Jeremiah
Isighed.Nomatterhow slowly I chopped these vegetables, it was inevitable. I needed to leave for work soon. Leaving my family only seemed to get harder as time went on, but it was a fact of life. I needed a job to help support all the people I loved, and I was infinitely lucky there were so many of them. I knew Lazlo had just as hard a time leaving in the morning as I did in the evening. This weekend, I would make sure we did something all together. The weather was supposed to be nice. Maybe we could bundle Mia up and take the kids to the zoo. It was all decorated for Christmas, and they even gave the animals presents.
As it always happened, as soon as I’d begun dipping the strips of raw chicken into the egg bath, followed by breadcrumbs, the house phone rang. I looked down at my gooey fingers. “My hands are gross. Could somebody else answer that?” I called.
Lazlo appeared around the corner. “Don’t say mean things about your hands. They areverytalented.” He gave me a teasingwink, before he picked up the receiver. “Hello? Hellooooo… Huh. They hung up.” He set the phone back in its cradle. “That’s the third time this week. I hope it’s not a problem with the line.”
I frowned. “Yeah… I hope not.” A shiver crawled up my spine. It was probably nothing. Likely just telemarketers trying to convince us to change phone plans or some scam from “the internet security company” asking for access to our computer. I wouldn’t even bother having a home phone if it weren’t for Sammy. It was for emergency purposes, and it hardly ever rang.
“Do you need some help?” Lazlo asked, coming up behind me and hugging me around the waist.
I leaned into the contact, shaking off the creeping sensation from a moment ago. “Sure. Would you mind setting the table? I’ll get these in the frying pan, and then we should be able to eat soon.” I glanced at the digital clock on the stove. My shift at Mickey’s didn’t start until eight, so at least I could eat dinner with my family.
It took Lazlo a while to clear the table of August’s art supplies. He’d really taken to collage, overlaying clippings from nature magazines with pressed flowers and some of his own artwork, using paint and markers. He claimed he was still trying to find his niche. I didn’t know anything about art, but I thought his creations were beautiful. For Christmas, I’d been sneakily updating the downstairs guest room to be a studio for him.
August was currently giving Mia a bath because she’d had a bit of a diaper mishap, and Sammy was taking care of his homework so he could have the night off to watch a movie. It was all just life, nothing special in particular, but I still wished I could stay and spend the evening in with them.
After dinner, we all helped with the cleanup. Many hands made light work, and soon enough, August was making a triple batch of popcorn, and Sammy was queueing up one of our favs,The Princess Bride.
I found Mia on the living room floor having some tummy time. I lay down beside her, and she lifted her head up to look at me. “Hey there, ladybug,” I said, and she gave me a drooly gurgle, excitedly kicking her feet. Gods, she was getting so big. She wasn’t crawling yet, but if you weren’t watching her, she would roll all the way into the next room. I picked her up and gave her a big hug. She smelled like lavender soap, and the pang in my chest was nearly painful. “Papa’s gonna miss you,” I whispered in her ear. I wasn’t officially her papa or anything, but it felt right. I would protect my little ladybug with my dying breath. I just hoped it would never come down to that.
Lazlo was watching me, a dreamy smile on his face. “You could call in sick. I’ll even write you a doctor’s note,” he said with a smirk.
I groaned. “Don’t tempt me. Staying in with you guys sounds so much better than babysitting rowdy drunks.”
August came in with the giant bowl of popcorn. “Put them all in a timeout and come home early.” He held a piece of popcorn up for me, and I ate it,accidentallysucking on his fingertips in the process. His pupils expanded, the slightest hint of his arousal scenting the air.
“I’ll be home as soon as I can,” I promised. “Be ready for me?” My words implied a lot, and when they both nodded, my head was filled with all kinds of dirty imagery of how they might interpret my request.
Groaning, I passed Mia over to Lazlo, and as they headed into the living room to get settled with their movie night, I headed for the door instead. The night was especially dark and cold when leaving the comfort of home. We’d had a decent dump of snow over the week, but the highway was clear.
The city streets were decked out in blinking lights and garlands, and even at Mickey’s, we’d been getting into the holiday spirit. The bar was filled with retro decorations, likelycoated in a heavy layer of lead paint, and we’d sprinkled a few 80s Christmas carols throughout our usual music selection. The DJ, Lucy, was maniacally planning to drop “Last Christmas” by Wham! just after midnight to ruin everyone’s Whamageddon for the year.
Even before the doors were open, a line had formed outside the building. It was a festive time of year, and spirits were high—high enough to keep everyone warm against the blustery wind picking up. We’d set up a few patio heaters just in case, since our patrons preferred to dress to theme instead of being prepared for the weather.
“Everybody ready?” I called to my coworkers.
I got a few shouts of agreement, and Lucy yelled, “Release the hounds!” before she cranked on the playlist.
I opened the door and greeted the first customers in line, checking IDs and eyeing them up for any potential weapons. There were plenty of women with teased hair and headbands, bangles stacked down their wrists, fishnet stockings under their neon skirts and wedge-heeled boots. The guys were decked out with leather jackets and gel-spiked hair, and many of them carried sunglasses specifically for when Corey Hart’s “I Wear My Sunglasses at Night” came on.
“Welcome to Mickey’s, my dudes. Have yourselves a bodacious evening,” I said, letting the first group through the door. I passed them each a glowstick bracelet on the way through the door and started a count. Within the hour, the place would be packed to capacity, and then my job would shift to maintaining the number through the door.
I’d been doing this job a long time, and I was pretty good at it. It wasn’t just tossing the rowdy customers and escorting drunks into cabs. It was also about reading body language and deciding who was here to cause trouble instead of having a good time. It was during one of these scans of the line ahead of me that Ibecame aware of one man in particular who stood out from the crowd.
It was more an absence than it was his presence that caught my attention, like an empty void surrounded by light. He looked to be in his late 30s, maybe early 40s, dark hair and eyes, medium build. On any given day, I wouldn’t have given him a second glance, but here, surrounded by neon colors and spandex, his white button-up and gray blazer were entirely out of place. He seemed to be here alone, or maybe he was meeting someone inside. His hands were tucked into his pockets, and I found myself subconsciously checking for suspicious bulges under his jacket.
When it was his turn at the front of the line, I stood up a little straighter, my body on alert, almost expecting trouble from him. “Can I see some ID?” I asked, half blocking the door.
He scoffed, eyebrow arched. “Seriously? You think I look underage?”
“I ask everyone, and you’re no exception.”
Shaking his head, he reached into his inside pocket and pulled out a wallet. “Have at it,” he said, passing over a driver’s license.
I stared at it longer than necessary, clocking his info. Brandon Levine, age 39, living in Boston. I raked my gaze over his face, making sure it matched the photo. The name wasn’t familiar, but I made note of it anyway.
“You married?” he asked me while I did the inspection, smiling blandly.
