“Let me go, assholes,” I manage and kick, trying to catch one of them—any of them—somewhere vital.
“You’re not going anywhere, pretty boy. Except into the dumpster when we’re done with you.”
The boot to my side steals my breath, and the distinct crack of bone and lance of pain reminds me of the time I fell out of a tree when I was eight. At least one rib. Maybe two.
Then they’re all around me. Punching. Shoving. Ripping my pants and yanking them down to my ankles. Exposing my ass. There are too many of them. Time stops as they take turns doing their worst. I don’t know what they use. Don’t want to know.Thingsmostly. Bottles. A pipe, maybe. Until the end. Until everything’s dark and red with pain.
And then someone shouts. I know that voice. The bouncer.
“Hey. Get the fuck off of him!”
There’s a punch. A groan. Scuffling. Swears. And then it’s almost quiet and a big hand touches my shoulder. “They’re gone. I’m calling 911.”
“No...” I manage, but I can’t lift my head. Or see. One of my eyes is swollen shut and the other...there’s too much blood.
“You’re torn up, man. Sorry. You don’t get a choice.” The bouncer doesn’t let go of me as I start to shake, shock and fear mixing together until I hear sirens and give in to my body’s uncontrollable urge to retreat somewhere dark and warm where nothing else can hurt me.
* * *
The callto the staff duty NCO is one of the hardest I’ve ever had to make. Because he asks why I’m in the hospital. Details about my injuries. Whether I’m fit to return to duty. And why the assholes targeted me in the first place.
It doesn’t matter that I’m allowed to serve. That the Coast Guard makes a big, official deal about accepting everyone these days. There are still too many guys ready and willing to protest. Guys who would love to hassle me. To make my life a living hell.
I could lie, but the bouncer filed a police report. Mike—I only found out his name hours later when the police came to question me—was doing his job. Hell, he probably saved my life, and if I thought I could handle seeing him, I’d track him down and thank him. But that report...that public record? It’s the end of my career.
* * *
Thirty-Six Months Ago
Quinton
Water pours down the windows in sheets. February in Dallas is always a crapshoot, and today, it’s like a monsoon. TheDallas Bystander—a little alternative weekly newspaper—has its offices on the tenth floor of one of the city’s older buildings, and the glass rattles in the frames as the wind picks up.
But from the owner’s desk, where I’m currently sitting while troubleshooting his crappy internet speeds, I can see half the city.
Not a bad place to be.
“Any luck?” Frank asks as he picks up his briefcase.
“Your system’s all kinds of jacked up,” I reply before catching myself. “Sorry, Mr. Smythe. I just mean—”
He chuckles. “Relax, Quinton. I’d be more concerned if it worked perfectly for you. Take your time. I have a meeting downtown. I won’t be back for at least a couple of hours.”
With a mock salute, he grabs his rain coat and heads for the door, leaving me to do my job in peace.
I’ve only worked for theBystanderfor two months. It’s a good job, though the salary isn’t great. I could make more with one of the large tech firms in the area. But last year, the stress of being on call 24x7 caught up with me, and the breakdown it caused? Epic. I’ll take the pay cut to work in an environment where no one needs me to fix their entire network at 2:00 a.m. Plus, this job gives me enough spare time to pursue my passion—an anti-anxiety phone app I think could really help people.
Little by little, I chip away at the truly amazing amount of random electroniccrapFrank has on his laptop. The anti-virus basically laughed at me when I asked it to run the first time.
“Well, that’s got to go,” I mutter as I find yet another folderfullof temporary files that are taking up more than ten percent of his hard drive. I’ve rarely seen one person screw up their computer this badly.
Leaning back in his chair, I let the anti-virus have another run at the system while I watch the rain. I wanted to go out tonight. Check out the new bar on Sixth. It’s supposed to be quiet. A good place to meet another guy and actuallytalkrather than just grind away on the dance floor or hook up for anonymous sex. I don’t do well in crowds, and though I’ve met a few guys I liked enough to see multiple times over the past few years, none of them were long-term relationship material.
Midway through my thirties, the idea of a one-night stand doesn’t do it for me like it used to. I want more. Somethingreal.
The program errors out with a beep, and I dig through the logs to find out why. “Huh? What the hell...?”
Buried four levels deep, there’s a folder named_Recycle Bin. It’s the underscore that catches my eye. And the size. Whatever’s in there is consuming a quarter of his hard drive space.
