by Andrea Drew
Saturday 19th January, 7.41pm
Brenton saw Jake’s face through the glass door as Jake pushed it open. Although the night had just begun, the place was filling up and the excited chatter of its patrons was building in volume. The blue walls, dimmed lights and stained wooden bar gave it an air of tired style. Although it had been quite a while since his last visit, Brenton knew he could relax here. He was amongst friends.
“Hey, cowboy,” said Jake, his voice deep, and he threw one leg over the bar stool beside Brenton.
“I’ve told you, don’t call me that,” said Brenton, lips pressed together. He gave Phil the barman a nod and pushed his glass forward for more of the same.
“So what’s the deal? I haven’t seen you here in months.” Jake turned his handsome blond face to Brenton. They’d enjoyed a fling a lifetime ago or more accurately about two years ago. They’d met at this very bar, and at first Brenton had been attracted to Jake’s swagger, his blond slicked-back hair, the confidence and fake tan oozing from every pore. They’d gone home together and yes, it had been great, but after a few short weeks, Brenton realized it would never become a relationship. Jake was damaged, badly. Of course, most people were, but Jake’s bravado and false persona simply didn’t let up, and it wore Brenton down. He didn’t keep contact with most of his exes, but Jake was another regular at Roberto’s so he hadn’t been able to avoid him. Once Brenton had explained that it could never go anywhere, Jake had been childishly resentful for a while, but they’d eventually settled back into a more relaxed friendship.
The bartender pushed another bourbon his way and Brenton thanked him with a nod and what felt to him to be a thin smile. He’d forced himself to come out, be sociable, get back in the land of the living.
“I haven’t felt like it. I got used to my own company,” he said, finally turning to acknowledge Jake.
“More like you settled for mediocrity. So how’s middle class misery treating you?” asked Jake, flicking Brenton lightly on the shoulder with a grin.
“It’s not that bad. Curling up at home with a DVD and a glass of wine doesn’t mean my life is over.” Brenton shuffled his bar stool toward his friend.
“Or maybe it means you’ve hooked up, and all you want to do is stay indoors.” Jake winked and raised a beer to his lips.
“I wish. I’ve got my eye on someone, but it’ll never happen. He’s straight, for a start…” Brenton stared down into the murky brown depths of his glass.
“Oh god, don’t start with the ‘I can turn him’ fantasy, please!”
“You think I’m not conscious of that? It’s embarrassing enough admitting I’m in love with someone I’ve never met.” Brenton spun away to sneak a look at the far corner of the bar where a young man and woman were giggling at a booth, arms entwined. At least someone might get lucky tonight.
“What?” Jake’s voice rose. “How the hell can you be in love with someone you’ve never met? For real?”
“I didn’t plan on it.” A pinch of irritation crept in. “My mate Christie at work, she’s had a really hard time since her grandfather died. She was unburdening. However, the more she told me about the ever-supportive and sometimes surly Ryan, how caring and sweet he was after her grandfather’s death, well, I formed this image of him in my head. He’s perfect, Jake.”
“Oh my god, Brent, snap out of it!” With round eyes, Jake swung his elbow across the bar, poking his friend in chest.
“I wish I could,” Brenton pouted, taking another slurp of his drink.
“You’re gone, brother, you know that?” Jake asked his tone quieter now.
“I know.” Brenton looked across the room. He realized his eyes were glazing over with tears and shook his head in a vain attempt to hide them.
“That’s why I’m here,” said Brenton, surveying his friend’s face. “I need a distraction, to start focusing on other things. Something other than the perfect man.”
“Well, I guess drowning your sorrows could work. For now.” Jake raised his glass. “Here’s to tonight.”
Brenton raised his glass and managed a half smile. With a clink, they drained the contents of their glass.
Chapter Four
Saturday 19th January, 7.53pm
I threw myself down on the couch and blew out a breath. So far so good. Connor hadn’t ranted and raved, and we hadn’t broken up in a tearful exchange. Connor wasn’t the type. He had years of practice at reining in his emotions, and that wasn’t what I needed right now. I wanted to know what was swirling and burning inside that hunky body. He needed to spill, let me in to that sentinel mind of his.
He stepped in, his blond hair messy and shaggy, and moved through to the kitchen without looking at me, retrieving the abandoned bottle of wine. He poured two fresh glasses and faced me from across the breakfast bar.
“Connor, honestly I had no idea it would come to this. I had a gut feeling and I went with it.”
His head went down and he picked up both glasses. In the lounge room, he sat next to me.
“Will you tell me what happened?”
“Yes.” Although I was ready to tell him, my throat was constricted and my vision blurred. I faced him, eyes close to his. “I’m so sorry. I never meant to be the one to force a choice on you, not like this, never like this, I hope you know that.”
His arms reached for me. I leaned my cheek on his shoulder as the warm tears gathered in the corner of my eye.
Connor’s cheek rubbed mine gently. “I know you didn’t. Neither of us could have planned this. We thought we were helping, and we both had the best intentions.”
Relief washed over me. We’d stay together, but we were probably in for another bumpy ride.
“Can you tell me about it, lovely?”
God how I loved Connor Reardon in that moment. Enough to begin my story, slowly and tentatively.
“Friday night I had a dream, and I don’t usually get spirits appearing in dreams, but I did for the first time for some reason. A young girl, Isabella, appeared to me that night. Earlier today, she warned me that Christie was in danger that someone was going to poison her. She must have really wanted to get in touch.”
Connor’s eyebrows knitted together. “Poison her? That’s dramatic. But why?”
“I asked her that. She said she couldn’t tell me yet. I don’t think she knew. She said it would be someone Christie trusted and least suspected.”
Connor’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. “And that’s what you told her earlier tonight. That’s why we had that scene…” He was staring into thin air now, pondering on what this all meant, I guessed.
“Yeah. That and her grandfather wasn’t here. Isabella said he’d moved on. She also told me Christie’s hair had started falling out, and I don’t think anyone else knew that, not even Ryan. It scared her.” I ran my fingers through my hair. “I guess that’s why she lashed out.”
“She won’t want to talk to either of us for a while, I’m guessing.” Connor rubbed at his chin. “We should probably give her a bit of space.”
“Yeah, considering she thinks I’m about to poison her, that’s a good idea.”
I rubbed Connor’s knee. “I want to show you what happened. So you can see for yourself.”
“What?”
“Tonight, when we go to sleep, come with me. You’ll meet Isabella.”
He lifted a hand. “Gypsy, no, I’m a sentinel, and a retired one at that. That sort of stuff is beyond me.”
“How do you know? We have to at least try. Christie is your daugh−your niece. The family connection will help. How do you think Renee and I manage it? Please, Connor. For Christie’s sake.”
Connor rubbed the back of his neck and bit his bottom lip. “I don’t know….”
I grabbed at his hand. “Just think about it, okay? We can give it a try later.” The growling of my stomach told me it was time to eat the meal we’d slaved over.
“I don’t know about you, but I’m going to reheat dinner.” In the kitchen,
I looked around at the abandoned food. I grabbed the casserole dish of pasta bake and shoved it into the microwave, setting it to reheat. I poured a glass of wine and found two clean plates. Connor had treaded over. He ran a hand down my left arm and the familiar tingle raced through me. I searched his face for any expression at all to get some semblance of what might be going on in there.
The pain reflected in his blue eyes.
“I’m sorry, Gypsy. Drama seems to follow us, doesn’t it?” Warmth transferred from his hand on my back, burning through my light cotton top. I wrapped my arms around his shoulders and closed my eyes. My heart skipped a beat, grateful we were still together. Yet again, I’d doubted him, faced with a crisis forcing a choice between family and relationship; I still wasn’t convinced of my place in his world. I had no reason to doubt him logically, but try telling that to my neurotic insecurities.
“It does.” My mouth was inches from his. “But you know we’d be bored without it.” I smiled and breathed in his sweet breath. I kissed him on the lips lightly, and as the microwave dinged, I pushed myself away from him. “Time to eat, I’m starved! Come on, let’s eat, drink, and then hit the hay. Maybe we could take up where we left off last night.”
Connor smiled as he took a plate and piled it with food.
Saturday 19th January, 9.29pm
I heard the buzz of my mobile phone. I grabbed it from inside my bra and entered my access number. It was a message from Leah.
“BBQ still on tomorrow at our place 1pm, be nice to catch up with both of you. Bring a salad or something?”
My mouth twisted at the irony of an everyday occurrence amongst the chaos of the Christie crisis. A barbecue on a sunny day. I texted her back. “Crazy here at moment, shit’s hit the fan, but would love to come tomorrow. Will bring salad and check whether Connor is working.”
Within seconds of putting the phone back inside its resting place, I felt it buzz and heard the muted ring. Leah was either concerned or curious as hell about what the crisis was, probably a bit of both.
I picked up the phone and swiped it, bringing it to my ear.
“Hi, Leah.”
“Gypsy. What’s going on?”
I tried to keep my sigh quiet and my voice as upbeat as possible. I wasn’t fooling Leah, though; a sister is good at seeing through the façade.
“It’s Christie. Connor arranged a ‘reading’ tonight and it didn’t go well. She and Ryan stormed out earlier.” I pinched the bridge of my nose.
Leah swore quietly. “What the hell is her problem? “
“I told her something she didn’t want to hear.”
“You’re good at that.” Trust Leah to tell it straight.
I sighed. “I had hoped for a truce. Wishful thinking I guess.”
“Want me to come over?”
“Nah, I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Renee and Paul were murmuring in the background. “Well, you know where we are. See you then.” Leah clicked off.
A barbecue would be a pleasant distraction. Roll on Sunday.
Chapter Five
Saturday 19th January, 9.21pm
Brenton took a long gulp of dark brown liquid from his glass. He gasped and slammed the glass back down onto the bar, his line of sight on the main entrance. A tall, well-built man with dark hair entered. A hand flew to his chest.
“Oh my god, that’s him!”
Jake leaned closer to Brenton. “What? This is the guy? Are you serious?”
“What are the odds?” Adrenaline rippled through him, flooding his chest. This was his chance. It was a sign; destiny had quite literally opened the door for him. Now all he needed to do was walk through that door. A simple introduction should do the trick.
“I’m going over.” He pushed himself up, but Jake put a hand out to stop him.
“Calm down, cowboy. Let’s play this cool, real cool and slow. Probably a good idea to make sure you have the right guy first.” With an arm across Brenton’s chest, Jake nudged him gently back into his seat.
Brenton stared at Ryan, who had seen better days. The latter headed straight for the bar, with Jake following him with his eyes. Dark woolly stubble covered his cheeks and chin, and eye sockets set back in his skull. Ryan ordered from the barman, glaring at an older man who had jostled him.
“So what’s the plan then, Einstein?” asked Brenton.
“We watch and we wait,” said Jake, taking another drink. “We’ve got all night.”
Sunday 20th January, 12.58am
“I think that’s enough,” said the bartender, placing a firm hand over Ryan’s glass.
He slouched over the bar, swaying, almost falling off the barstool. He raised his lolling head to scowl at the barman.
“Another drink, please.” His speech slurred but Ryan barely noticed, nor did he seem to care.
Two men appeared at his side, blond, fit, tanned and looking like something out of a magazine spread. What did they want?
“It’s okay, Phil, we’ll take it from here.”
“I hope so. Otherwise, security can sort it out.”
With protests from Ryan, they grabbed him under each arm and headed for the door. Once outside, he promptly stopped protesting to throw up in the gutter.
Sunday 20th January, 3.56am
By four in the morning, Christie verged on hysteria. Ryan didn’t stay out this late, he just didn’t. Gruesome images of his body, twisted and bloodied inside his smashed-up car, pushed their way into her mind and wouldn’t leave no matter how she tried.
She’d gone to bed, hopeful that eventually she’d be off in the land of nod. Sleep had evaded her, with her just kicking and tossing in bed. In the end, she’d sat up on the edge, staring at the wardrobe door, worry and anxiety eating away at her.
She thought about calling the police station, the hospital, or both. The only issues that held her back were potential embarrassment of Ryan and he would react to that. The thought of bothering Ryan or his colleagues with a needless call horrified her in his present mood. How could she explain to them that something had really happened to him, this wasn’t like him at all. They rarely went out, and spent most of their time together. Ryan rarely, if ever, stayed out all night. They were usually only apart for a night shift, never socially. In the eleven months they’d been together, he’d never stayed out this late, ever. Something bad had happened to him, she knew it.
Pushing herself up from the bed, Christie headed for the kitchen, where she reached for the telephone with blank eyes. The dial tone sounded as she pushed the green button and she stared at the phone before bringing it to her ear. After speaking to an operator, she wrote down the number of the local hospital. When the receptionist answered, she realized the stupidity of what she was doing. She was overreacting; of course he was fine; they would laugh about it together once he got home. The hospital staff would think her a complete nervous wreck.
Shit.
Apologizing profusely, she explained the situation and was put on hold briefly. The woman at the front desk was all business, and asked for Ryan’s details. No, he wasn’t there, and hadn’t been admitted. Christie hung up, wrung her hands and made her way back to the darkened bedroom to recommence her vigil.
Sunday 20th January, 9.37am
Ryan’s eyes fluttered and opened to slits. He sucked in a breath and sat up quickly, his eyes flying all the way open. Where was he? He was naked and in an unfamiliar bed, not a good combination. Ryan swung his legs to sit on the edge of the bed, desperately trying to recall events of the previous night. Judging by the bitter taste in his mouth and the pounding in his head, it involved substantial amounts of alcohol.
He recalled the scene at Gypsy’s, then storming out and leaving Christie by the side of the road. He rubbed at his gritty eyes. What the hell had he been thinking? Why did he leave Christie like that when she needed him more than ever? He cringed. He couldn’t believe he’d done that to her. Ryan pushed up from the bed and pulled a sheet around his naked body. His clothes must
be around here somewhere. He spotted the entranceway to a bathroom and headed toward it.
Surely, he didn’t go home with someone last night. Shit, he knew he wasn’t perfect, but he knew without a doubt that he hadn’t done anything like this before. He didn’t have a track record of playing up on Christie, or anyone else for that matter. Or did he? The pounding hangover had messed with his head.
The sheet swished behind him as he moved from the bathroom through the bedroom to the hallway, where he saw what looked to be a kitchen through another door. An immaculately groomed young man was at the bench, preparing breakfast.
“Well, good morning handsome, remember me?” he said with a lazy smile.
His head was killing him. “Who the hell are you?” Ryan pulled the sheet tighter around his waist.
He slowly approached Ryan, one hand out to touch him but Ryan snapped his arm away from his semi naked form. “Fuck off! What the hell is this?”
“I’m Brenton. Breakfast?” said Brenton, raising his eyebrows. Ryan’s outburst barely ruffled a feather.
Then Ryan remembered last night at the bar. This guy was there. So was another one, Jake. Ryan had been drunk, very drunk, completely smashed, in fact. It dawned on him slowly at first, a prickling fear crawling up his spine, then an ache at the back of his throat. No, no, not this. He’d do anything, anything, but not this, surely.
He lurched toward Brenton, grasping for his neck but failing to make contact when Brenton pushed him away. “You! You fucking prick! You brought me here. What are you, some kind of faggot?”
Brenton heaved forward, struggling against Ryan, pushing him away before he could get hold, and Ryan stepped back, panting loudly.
