by Aubrey Irons
She’s trying to rub it in. She’s trying to be cute and get a rise out of me. She’s getting one, but it’s not the one she’s flirtingly looking for.
I tell myself I’m overreacting, but ten minutes later, I’ve moved my pacing to the living room - stalking back and forth in front of the fireplace like a psycho.
You know how some people talk about getting worried about people they know and care about? How sometimes they can think the worst case scenarios? Well, I don’t. For one, because anyone I know and care about can take care of themselves, and for two, I don’t actually care about that many people, so it’s not a problem.
This is the day I have my first worst case scenario thoughts.
Lots of them.
I hate these feelings - nervousness, weakness, helplessness, paranoia. I’m still pacing, my fingers digging into my palms and the blood rushing through my ears.
I grab my phone and call her, again, like a big pussy.
This time it goes straight to voicemail.
Fuck this.
Full disclosure, I came here for one of the neon, sugary, ridiculous cocktails Floyd’s used to be famous for — maybe a side of fries or hot wings.
It doesn’t appear that’s going to be happening.
My dad and I used to come here on weekends when I was young. We’d sit in the corner booth, we’d order deep-fried crap and Cokes, and I’d enviously watch college-aged girls drink neon pink and blue drinks out of martini glasses while I fiddled with the jukebox dad gave me fifty cents for.
This is not the same Floyd’s.
There’s no food - fried or otherwise. No booths. No funny trinkets on the wall. The bar is dark, the music edgy, and a little lower than it should be. Three grungy guys in leather vests are playing pool.
The only neon is a flickering Budweiser sign on the wall.
Yeah, even the Hamptons has dark, scary dive bars. And I walked right into one.
I lied to Bastian — it’s a little scarier in here that I thought it was when I stepped in and decided I’d be staying for a drink. But between him, the history, and the train wreck we seem to be hell bent on heading for again, I had to get out of the house.
After the day before, in the music room?
I shiver, the feeling of his touch sending a tingle of heat through me that I try and shoulder away.
Well, let’s just say some distance felt necessary. A drink certainly did.
I chew on my lip as I ignore his call. This text flirtation is not what I need right now. A call will be worse. A call will have me heading right back there, right into whatever he wants from me. And that’s not “some distance,” that’s just getting sucked back in.
Pulled back into him.
…Like yesterday.
I shift in my seat, my body tingling as I quickly chase the thought away with a stiff swig from my glass.
“Whatcha drinking, honey?”
I glance up sharply at the grizzled, leathery man in a vest and denim, silver streaks in his beard and yellow ones on his teeth.
“Um, whiskey.”
“Strong drink.”
“Thanks.”
I turn away, pretending to look at something on my phone.
“Just that it’s normally a man’s drink.”
Ignore. Ignore. Ignore.
I don’t follow my own advice. I turn and give him a look.
“Well, you know, twenty-first century and all that.”
“Oh, I’m a feminist, sweetheart.”
I glance down at the topless woman with the huge breasts tattooed on his right forearm, and the “pussy: it’s what’s for dinner” lettering on the left one above what has to be the world’s grossest line-drawing interpretation of a vagina.
I force a smile.
“That’s wonderful for you.”
I start to turn back, but he’s not done.
“Or maybe it’s just that you like something meant for a man in your mouth.”
I cringe, turning and wrinkling my nose.
“Okay, that wasn’t even clever.”
“Ain’t trying to be clever.”
He nods at my phone.
“Who you texting?”
“My boyfriend.”
He grins that yellow, jagged smile.
“And why ain’t he here?”
“Oh, he’s on the way.”
The smile only gets wider.
“Sure he is, sweetheart.”
I turn back, sipping my drink and hoping he just leaves.
“This ain’t a place for you.”
“Excuse me?”
I turn back and swallow thickly. He’s got a friend with him now too. The new guy, with long, greasy hair hanging around his face, shrugs.
“Pretty girl like you, dressed up nice.”
I’m wearing jeans and a very plain, black tank top, for the record.
“You out here visiting? Big city New York chick out for the weekend?”
I frown. “I grew up here.”
The first guy snorts.
“Not here here.” He glances around. “Not this place, honey. Let me guess, Sag Harbor? South Neck or some richy place like that?”
I don’t say a thing, but he just leers harder.
“Rich chick, huh?”
“Not even fucking close.”
They suck their teeth.
“Daddy know his little princess talks like that?” Greasy hair asks, leering at me.
“I’m sorry, I’m just trying to enjoy my drink before I go.”
“Thought your boyfriend was coming.”
“I’m meeting him.”
“I like that.”
I don’t answer.
“I like a girl that can’t lie.”
He grins.
“Means I know when she saying no but really saying yes. Know what I mean?”
I cringe, and I look to the bartender for help, but something about the completely disinterested way he shrugs and looks away says I’m not getting any help there.
I just wanted a neon cocktail.
“Why don’t you come over to our table?”
His touches my arm, and I flinch, pulling away and shooting him a look.
“Please don’t touch me.”
“See,” he grins, elbowing greasy-hair. “See now that’s a lie.”
“It isn’t.”
“Sure, sweetheart.” He chuckles. “C’mon, we’re a real friendly bunch.”
I slide off the stool and away from him - actually legitimately scared now, especially seeing as I’m the only woman here.
“I need to use the restroom.”
“You need help?”
“I think I’ll manage.”
“Don’t take too long, sweetheart.”
I shudder as I speed walk away from them.
I lock the bathroom door with shaky fingers and suck in breaths of air, the fear lancing through me.
Fuck, I need to get out of here.
I grab my phone, and I hate that I am, but I’m texting Tyler of all people. And I’m actually praying he’s still in the Hamptons.
Hey, I’m in a jam. Can you please come get me? I’m at Floyd’s, in Maysbooth.
The text hangs, in “sending “ limbo.
And hangs.
And hangs.
My heart sinks, as I glance at the top of my screen.
No service bars. You have to be joking.
I jump at the sound of banging on the bathroom door.
“You fall in, sweetheart?”
Croaked laughter follows, and I bite my lip, moving away from the door until my back is against the gross bathroom wall. I glance back at my phone, glowing against my face.
Still no service.
Something like resolve steels inside of me.
I’m going to make a break for it. I rationalize, if I can get outside, I can just run past them, get to the truck, and just drive the hell away, right?
I take a shaky breath, my hand reaching for the knob.
&nbs
p; You can do this.
The lock flicks open, I slowly push the door open and step out of the bathroom…
And whatever nerve I had evaporates instantly.
There are three of them now. The first guy – yellow-teeth, greasy hair, and a new guy with a long, braided goatee, and all three stare at me as I freeze in the bathroom hallway.
“Hey princess,” greasy-hair growls, a dirty hand stroking his chin as he leers at me.
“I- my boyfriend’s outside.”
“No he ain’t.” Yellow-teeth grins wickedly. “But we’re in here.”
The fear hammers like a drum in my ear, my pulse galloping like a racehorse as my eyes flick from one of them to the other, and then past them to the door of the bar.
Suddenly, yellow-teeth’s hand closes around my wrist, hard. I gasp as he moves into me, pushing me back against the wall.
“I told you, baby, we’re a real friendly bunch.”
The air seems too heavy, my mouth feels numb as I try and make words - as I try and will my feet to just fucking run.
“Please, I- I have to go.”
He leers in close, his stale beer breath washing over me as his eyes narrow.
“Not yet you—”
“Have you ever had a pool cue shoved up your asshole?”
My heart jumps into my throat as the men whirl away from me at the sound of that voice.
Bastian.
Bastian in grey tweed dress pants and a crisp, tailored white dress shirt, the sleeves rolled up, silver Rolex gleaming. The beard and the hair, maybe, but the rest of him is so far from this place that he sticks out like - well, like a rich kid in a dive bar.
The men smirk.
“What’s your problem, pal,” yellow-teeth mutters, puffing his chest out.
Bastian smiles.
Well, they think it’s a smile. I know it’s not because I’ve seen it before.
I know it’s him preparing to strike.
Bastian shrugs. “No problem. I thought is was a simple question.”
He turns, casually steps over to the pool table, and grabs a cue stick from it. He hefts it in his hands, raising an arched brow at yellow-teeth.
“So? Legit question. I’m curious.”
“Go eat a dick, pal.”
The three of them chuckle and start to turn back toward me.
“No.”
Yellow-teeth sighs, turning back.
“Fuck off, pretty boy, we’re busy.”
“Would you like to try?”
The biker glares at him. “Jesus fuck, are you deaf? Try what?”
“A pool cue, up your ass,” Bastian says through grinning teeth.
“You some sort of queer?”
“I’m some sort of telling you to take your hands away from her.”
The three guys laugh, and greasy-hair turns to me.
“Shit, is this your boyfriend, sweetheart?”
“I’m done asking nicely.”
Yellow-teeth hisses and whirls, and I gasp at the blade he pulls out of his belt, glinting menacingly in the low light of the bar. He growls as he starts to step towards Bastian.
“Hey rich kid, FUCK OFF—”
He screams as Bastian suddenly grabs his wrist, shoves the knife away, and brings his right hand crashing into the guy’s elbow joint.
The sound makes me retch.
The man roars in agony, the knife clattering to the floor as the other two guys lunge at Bastian. He catches greasy-hair first, dodging his wild punch and hefting him up before sending him crashing into a table full of beer bottles. Goatee guy lands a punch on Bastian’s ribs that has him grunting, whirling back and crushing the guy’s nose with his fist.
Yellow-teeth starts to get up, when Bastian’s Armani-clad toe catches him in the side of the head, sending him reeling to the floor.
“Bastian!”
I scream as greasy-hair grabs the knife off the floor and lunges at his back. Bastian whirls, roaring as the blade rakes across his shoulder before he picks the guy up and physically throws him over the bar top and shattering into the shelves of bottles.
Red blooms over his dress shirt as he whirls again, his chest heaving and his eyes wild. Goatee makes one attempt at taking a swing with one hand holding his nose, but Bastian easily side steps it and lands another solid hit into his shattered face, sending him to the ground.
All three of them stay down.
The two other fairly drunk looking patrons on the other end of the bar just hold their hands up.
“Let’s go.”
I just nod as he grabs my wrist and pulls me after him.
He storms over to the now-ashen-faced bartender and tosses cash on the bar.
A lot of cash.
“That’s for the damage. Also I was never here.”
The bartender nods quickly, his eyes wide and scared.
Bastian separates two hundreds from the pile and slides them to the side.
“And that’s for the blue-and-white pickup truck outside, which someone will come for tomorrow. Not a fucking scratch on it. Nod if you fucking understand.”
The bartender nods faster than you could even imagine.
Bastian growls and takes a step toward him, making the guy flinch.
“Not one scratch.”
“I got it, man,” the bartender says quickly, still nodding.
Bastian’s hand tightens on my arm as he whirls and pulls me from Floyd’s, over to his jet black Aston Martin.
Bastian is off his property.
The seriousness of this suddenly hits me all at once, and I shake myself out of my daze and I turn to him.
“What are you doing here?”
“Let’s go.”
“Bastian, you’re—”
“Get in the car, Texas,” he growls, yanking my door open for me.
“Jesus Christ, you’re under house arrest, you could—”
“Yeah, not fucking lost on me,” he says quickly, glancing around us with sharp eyes before turning back to me.
“So what are—”
“Ana,” he hisses, his eyes fierce. “Get in the fucking car before I toss you in the trunk and drive you home that way.”
I get in the car.
We drive in silence the whole ride home, my hands tight on the wheel, my eyes locked on the road.
…I might add, I haven’t driven in six months, and the last time I did, I took a high-dive off Notting Point.
Ana stares out the window, quiet until she turns about halfway back to the house and started fiddling with the stereo. She flicks through channels, past NPR, past some twangy country, some thudding heavy metal bullshit, until she finally lands on something and stays –“This Feeling” by Alabama Shakes.
It’s a very weird soundtrack for the moment, considering I’m currently breaking the terms of my house arrest.
The thought has me tightening my hands on the wheel of the Aston Martin One-77. I mean, shit - if you’re going to break the law and risk jail, you might as well do it in $2 million car, right?
It’s right before the turn-off that I make up my mind and slam on the breaks as I yank the wheel to the right. Ana shrieks, clutching tight to her door and the seat under her as the car swerves tightly off of Route 27 and onto Notting Road.
“Are you crazy?” She hisses at me, shooting me a look as the car stabilizes.
“It’s been suggested.”
She snorts a small laugh before she can hide it, and I smile as I gun the engine up the hill to the bend in the road.
That bend.
Besides the danger to the conditions of my house arrest, coming here is fucked up. And as stupid as it is, I guess I figure since I’m already breaking the rules, I may as well do this while I’m out.
Call it facing your demons, or reliving history, or maybe it’s just morbid curiosity.
There are still a few strands of yellow caution tape tied to the guardrail overlooking Notting Point, though the hole my Ferrari punched in it has been replaced. The new
part gleams a little brighter, the roadside flowers, grass, and gravel around it a little fresher and a little newer. I slow the car and pull us over to the shoulder right before the bend and shut off the engine.
“Seriously?”
I glance at her in the darkness of the car.
“Hey, I stopped this time, didn’t I?”
I grin and swing open the door as she makes a face.
“We should really head back.”
“Probably.”
I hear her door shut behind me, the sound of her footsteps on the roadside gravel following me up the shoulder to the new guardrail at the bend.
“Bastian, what are we doing here?”
There’s a momentary sense of vertigo as I stand at the edge, my knuckles on the guardrail as I stare down at the shallows.
“Bastian—”
“Do you know what sound a guardrail makes when you drive a sports car through it at eighty miles an hour?”
There’s silence for a second, and I feel her walk up next to me and glance over the edge.
“No.”
“Me neither.”
I grin and turn to her.
She’s not laughing.
“Gallows humor,” I shrug. “Honestly, I don’t remember shit about that night.”
“Yeah, that tends to happen when you get blackout drunk. Most people just don’t put themselves behind the wheel of a car.”
She shoots me a look.
“You could have killed someone you know.”
“I could have killed me, you know.”
“Try and think beyond yourself?”
“Trust me, I am.” I shake my head. “That poor, poor Ferrari. R-I-P, buddy.”
Ana rolls her eyes and makes a growling sound.
“Oh, calm down. I’m kidding, Texas. Obviously. Believe me, the thought that I could have done more than what did happen is pretty much on prime-time syndicated repeat in my head,” I mutter.
“And yet, you’re still drinking.”
“It’s why I’m drinking.”
She looks away.
“I’m sorry, are you mad or something about me saving that ass of yours back there at Floyd’s?”
She frowns. “No, I’m just—” she shakes her head. “Look, why are we here?”
“Because I had to see this,” I say quietly. I glance over the rail again at the water below.
