But I shouldn’t. It’s not fair. So I try not to think about it even as that pill bottle seems to flash neon-bright through the shower screen.
I wash a long and brutal late shift from my skin, thankful the bathroom window is the only one not cracked wide. Noise from the pub still reaches me, though, and it makes me think about drinking, wondering if I can stomach a beer.
Alone, probably not. With company…maybe a few. And I feel like I need them. I’m good with death, I have to be, but young ones get to me. Her hair, still wet from the sea, wrapped around my wrists. The screams of her parents from the back of the room.
I shut off the shower, blocking out trauma that’s not mine. Filing it in the vault where it needs to stay, the one I’m lucky enough is secure.
For now.
Silence fills the bathroom. I’m content for a hot minute, but I’m too wired to latch onto it and take it to my bed for the sleep I probably need.
Beer.
I think about how it’ll feel in my stomach, the faint buzz filtering into my blood.
Yeah.
I can handle it.
Means going downstairs, though. And facing the open windows, which I’m still good to leave—for now, and maybe even all night long.
I follow the riot of sound downstairs and into the locals’ bar. The singing’s still going, Sol in his element, which means Jackshould’ve cheered up too. I elbow my way through, ignoring anyone who tries to talk to me, and duck behind the bar.
We have seasonal staff. They move out of my way, but a local idiot taps me up to serve him.
Literally.
Pokes my shoulder.
I roll him a flat stare. “Wait your fucking turn.”
He grumbles, but it’s part of the charm of this place—the pub, the town. It’s pretty enough to draw the tourists, but it’s not that friendly, and by Porth Luck rules, I’m a foreigner. They’ve told me so, and I don’t give much of a fuck. But if they think I’m giving up my time to wait on them…
Not happening.
I swipe a bottle from the fridge and drop the money to pay for it into the till. Jack needs the books to balance to find peace at the end of the day, and I’m all right with that.
More than all right.
Someone calls my name. Sol, I think. But I can’t see through the messy Friday night crowd, and I don’t hang around long enough to look twice. If Sol’s singing, he’s either sad or drunk, or both. Or happy and drunk. Regardless, I’m out of here with my beer.
Nearly.
The same townhead fucker I wouldn’t serve blocks my path, getting in my face for no other reason than I’m smaller than Jack, and he doesn’t have a clue who I really am.
“This place has gone to the dogs since this lot got hold of it.”
This lot. He means Sol. Sev. The Bosankos. Porth Luck lore is wild. Ancient clan shit. This dickhead is probably annoyed about something Sol’s grandad did to his grandad a hundred years ago. Or he’s one of the chancers still raging that Jack barred all the little shits from the beach gangs. They run riot outside, but we don’t have it through our doors. Which means no smuggled cigssold under the table. Or bootleg booze in the car park. You can still buy ket and coke in the bogs, but that’s life. Jack can’t be everywhere and the rest of us aren’t here enough to try.
Either way, this bellend fucking bores me.
I sidestep him with enough intent he thinks twice about putting hands on me as I pass, and I weave through the crowd until I reach the back door instead of the tourist bar and my route to the stairs.
It brings me to the bins. A scrote sits on the high wall, on his way over. He changes his mind as I near, but he’ll be back for Jack to deal with later, and in this mood, I feel bad about it. Without the bikers, this town is lawless by day and pure mayhem in the dark. Is it worth it to live without the rumble of bikes in the air? The scent of petrol staining the breeze? The constant reminder the people you love most can still be the worst you’ll ever know?
It is for me.
But what about everyone else?
