I grip the railing, stare at the water and make a decision.
Whatever Stormy is running from, it might catch up to him. The bike is stolen. I've been pretty sure about that for a while now. Now, there's no doubt in my mind. The way he watches the road. The way he went stiff when Mickey showedup. The way he wouldn't give me his name or a place. He doesn't even have a phone. Who the hell doesn't have a phone? Someone out there is looking for that bike, or for him. And when they come looking, he's going to need more than a chair against a door and a switchblade under a pillow.
He's going to need someone between him and whatever comes. That someone is going to be me. I'm going to put me and everything I have between him and whoever did that to him.
I don't know how. I don't know what's coming. But I know what I saw on his back and I know what it means. I'm making a vow right now, standing on this deck with the sunrise, that nobody is going to hurt that kid again. Not while I'm breathing. Not while he's under my roof.
Not fucking ever, if I have anything to say about it.
If I have to turn this bar into a goddamn fortress for him, I will.
Nobody's touching Stormy again and that's final.
Now that it's settled in my mind, I feel better, and take one more deep breath. I let the fury settle down into the place where I'll keep it, deep and ready. I straighten up and fix my face. Then I go inside and make breakfast the same way I always do. Stormy needs routine and steadiness.
He comes down fifteen minutes later. I hear his footsteps running down the stairs, and when he skids into the kitchen, he looks terrified. His hair is messy, his eyes are wide, and he's got the t-shirt on, pulled down tight, covering everything.
"I'm so sorry," he says before I can speak. "I overslept. I never do that. It won't happen again. I'm sorry. Can't believe I did that."
"Stormy. Relax. You slept in. It's not a felony. Sit down. We're not punching a time clock here. The work will wait for us. It always does."
He sits on his stool but he's rigid, his spine straight, his hands flat on the counter like he's waiting for a verdict. I slide his plate across. Six strips of bacon. I've decided to add an extra strip every day until he tells me to stop. He doesn't look at it.
"I want to talk to you about something," I say.
He goes still. Not the normal still of someone waiting for a conversation. A different still. The still of an animal that heard a twig snap. Every muscle in his body locks. His eyes fix on a point on the counter somewhere between his plate and mine, and I can see him bracing. Preparing. Armoring up for whatever's coming.
"I've been thinking about how much you've done around here," I say. "And I want you to know that I could not have gotten through this rebuild without you. I mean that. The organization, the inventory, the cookout, the cleanup. You've worked harder than anyone I've ever had in this bar, and that includes Sheila, and if you ever tell her I said that, she will murder us both."
He's not breathing. I can see it. His chest isn't moving.
"I'm sorry, I'll work harder," he blurts out. "I'll do better, I swear."
It comes out fast and desperate, the words tumbling over each other like they've been sitting in his throat waiting for this exact moment.
"I'm sorry I overslept. I'll set an alarm. It won't happen again, I promise. I'll do whatever you need me to do. I can do more. A lot more. I can clean the second floor, I can organizethe storage room again, I can help with the electrical, I can learn whatever you need me to learn. I'm a fast learner. I'll do better. I promise to do better. I promise."
"Stormy—"
"Please." His voice cracks on the word. Actually cracks, like a physical thing breaking. His hands are gripping the edge of the counter and his knuckles are white and his eyes are too bright and he's looking at me with an expression that takes my chest apart piece by piece. "Please just give me one more chance. I'll do better. I promise."
And then, so quiet I almost don't hear it. "I don't have anywhere to go."
Six words.
Six words that crush me. He's not saying them for sympathy. He's not playing a card. He's telling me the truth, the raw, unvarnished, terrified truth, the same way he told me "I can clean" on that first morning. This is everything he has. This is his entire hand, played faceup on the counter, and he's waiting for me to take it away from him.
My hand moves toward him before I think about it. Instinct. Reflex. The need to touch him, to comfort him, to close the distance between us and make him understand that he's not going anywhere. My hand automatically reaches across the counter toward his and I see it happening and I stop.
I stop one inch from his skin. I can feel the warmth of his hand without touching it. I can see the tension in his fingers, the white knuckles, the tendons standing out under the skin. I want to cover his hand with mine so badly it's a physical ache, but I don't. I set my hand on the counter next to his. Right next to it. Close enough to touch, but not touching.
"Stormy. Listen to me. I'm not sending you away. I will never do that, okay? Never."
His breathing hitches.
"I was trying to say that I want to pay you. I want to hire you. Officially. A real job with real pay, and I want you to stay on and help me get this place up and running again. I've been trying to think of a way to sell you on the idea. So, think of it like a cruise ship job. You'll get a room and all the food you can eat plus live entertainment courtesy of you know who. How does that sound?"
He stares at me. The tears that were building in his eyes spill over, one from each eye, tracking down his cheeks, and he doesn't wipe them away. I don't think he knows they're there.
