass questions that do not concern you?” My teeth clench as he pulls back from my response.
He opens his mouth to respond, but I walk off to prepare their drinks, not caring to hear another word come out of his mouth.
I make Dipshit his Jack and Coke, while deciding to make the girl something different to prove a point.
Once the drinks are ready, I slide his across the bar, refusing to hand it directly to him.
I then turn to her, reaching out with her drink.
“Not sure if you’ve had one before, but it’s called a lemon drop. ”
I watch as Scottie pulls a confused look. “Didn’t I order her the same drink as me?”
I press my lips together. “You did, but she doesn’t look like a Jack and Coke kind of girl,” I say nonchalantly.
He lets out an exaggerated huff, snatching his drink up and holding it close to her. “Here, taste it.” I watch as she presses her glossed lips to the glass, and he slightly tilts it up. My eyes follow her throat as it lightly bobs.
She pulls back, using her free hand to cover her mouth. Her nose instantly scrunches from the taste. “Scottie, that is God awful.”
I can’t help but let my sly grin of satisfaction tug at my lips.
I stay silent as we both watch her take a sip of the drink I prepared for her.
She pulls her lips away, coated in liquid.
She licks away the remains, closing her eyes for a moment, as if savoring the flavor.
“Mmm, this is really good,” she hums. Her voice is delicate, yet full of life.
I clear my throat. “It’s on the house. Happy Birthday.”
She smiles softly at me. “Oh, thank you…” She pauses.
“Ezra. My name’s Ezra.” Her beautiful eyes seem to light up.
“Well, thank you, Ezra.” I give her a quick nod as they walk back to their booth. She looks back at me, pulling her bottom lip in and gently biting it before offering a quick, innocent smile.
“Are you staring at that hot chick’s ass?” Blake chimes in from beside me, jerking my attention toward him. I relax my shoulders, grabbing the hand towel still slung across my right one, and toss it into the towel bin under the sink.
“It took you long enough in there. Did everything go okay?”
He pats his stomach. “I’m feeling brand new now, brother.” I shake my head at him in a joking manner. “Now imagine if I hadn’t been here.” Blake shrugs off my response and walks away to check on customers.
I glance up at the clock over the entrance door—it’s nearly 7:30 p.m. I pull out my phone and check my notifications.
I hadn’t realized Beck had texted around twenty minutes ago, letting me know she was stopping by.
She should be here any moment. I close my messaging app and open my home security camera feed.
My phone constantly alerts me to any movement at all hours, both inside and outside.
Still, I have a habit of checking it during times I’m away, even without alerts.
Usually, when I do, it’s because of wildlife near the house or on the property.
Maybe I’m paranoid, searching for something or someone that will never appear. You can never be sure, though.
I hear the double doors to the back swing open, and I slightly tilt my head. Beck steps through, her presence effortlessly commanding attention. Regulars perched at the bar shout out, “Hey,” to her, while smiling and waving. She always brings positive energy to this place.
She places a container down in front of me and then turns, wrapping her arms around my neck.
My hands naturally enclose around her. Breathing her in, I catch that same comforting scent—her scent.
Glancing to my left, I see the birthday girl watching us with a hint of curiosity.
I quickly shift my attention back to Beck.
“Happy Birthday, Ez!” she exclaims as we release each other.
She looks as stunning as ever, even in her simple outfit.
Tapping her fingers on the container, she adds, “I would have dropped this off at your place this morning, but someone didn’t pick up their phone. ”
I smile at her as I reach for the container, already knowing what awaits me inside. Gently, I lift the lid to reveal two pancakes shaped like a 2 and a 7, accompanied by a small lidded container of syrup and a plastic fork. I force my gaze back to hers, offering my best fake smile.
After the accident, Beck started the tradition of making birthday pancakes for me each year.
I understand the good intentions behind her thoughtful gesture, but instead of feeling warmth or love from the memories of my mother, all I feel is a wave of nausea that triggers the darkest parts of me.
And it’s like all over again, we are burning in that damned house.
I can’t bring myself to tell Beck how this affects me; it would shatter her.
So, I silently bite my tongue until the metallic taste stings my palate.
I open the small container of syrup and watch it slowly drizzle over the pancakes like molten lava.
I grasp the plastic fork, shifting it in my hands before taking a bite and forcing my expression to remain neutral.
But my mind plays tricks on me, and the texture reminds me of soot, lingering like a residue stuck beneath my nails.
But now it’s lodged in my throat, making it hard to swallow, clinging to my insides.
Yet, I push through, determined to finish every bite.