Street Love: A contemporary standalone hurt/comfort romance

by Rhys Everly

  That man could be a serious antagonist one moment and a child the next. But more than that, he was like an angel sent from whatever heavens his parents believed in. He had taken a risk hiring Pierce and then Rafe, but not only had he let them in and become their friend, he was still going the extra mile to help Pierce get back on his feet.

  “That’s… That’s amazing,” Pierce said and hugged Vance again.

  His boss frowned and sucked his lips in. “The problem is it opens next week, on Christmas Eve—terrible choice. I told him so myself. But he’s got like a little Christmas-slash-opening partay. And the thing is, I already covered all your shifts for this week. I’m sorry,” Vance said and grimaced.

  Pierce laughed. “Wait,” he told him, “you’ve found me a full-time job, and you think I’m going to be mad at you? Right now you’re my favorite human being on this entire world.”

  “Second best. You forgot Rafe,” Vance chuckled and went in for a pinch at Pierce’s stomach, but Pierce slapped it away, grinning like an idiot.

  He stayed for breakfast at the restaurant, and when Rafe got in for his afternoon shift, he asked for the keys and made his way back to the flat. He didn’t know how to spend his time not working, so he decided to grab another book from a used bookstore, having finished the one he’d been reading for over a month now. The one book turned to two, and when the time came the week after to start his first shift at his new job, he had collected almost an entire collection of copies, all resting on top of Rafe’s sketchbooks.

  Rafe had been overjoyed that Pierce had got a new job but was sad that they wouldn’t work together anymore.

  “At least we’ll be seeing each other every night,” he’d told him, only to be reminded by Pierce that their elongated slumber party would only last another week, when Rafe’s landlord would return from his holidays and Pierce would have to find another hostel, one that wasn’t completely booked out.

  “I got used to having you around. I’ll miss our movie nights,” Rafe said.

  Pierce grimaced, feeling as nostalgic as Rafe, as if their fun together had ceased already, and as if they’d been doing movie nights for years.

  “We can still have movie nights. Just not every day like we’re doing now,” he said, trying to lighten the mood.

  Before the twenty-sixth came to bite him in the ass—the day when Wang returned from his vacation—Pierce booked a hostel for a whole month so that he wouldn’t run the risk of staying homeless again. When the twenty-fourth came and he was going to start his new job, he was all set to start the new chapter in his life.

  The bar in Brooklyn was called O’Sullivan’s Debauchery, and as its logo it had a cartoon shamrock holding a glass of Guinness, puking little shamrocks. As goofy as their sign was, it was nothing compared to the inside and the boss.

  On a first glance, Pierce would never guess his new boss, Sam, was gay, especially an ex to the charming and lively Vance. Sam was big and hairy, with dark features, a messy beard and glasses. He was wearing a Marvel T-shirt and had tattoos all over his arms. He was, a little bit effeminate in his speech and his mannerisms, but otherwise appeared very masculine. He seemed excited to have Pierce on his team, and they had a good hour’s chat over beer before he gave him a small tour of the place.

  Sam explained that he only needed two full-timers, with some part-timers for the weekends. After January it would probably be only Pierce, another girl, and himself left to run the place. Pierce started his shift at four, showing Sam all the cocktails he knew and experimenting with some new flavors, because Sam had still not decided what special drinks to put on the menu.

  He wanted all the drinks to have an Irish touch and kept asking for Pierce’s opinion. It was too bad that Pierce was really not in touch with his Irish side, other than his suitcase which belonged to his Irish immigrant of a grandfather. Sam didn’t have any of the heritage, he just loved St. Patrick’s Day and wanted to put a shot of Guinness in all the cocktails, something Pierce had to convince him not to do.

  The party started at six. People filed in, filling up the entire bar—which was half the size of Les Fourches—until Pierce and his colleague, a beautiful trans girl called Rosie, were working non-stop, serving complimentary drinks to all the guests and pocketing a dollar for every serving.

  Then around nine, Sam gave a small speech, and Pierce and Rosie helped themselves to a glass of champagne with their boss.

  Rosie was twenty-five and lived in the area. She was Sam’s current girlfriend and was also a postgraduate student in business management. She and Sam had been together for almost two years when she had first started transitioning. She was a sweet girl with a lot of experience in bartending.

  When Pierce asked her what she wanted to do when she finished her studies, she told him she wanted to run the business with Sam, something Pierce hadn’t expected to hear.

  He was so used to being surrounded by artists in various stages of their careers that he hadn’t met anyone who wanted to be a bartender for the rest of their life.

  Pierce couldn’t even grasp the concept of working behind a bar for another year, let alone a lifetime. Not that he had any clue what he wanted to do. He just knew the bar was only temporary. Hopefully.

  At two, O’Sullivan’s Debauchery closed, and after cleaning and tidying up the place, ready for trading on Boxing Day, Pierce phoned Rafe to tell him how great his first shift was.

  He turned left on the street, only two blocks away from the apartment, when two guys started following him. They were both smoking weed and shadowing his every move.

  “Um, I think I’m being followed,” Pierce whispered on the line while stealing glances behind him, pretending to be checking the traffic.

  “What?” Rafe shrieked over the phone. “Find a busy street and lights, Pierce. Run. I don’t know. Where are you?”

  He was left with no time to respond; the phone was punched out of his hand.

  “Hey, dickface, where you goin’?” one of the guys slurred behind him.

  Pierce avoided looking at either one of them and bent down to pick up his phone. He regretted it immediately.

  A firm foot came crashing up his stomach. He tried to find his balance, but he was pushed to the ground.

  “Whatchu got in the bag? Huh?” the other guy said and tried to snatch Pierce’s suitcase from his hands.

  “Nothing. Clothes,” Pierce stuttered. “Just clothes.”

  Rafe shouted something on the phone, but Pierce was too focused on not letting go of his suitcase to hear him.

  The guy pulled hard, but Pierce didn’t cave in. That bag had all his savings in it. Rafe had suggested he keep them at his house, but being stubborn as he was, he hadn’t listened, a choice he regretted now. He made a mental note to listen to Rafe next time. If there was a next time.

  “Mother—” The guy wouldn’t let go of his suitcase either and resorted to dragging Pierce onto the sidewalk, trying to snatch it away from him.

  Pierce’s sides burned with friction from his contact with the sidewalk, but he managed to give himself a boost and stand up. Another choice he regretted. The other guy, who was now trying to pull Pierce on the other side and away from his possession, put his hand under his coat and pulled out something silvery.

  His insides screamed with pain, and bile traveled up his throat as he got sick on the sidewalk. The guy had slashed a knife into his stomach. A quick glance at his shirt and he saw blood pouring out as fast as he felt his veins pumping.

  His grip loosened and the other guy finally took hold of the suitcase. He knelt down and opened it up.

  “Dude, this hobo is a goldmine. Look at that,” he said, flashing his accomplice the pack of Pierce’s money.

  Pierce made a last attempt to claim his suitcase back. They could have the money if they wanted, but he’d die before he let them take the suitcase. He grabbed the edge of it.

  When he did, two things happened. First, the street was washed with blue and red lights and then a siren
pierced his ears.

  Second, the thugs made a run for it, pulling the suitcase open, all its contents falling onto the ground, and dragging Pierce a few more feet ahead. Seeing Pierce’s resistance, they gave up on the suitcase. Pierce heard the commotion, but everything started to go out.

  First the streetlights. Then the sirens. And last, all the voices. Even his voice, begging whoever was coming to his rescue to save his suitcase.

  Twenty-One

  Rafe

  Pierce opened his eyes just as the nurse was leaving the room. Rafe had been by Pierce’s side in the hospital, only leaving it to grab a quick bite and to use the bathroom.

  It hurt too much seeing Pierce bandaged, bruised and tubed up. He couldn’t possibly step into work and do a good job. Vance had given him as many days off as he needed to look after Pierce, and that was exactly what he was going to do.

  “Morning bruto,” Rafe greeted him with a warm smile.

  Pierce looked disoriented, eyes not yet focused. When they did, though, they landed on Rafe.

  “Where am I?” His voice was hoarse and no more distinguishable than a growl.

  “In Heaven. And I’m St. Peter,” Rafe answered, getting up from his chair and taking Pierce’s head in his hands as though he was going to bless him. “Where do you think you are? The hospital, silly.”

  Pierce jumped up, but folded in pain as soon as he did, withering on the bed.

  “Take it slow, chulo. You’re still not healed, you know. Do you want to pop a stitch or something?” Rafe scolded him and fixed the pillow to help Pierce ease back on it.

  “How—” Pierced started but had to take frequent breaths in order to be audible. “How long have I been here?”

  Rafe covered him with the blanket and flattened it on him. “Two days,” he told him.

  Pierce sat up in protest, but Rafe pushed him back down, knowing he would panic.

  “But… I can’t afford this, Rafe. I got to go,” he insisted, trying to ward his hands off, but Rafe held firm.

  Rafe winced and put his hand on Pierce’s heart. “You almost fucking died. You need to heal, so you’re going to stay as long as it’s needed to do just that, or I swear to God, I’ll kill you myself.”

  Rafe wasn’t angry with Pierce. He was angry with what those scumbags had done to him. And he was frustrated that Pierce would be more concerned about money over his health.

  When the police officer had picked up Pierce’s cell on the street and told him his friend had passed out, Rafe almost fainted too. And when they told him where to go, he got the first cab and rushed to Pierce’s side. He had almost died, but the good doctors of St. Andrew’s had saved him. He’d be damned if he let Pierce kill himself with his stubbornness after all Rafe had been through.

  Pierce’s head dropped onto his chest and he sucked his lips, apologizing to Rafe.

  Rafe threw him a threatening look to ensure his message was indeed received, and Pierce let out a chuckle that made him cough. Rafe gave him some water.

  “What happened to me?” he asked when he’d calmed down.

  Rafe sat back down and told him all he had suffered through. “The knife cut through your stomach and some veins. You were hemorrhaging on the scene, and when the ambulance arrived, you had lost a lot of blood. They had to give you a blood transfusion. A ton of it. Then, you went into sepsis because of a bacterial infection. That was when I… we nearly lost you. But you made it through. And then you got a high fever so they kept you in the ICU until last night. You’ve been sleeping ever since,” Rafe explained, realizing when he’d finished that his words had turned to sobs that he had to push through to be heard.

  Pierce looked outside. “Fuck!” was all he said, and Rafe wiped his eyes quickly before Pierce turned back at him. “And you stayed here all this time? Didn’t you miss work?”

  Rafe cursed at him. He couldn’t believe he was still thinking about work. This guy! He was all about the money. That’s what got him into trouble in the first place. If he hadn’t accepted Vance’s invitation to work in the Brooklyn bar, none of this would have happened.

  “Thank you,” Pierce murmured, but Rafe barely heard him as his mind was busy being mad at Pierce and his stubbornness. He looked up to see Pierce with red eyes. “For—for being here… for me,” he said.

  Rafe got up and approached the bed to give him a hug. “You, idiot. When will you realize I’d do anything for you?”

  Pierce chuckled into Rafe’s chest, still embracing him. Rafe closed his eyes. He liked this: the warmth of Pierce’s body on his, the strength of his hands around him making the skin and everything under it sizzle wherever they touched. The feeling of Pierce’s breath tickling his ribs.

  He could stay there forever if Pierce let him.

  But Pierce pushed him away and jerked his head around. “Where—where is my suitcase?”

  Rafe knew they’d get to that eventually. He didn’t know how to bring the news to him, so with a bit of hesitation, he pulled the suitcase out from behind the bedside table. “Um, all the money is gone, Pierce. And uh—” he paused and presented the broken down suitcase.

  Pierce put it on his lap and opened it. The top part fell off. The pictures were still inside, although some were muddied up and ripped at the edges.

  “They said you tried to hold on to it. And it broke apart. I’m sure you can fix it somewhere, though. It’s just the pictures. Some of them are really bad. All there—I checked—but… ” Rafe trailed off, not knowing how else to explain what had happened to Pierce’s and his grandad’s memories.

  Pierce could see it for himself. One picture was faded to the point that he had to squint to make out anything. Some others were covered in dry mud. “How—how did this happen?”

  “I don’t know. I think some fell in a puddle, and the guys who actually picked them up didn’t bother drying them, so they kinda faded. I don’t know; I wasn’t there.” Rafe grimaced, looking at Pierce going through all the pictures. “I wish I was.”

  Pierce put them down, back inside the suitcase, and took Rafe’s hands. “I don’t. They might have hurt you too if you had been there. And I don’t know if I could live with that.”

  Someone knocked on the door before Rafe could answer, and the nurse waltzed back in. “Oh, you’re up. Awesome. How are you feeling, Pierce?” she asked with a gentle smile stamped on her face.

  “Like a truck ran over me,” Pierce answered, and the nurse laughed.

  “Well, not really. But close,” she giggled. “I’m sorry to bother you—I know you’ve just woken up—but we need your insurance details. Your friend here didn’t know them. We tried contacting your parents as well. We called the number on our records, but the person who replied said they didn’t know a Pierce Callahan. Is it possible that it’s a wrong number?”

  “It’s the right number all rihgt.” Pierce mumbled.

  Rafe saw Pierce react to what the nurse had told him, and he looked as if he’d been stabbed a second time.

  Fucking parents. They were both better without them. Rafe squeezed Pierce’s hand, and he found the strength to tell the nurse he didn’t have insurance. They spent the next hour discussing the details of potential insurances and discharging him, something Rafe objected to, but ultimately it wasn’t up to him.

  Since Pierce was uninsured, every hour he spent in the hospital was accumulating, and since he was broke, they needed him out as soon as he could stand on his feet.

  Rafe called a cab and took him back to his place. Thankfully, Wang had extended his vacation unexpectedly, so Pierce had a place to stay until then, although he’d refuse to kick his friend in the curb even if his landlord didn’t like it. Wang was a nice man; he was sure he’d understand and have no problem with Pierce staying until he could recover.

  As soon as Pierce had gone back to sleep, Rafe called Vance to let him know about Pierce’s progress and to discuss the week’s shifts. Vance sounded relieved that Pierce was better. When he hung up, Rafe skimmed through Wang�
��s bookcase and found a recipe book. He made a list of the ingredients he needed for a pho soup and popped to the nearest store to pick them up.

  When Pierce woke up, he was surprised with a nice Vietnamese dinner.

  “Just don’t make it a habit, okay?” Pierce commented and slurped another spoonful of soup.

  “Why?” Rafe asked.

  “Because you’re spoiling me, and you’re wasting your money,” he said.

  Rafe rolled his eyes and slapped Pierce in the head. It seemed as if it was going to be his signature move with this guy. Slapping him.

  Maybe he’d slap some sense into him eventually.

  Twenty-Two

  Pierce

  Pierce came out of the shower groaning and grabbing his stomach where a plastic film covered his bandages and kept his stitches dry.

  It was New Year’s Eve and Rafe was working the afternoon shift. Since Pierce had left Les Fourches, Rafe had gone on to doing both waiting and bartending shifts, working full-time, even after the end of the festive season. One of the waiters had quit, and Vance had decided to keep Rafe as a permanent employee since he had proven himself an amazing worker. Pierce was proud of him.

  When he’d changed clothes and bandages, he lay back down on the bed and took Wang’s laptop on his lap to resume his watching of Star Trek. That Zachary Quinto was so freaking hot, even with the pointy ears and the appalling haircut. Not that he would tell Rafe that, though. He took the chips from the shelf above the bed and snacked on them. At least the intense pain had stopped and he could actually enjoy something other than sleep. The painkillers helped. And Quinto did too, which was why he was watching the same film for the fifth time in a row. Chris Pine wasn’t bad either.