Marci
I moved the bar rag across the oak in slow circles, collecting the evening’s residue of spilled beer and ring stains that were sure to turn permanent by morning if I didn’t scrub now.My shoulders ached in a good way, the kind of tired earned through honest work.The Broken Spokesat quiet around me, empty for the first time since I unlocked the doors hours ago.Red light bled through the windows in pulses turning every surface the color of warning.
I had closed alone for three nights now.Ace had asked whether I felt comfortable handling the place after hours, his hazel eyes searching my face for truth beneath whatever words I offered.I told him yes because I needed his trust, needed this job to hold.And the answer held honesty, mostly.Solitude felt safer than a crowd, gave me room to breathe without tracking every stranger’s expression.
I tucked the glasses back on their shelf with softclinksafter checking each one for chips or cracks.Ace ran a tight ship -- every task had a place in the routine, every detail done right or repeated.I respected that rhythm.I appreciated the structure, the predictability.I’d lived my old life inside chaos, wearing the mask of control.This stood worlds away.
I grabbed the broom from its corner, preparing to sweep the floor.The bristles scraped across wood worn smooth by decades of boots, and I fell into the rhythm of it, pushing debris toward the back door.Peanut shells.A bottle cap someone had missed.A receipt crumpled into a tight ball.
That’s when the siren started.
Distant at first, just a whisper of sound my brain tried to dismiss as highway traffic.But the noise grew louder, a distinctive wail cutting through the quiet like a blade through skin.My hands locked around the broom handle.The sound climbed higher, closer, and my body understood before thought could catch up -- understood what the siren once signaled, what the same sound might signal again.
The broom clattered to the floor.I had dropped the handle without meaning to, fingers going numb as my pulse jumped into my throat.The siren kept wailing, and now an engine roared beneath the pitch, a car pushing speed.Coming this direction.Coming here.
He found me.He found me.The thought looped in my head, drowning out everything else.I backed away from where I had been standing, my hip striking the edge of a table hard enough to bruise.A glass waited on the bar where I had planned to wash the next round.I reached for the glass using hands already shaking, meaning to finish the task, to prove I remained fine.My fingers refused to cooperate, refused to grip, and the glass slipped free as though it had never been solid at all.
The shatter roared through the room.Glass sprayed across the floor in glittering fragments, the noise ricocheting off the walls and crashing through my skull.The siren still wailed outside, still growing louder, and my chest locked.Breath came shallowly, never deep enough to reach the parts of me begging for air.
I stumbled backward until my spine pressed against the wall.Neon painted everything red, and through the window I caught the reflection of blue and red strobing together, creating purple shadows dancing across the ceiling.The cruiser sat right outside.Right there.Any second the door would open and he would walk in and find me.I would not escape again.Staying too long in one place, getting comfortable, lowering my guard -- all of it had brought me here.
My legs gave out.I slid down the wall behind the bar, my body folding in on itself as my back pressed against the cool wood of the cabinet.Broken glass glittered just beyond my feet, sharp and dangerous and proof I had failed at something as simple as washing a glass.My chest hurt from the effort of breathing, from dragging air through a throat that felt like it was closing.
Shadows shifted, moved, and formed the shape of hands reaching for me.The corner where the mop stood became a figure holding completely still, watching.The red glow from outside became the emergency lights from two years ago, the same harsh flashes cutting through the windows of my apartment while I hid in the bathroom, phone clutched in shaking hands, trying to decide whether calling for help would make everything worse.
I pressed my palms over my eyes, desperate to block everything out.But the siren stayed in my head, drilling into every nerve, dragging me back to all the other times I heard that sound and knew he had called them, told them I was unstable, needed help, posed a danger to myself.Lies delivered so smoothly, paired with a concerned expression convincing everyone to trust him instead of me.
My breaths came in shallow gasps now, not enough oxygen reaching my lungs.Spots floated at the edges of my vision.I needed to stand.Needed to move, to run, to do anything besides sit here waiting to be found.But my body refused every command.My muscles locked, shutting down in some twisted survival response that looked like the opposite of survival.
The siren finally faded, moving past the bar and continuing down the road.But the damage was done.My heart still hammered against my ribs.My hands still shook.The shadows still held threats I couldn’t quite see but knew were there.
Then I heard a new sound.Separate from the siren, lower and deeper -- the rumble of a motorcycle engine.The growl intensified, then stopped abruptly, leaving a silence somehow worse than the noise before.Boots crunched over gravel.The front door opened, hinges giving a familiar creak.
“Marci?”
Ace’s voice, steady and calm, calling my name like he wasn’t worried even though he had to be wondering why the lights were still on, why the door was unlocked when closing should have been finished twenty minutes ago.
His boots moved across the floor, his measured steps meaning he was in no hurry but also wasn’t wasting time.“Marci, you here?”
I wanted to answer.Wanted to call out that I was fine, just finishing up, give me a minute.But my throat closed around every word and refused to release a single sound.
Footsteps stopped.A brief pause, then a shift in direction, heading around the end of the bar.Coming toward the spot where I sat curled on the floor like a child hiding from monsters far too real.
Ace appeared at the edge of my vision, his broad frame silhouetted against the red glow from outside.He stopped when he saw me, took in the broken glass, my position against the wall.His expression didn’t change -- didn’t show pity or confusion or disgust.Just the same steady calm he always carried.
He moved slowly, deliberately, crouching a few feet away from me.Close enough for me to see every detail of his face in the dim light, yet far enough for my body to avoid feeling cornered.His hands rested on his thighs, relaxed and open, and for the first time I noticed the scars across his knuckles.Old scars, pale against tanned skin.
“You’re okay.”Not a question.A statement, like he was telling me something I’d forgotten.“You’re safe.Nothing’s going to hurt you here.”
I tried to nod but couldn’t manage it.My breath still came too fast, too shallow.
“I need you to breathe with me.”His voice dropped lower, softer.“Can you do that?”
I managed the smallest movement of my head.Not quite a nod, but enough.
“Good.Watch my hand.”He raised his right hand, holding the gesture between us at chest height.“In through your nose when my hand rises.Out through your mouth when my hand lowers.Just watch and follow.”
His hand lifted slowly.I tried to draw breath through my nose, but the inhale snagged halfway.His hand dropped just as slowly.I exhaled, shaky and uneven.
