“I lived with him—my brother, Rex. His shit is still in our apartment. It’s like a memorial in there and I can’t face it. Not yet, anyway.” I hate the way he’s trying to sound even toned when I can see the pain in his eyes. He stops talking, but continues looking at me, maybe waiting for me to say something. I don’t know what to say. I can’t think of a freaking thing to say, actually. “You know, it’s weird—while I was in Afghanistan, I was able to comprehend that he’s gone. I watched him die, but it didn’t seem real until the other day when I came home and he didn’t. Well he did, but it was about a week ago and in a box. We were only a week away from coming home. We were so damn close.”
Life is unfair like this. It’ll flaunt freedom in front of your nose and then rip it away just as you slightly let your guard down. I’m familiar with this little-known fact. I want to hug him and tell him it will be okay, but I know very well, it won’t be okay, no matter what I say right now. “I am so, so sorry, Kemper.” I feel stupid, saying sorry. It’s not like it’s going to bring his friend back. But what else is there to say?
“Anyway, thank you for being a distraction and letting me help you in the bar last night. I needed that.” I walk past him, leaving his words floating in the air. I should not be his distraction. He doesn’t realize how dangerous it could be. Entering the kitchen, I take out the crates of clean glasses and push back through the door into the bar. I hear the bar stool squeal and before I can turn to see why, Kemper’s hands are around mine, taking the crates from me. Another one of my breaths goes missing. “Here. Let me get this.” He turns and places them down near the tap and walks into the kitchen, finding the other three. He carries them all out like they’re weightless. Muscles aren’t new to me—Trent is covered with them, but they’re the for-show kind. Kemper isn’t trying to show me anything. I just know they’re there. “Put me to work. Distract me again.”
I should tell him to leave. I pull out the box of ketchup, salt, and pepper shakers and place them down on the bar. “I take it you know what to do with these?” I ask with a soft snicker.
“I should be able to figure it out.” With a quick wink, he snatches the box up in his arms. Oh man, does this need to stop. Maybe I should just tell him I’m with someone. Maybe that would make him leave. I can stop all of this trouble right here and right now. I know very well if I don’t, it’s not going to end well.
Avoiding the truth, like I’m so good at doing, I’ve spent the last hour wiping down glasses and stacking them beneath the bar, all while watching Kemper set each of the tables. “This place is going to get crazy again tonight,” he says, placing the last set of silverware down.
“I figured as much.” With a glance over at the schedule on the back wall, my assumptions are confirmed. “I’m working alone again tonight.” Great.
“Let me help you out. It’ll give me an excuse not to drink with the others. I can’t celebrate like they are. It’s not right.” Dang it, this boy is persistent.
“We can’t pay you, though, and you shouldn’t go around working for free.”
He looks somewhat offended by my remark as he walks toward me with the now empty box in hand. “I’m not here for the money, Daphne,” he says with despondence in his eyes.
“I can’t give you my body either.” The second the words roll off my tongue, I slap my hands over my mouth. Word vomit…so much word vomit. Why did I say that? My cheeks fill with warmth, and by the smirk stretching across his lips; I’m guessing he can see my humiliation. Based on my life experiences, though, it’s hard for me to imagine or comprehend someone doing something nice for me with no strings attached.
“I wasn’t asking for it, Miss Daphne. Your company has been more than enough.” I’m breathing much heavier than I should be—nearly breaking out into a sweat. I’ve mortified myself so much that I drop the glass I’m holding. The thing shatters into a thousand pieces below me and I do the firecracker dance around it, trying not to get hit with any shards.
“Shit!” I yell, dropping down to pick up some of the larger pieces. My hands are trembling so hard as I try to clean up the mess that I miscalculate one of the rigid edges, and a piece of glass slices right through my thumb. “Crap. Crap. Crap.” I don’t do blood. I can’t do blood. And there’s blood. A lot of friggin’ blood. I know what’s coming. It’s coming like an unwelcome intruder as it always does. A cold sweat drapes over me and then numbness shoots through my body, starting with my core, now my limbs and head—and everything goes black.
***
“Daphne.” I hear my name, but I can’t see where it’s coming from. The tingle in my toes feels like a candle being lit, but the fuse is incredibly long, taking forever to spark complete consciousness. I hate the small span of time where I know I’m not unconscious, but I’m not totally back yet either. Yes, I’ve passed out many times before. Blood. Just can’t do blood. Now that I can see, I’m not sure I want to make it clear how conscious I am. I’m in Kemper’s arms on the ground in the corner of the bar. Oh crap. He has a damp cloth draped over my head. “Are you okay?” I’m in your arms. Of course I’m okay. I shouldn’t be so okay.
I look past his arms and over to the small pile of glass shards. “I’m sorry,” I say, trying to sit up quickly. “I can’t believe that just happened—I passed out.” This is so embarrassing. I should be able to handle a little blood. He must think I’m nuts. “I should clean this up. Oh my gosh, I’m sorry.”
“Hey, hey, take it easy,” he laughs softly with sympathy in his eyes.
“This is so embarrassing,” I groan.
Taking my hand, he shows me my bandaged thumb. “You had a small piece of glass in your thumb. A little blood phobia?” he asks.
“Yeah, it’s pretty bad I guess.”
“Well, I wanted to clean it up before you woke up and saw it again. It’s just a small cut, so you should be okay.” I am completely engulfed in this man’s arms and for each second that passes, I ignore the voice in my head telling me to move…telling me I have a boyfriend who would kill another man for touching me because I don’t want to move. It’s like I’ve been out in the cold without a coat, trying desperately to find a way to warm up, and his arms are a roaring fire instantly torching heat through every inch of my body. It feels amazing.
“Yeah, I don’t do blood,” I croak out. I’m so far past the point of embarrassment that I don’t think my face could turn any redder.
“Where’s the dustpan and broom?” he asks. I lift my weak arm and point to the corner closet. He props me up against the small, steel wine cooler and tends to the mess.
“I have a boyfriend,” I spit out. I instantly feel better...er, I feel something, but I’m not sure it’s better. I should feel better. He’s smiling. Why would that confession make him smile? Unless I’ve been completely wrong and misjudged everything he’s said. Not that I should care. I can’t care. I’m Trent’s property.
“I have a girlfriend.” He chuckles at this. “At least I thought I had a girlfriend,” he adds sarcastically. That kind of knocks the wind out of me.
“You’re not sure if you have a girlfriend?” I don’t know why I thought he was being funny, but I followed my question up with a little smile. How is a person unsure whether or not they have a girlfriend? I don’t see what could be confusing about that.
“When I left for Afghanistan she was most certainly my girlfriend. Made all of those stupid promises to me the day I left. You know—care packages, letters, and naked photos. The works.” Yeah, I didn’t need to hear that last part, but I get it. “Anyway, she backed up her promise for the first month. Then it all stopped. I was in the field most of the time, so I didn’t have access to a phone. I couldn’t really find out the true story and I didn’t have confirmation until she wasn’t at homecoming.” What kind of monster does that? The poor guy has been fighting overseas and comes home to no one, with nothing but a broken heart. Maybe she belongs with Trent. He’d deserve something like that, but Kemper certainly doesn’t seem
to.
“I hear those kinds of things a lot,” I say. “People talk a lot around this town, but I always thought they were just stories. I don’t understand how someone could be so cruel when you’re out there protecting our country and fighting for your life.” I pull myself up against the cooler and carefully step over the pile of broken glass, still feeling a bit loopy. “You don’t deserve that.”
“This shit happens. It doesn’t matter where you are or what you do—you aren’t immune to heartbreak,” he says. That’s for damn sure.
“You going to call her?” I ask, hoping he says no, partly for selfish reasons, but even as a friend—if that’s what we are now—I’d recommend not giving her the time of day. Any woman who has this guy should realize what she has. I know I would.
“Not sure yet,” he sighs. “You know what’s funny though? She didn’t cross my mind once last night when I was trying my hardest to fall asleep in that truck. Not once.” But he said he was thinking about me? The thought makes my gut flop around in my stomach like a goldfish out of water. “So, does your man live around here? Is he in?” Asking me if he’s in is a common question in this town. Most families are military, except my family and Trent’s it seems. Well, Grandpa was a vet who never wanted to leave the area and Dad didn’t want to leave Grandpa. Even though he’s gone now, Mom and Dad are too lazy to move.
“Yeah, he lives in Richlands and no, he’s not in.” Not much else to say about him. Not unless he’d like a long, drawn out nightmare of a story.
“He good to you?” I cross my arms protectively over my chest and tangle a loose strand of hair behind my ear. It’s the one question I try to desperately to avoid whenever I’m asked. My focus naturally falls to the ground since I’m unable to look anyone in the eye and admit to the relationship I’ve been held hostage to. “You can tell me.” I think my lack of response seems to have given him his answer.
“No,” I say, looking away from the pained look in Kemper’s eyes.
“Well…why—” I don’t know this man well enough to divulge in the why just yet.
“It’s complicated,” I interrupt, pulling in an unintentional shuddered breath as I try to take the broom from his hand.
His knuckles whiten as his grip tightens around the stick. “I got it. Why don’t you go sit down until your blood is flowing properly again?” I don’t argue. I still feel a bit lightheaded as I push through the two small swinging doors attached to the counter of the bar, and plop down on the nearest stool.
“He’s an asshole,” my mouth says. Another moment where I’d like to slap my hand over my loose lips. “Conceited, self-centered, overbearing, and controlling, and I could go on.“ Stop talking, Daphne.
“Why are you with him?” It’s such a simple question, but the answer isn’t as simple.
“If I’d known you longer than a day, I might tell you that. So, maybe some other time…” Maybe never. My reason shouldn’t be a secret, but it has to be. There’s always a consequence for exploiting secrets.
He narrows his eyes at me, like he’s trying to figure me out. If he does figure me out, maybe he can shed some light for me. “Well, it’s never too late to break away from anything,” he adds in.
“I wish it were that easy.”
“It should be,” he says with an unsettled look in his eyes.
The bell on the door chimes and my focus swings to the clock on the wall. Holy crap, time flies. We have been talking for hours and it felt more like minutes.
The cook, Bernie, tips his head toward us as he walks past the bar. Bernie is a little out there—lost in his own mind, so I doubt he even thinks twice about seeing a random man helping behind the bar. I hop down from the stool and rush into the back, flipping on the registers and illuminating the neon signs on the wall behind the bar.
Within minutes, the lunch crowd begins to trickle in. “Hey y’all!” I shout out to the men walking through the door.
“Well, hello to you too, ma’am,” one of them says. Another one chimes in with, “And to you as well, missy.” Their eyes have all settled on Kemper. “What the hell are you doing here, man? We’ve all been looking for you.”
“Just keeping myself out of trouble, that’s all,” he says, tossing the broom up against the wall.
“You got a job off base?” one of them asks.
“Nah man, just helping out a friend.” Now their gazes are pinging back and forth between Kemper and me. Gosh, this is awkward. One of them winks at Kemper, and the other jiggles his eyebrows. The third one asks if he heard from Tara, who I’m guessing is his sorta-kinda girlfriend. “No word from her. Can’t say I’m surprised. I’m over it…her. Not worth my time.” They all drop the conversation and place their orders, which I’ll gladly switch my focus to.
They continue their banter with Kemper while I call the orders out to Bernie. I’m intrigued by the way they interact, especially since Kemper seems like the quiet one of the bunch, yet he’s not quiet around me at all. I don’t get it. According to Trent, no one wants to be around me. I talk too much, I giggle too loud, and my stories are never quite interesting enough.
Just as I finish bringing their sandwiches out, more groups filter in. The place is filling up and it’s still early. I’m now very thankful for the free help Kemper has offered. We sort of work like a well-oiled machine—he’s taking care of one side of the bar, and I’m running the other. Again today, the few times we brushed against each other and his hands landed on me in a passerby motion, everything inside of me liquefied. I don’t recall ever feeling strong hands like his with such a gentle touch. Trent’s always grabbing at me, claiming me—the whole domineering thing. I shouldn’t be getting used to this help, though. He’s got a job to do and it isn’t in this bar.
“Daphne, I’m going to go refill two of the kegs in back; I’ll be back out in a few,” Kemper yells. Jacey would have a fit if she knew Kemper was back there, but those kegs are friggin’ heavy.
With another wave of orders fulfilled, I see the door open yet again. Geez, the bar is even more packed than it was last night. Even with Kemper’s help, we’re getting overloaded. The Marines move away from the door, revealing the face of my new patron—an unwelcome guest. I shouldn’t be surprised since he often comes to check up on me, but there’s a crowd in here tonight—one he won’t approve of. One I lied about. I already see the redness webbing across his chiseled jaw, curling around his ears and stretching across his forehead. He walks through the crowd, shouldering those who are in his path while making his way to the part of the bar I’m standing behind. “Nice retirement party,” he says, narrowing his eyes and leaning over the bar. “You know I don’t like it when you lie to me, Daphne. You know it pisses me off to the point where—well—I don’t have to tell you. You already know.”
My heart begins to race—I can feel my pulse pounding in my head. I look around the bar, seeing everyone staring directly at me, wondering what’s going on. Then there’s Trent, who has that look on his face—the look I’m scared of. Please don’t hurt me. I want everyone to stop looking at me. I want Trent to go away. I can’t breathe. I want to run, but I’m stuck behind the bar. I’m always stuck. Every place I turn, I’m stuck. I don’t want to be stuck anymore. Please, God. Help me. Just help me find a way out. I have nothing to say in response. I did lie. I betrayed him, and I should have known better. There are consequences for betrayal. There are always consequences. When will it all stop?
“Well, don’t you have something stupid to say?” he asks.
“Please leave,” I retort, keeping my voice quiet.
“Hey man, back off,” one of Kemper’s friends says. He shouldn’t have said that. He doesn’t know what he’s getting involved with.
“Who the hell are you?” Oh God. Please no. I look behind me, remembering Kemper said he was going out back. I don’t think I want him to see this. What should I do? Think. Think. Think.
“I’m about to be your worst nightmare if you talk to this nice girl like tha
t again,” Kemper’s friend says. No. No. No. I’m already his target. You don’t understand.
“She ain’t nice, trust me. This woman knows how to torture a man like you’d never believe. Daphne, let’s go. Now,” Trent says.
“I’m working the bar myself tonight,” I say, still trying to remain calm, but the Marines are starting to crowd behind Trent, most of them crossing their arms over their chests.
Trent doesn’t bother turning around to see the attention he’s pulling in. Instead, he attempts to push through the swinging half door on the bar. “I have no problem taking you out of here, Daphne,” Trent says. I squeeze my eyes closed, waiting for the wrath. I hold my breath and grit my teeth, like I do when I’m expecting this type of behavior…but nothing happens. Fearfully, I open my eyes to see hands gripped around Trent’s shoulders as he’s pulled backwards and thrown up against the wall. I’m a little frozen with shock, not knowing what to do. I should tell them to stop, but something inside of me doesn’t allow the words to form on my tongue. Trent is trying to fight back as a Marine lifts a bar stool and starts toward him. I cover my face with my hands to avoid what’s about to happen. I should really try to break this up. Maybe I shouldn’t.
“Clearly, you’re an asshole,” the guy says to Trent. I peek out between my fingers as the guy holds him up a little higher on the wall. “If you don’t leave that girl alone, you won’t just be an asshole, I’ll give you a new one. Got me?” You’d think Trent would just let it go and get the hell out of here in one piece, but no. That’s not Trent. He fights back. He fights with people who aren’t fighting back. He only knows how to solve problems in one way, so he swings at the guy again, which provokes another Marine to join in. This guy hits Trent right in the jaw and then lifts him by the neck and tosses him out the door.
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