Rhys Read online

  Suddenly she breaks and her laughter booms off the walls. I’m not exaggerating in the least, and it seems to be contiguous, because I can’t help myself and soon join her.

  “Oh my—wait I can’t—catch—my breath—good—give me—a minute.” She manages to get that much out in between bouts of full-on belly laughter.

  If I thought the hipster asshole that moved across the shop was giving us dirty looks before, you should see the looks he’s giving us now. If looks could kill.

  Before I can think it through, I’m pushing my chair back and stalking over to him. Grabbing him by the neck of his button-down plaid shirt, I yank him out of his chair. “Do you have a fucking problem, man?”

  He’s attempting to shove my hands off but my grasp on his collar is too tight. I’m stronger than he thinks.

  “Answer me,” I demand.

  “No. No issue man. Now let me the fuck go before I ask someone to call the cops. Judging by the look in your eyes, I don’t think you want me to call them, am I right?” He manages to say all that while successfully shoving one of my hands off his collar.

  Without answering him, I let go of the other side, which was still grasped tightly. I do so abruptly and he falls back down into his chair.

  By the time I make it back over to Averill, she’s running out the front door. Shit.

  Leaving my coffee forgotten on the table, I run out the door after her. Don’t ask me why, but I don’t want to let her slip away. It’s probably better for her if she does, but I couldn’t care less. I want to know her now, not the girl she used to be, but the woman she’s become. If my temper scared her away, I’ll apologize. Sometimes I can fly off the handle, but that doesn’t mean I’d ever hit a chick. Besides, the dude deserved to be scared. Maybe in the future he’ll think twice about shooting off cruel looks.

  “Averill, wait up. Please.”

  She’s already getting into a sporty newer model black car, but she does glance back when I call out to her. I’ll choose to see that as a good sign.

  “This is a bad idea, Rhys; I should follow my gut instinct and leave,” she replies without turning around to face me head on. She’s only showing me so much, but from her slight lean on her car door, I can tell she wants to give in. Deep down, she wants us to reconnect.

  “You’re right, it is a bad idea, but I’m asking you to give me another chance. That guy in there? The angry Rhys who stalked over and went slightly psycho? I’d be lying if I said he’s not a part of me because obviously, he is. But, you already know that. I’m the same angry kid I was years ago. All I did was grow up. If you give me another chance though, I’ll show you that I’d never hurt you, Averill.”

  Because I’m a selfish prick, I’m praying her answer is yes. Knowing my flying off the handle and into the deep end a moment ago scared her, I’m sure her answer is going to be no, can feel the rejection being said without her saying it. When I hear her breathily whisper, “Yes,” it takes me by complete surprise.

  Again, without thinking, I move forward, taking the last few steps to her car and hauling her into my arms. Not wanting to scare her away twice in one day, I don’t do what I truly want to, instead simply kissing her on the cheek and whispering my own reply of “Thanks.”

  Breaking the contact, I pull out my cell phone, grab her hand, and place it there. “May I have your number?”

  Instead of answering me, she quickly inputs her number, climbs into her car, and abruptly leaves.

  Glancing down, I see she saved her number under Tiger Lily. Smiling to myself, I walk over to my truck, whistling the entire way.

  And to think, I was pissed when my alarm sounded and woke me before noon.

  Walking into Brant’s condo a few hours later, I’m still whistling. Nothing has changed my mood since hearing her whispered yes. A phone call from my boss himself didn’t put a damper on my mood…probably because I ignored it, but that’s not the point. Averill is going to be good for me; I can feel it. Maybe she can be my way out of this hell.

  Without knocking, I head into his kitchen, only to find it empty. Seeing paperwork all over the center island he uses as a makeshift desk, I skim the few pieces I can see on top without moving any. It’s oddly quiet in here. Wonder where the dickhead is. He told me to be here around three, and it’s only a few minutes after. If he left and didn’t call me, I won’t be pleased.

  “Yo, dickshitter, where are you at?” I yell out into the seemingly empty condo.

  No reply.

  Which is weird.

  Brant may be an ass, but he always keeps his word. Plus, his door was unlocked, and I walked right in like I normally do. His truck was parked in the carport, so he can’t be far. Maybe he ran to a neighbor’s, or he could be upstairs taking a nap.

  Whatever.

  Instead of getting pissed that he’s not around, I figure I may as well dig through his pile of paperwork and see if I can’t find the shit he wants me to look over. It’s not like I don’t know who the client is; if it’s here, it should be easy enough to find.

  Grabbing a beer from the fridge, I set about making myself busy. If he’s around, he’ll find me. He knows what time he asked me to be here, and I did holler out for him. It’s not my job to search for him by snooping around his condo.

  Nearly an hour later, he comes walking into the kitchen with none other than the hipster asshole from ’Bucks. Before I can utter a word, the hipster starts slowly backing out of the kitchen. He’s nearly out when Brant notices.

  “Justin man, where are you going? I promised you could borrow my truck, and last I knew as of two seconds ago in your condo, you have some boxes to move. Why the ditch and run, dude?”

  It turns out hipster Justin is Brant’s neighbor. What the hell else does karma have up her sleeve for me today?

  “Nope. I’m not ditching and running. I suddenly remembered I have a couple phone calls to make before I leave. I’ll come over and grab your truck in a bit. Thirty minutes max. Sound good?” he asks from outside Brant’s front door. It’s like the guy can’t get out of here fast enough.

  Good.

  He should be scared of me.

  “Um yeah, whatever works for you. We’ll be here. Rhys and I have some work to go over so just walk on in when you get back, the truck keys will be on the entryway table.”

  After a few minutes of unusual silence, I can’t take it anymore and break first.

  “I know why your buddy left in such a hurry.” It’s all I say. If he wants more of an answer, he’ll have to ask. He should be grateful I gave him any information.

  “Okay Rhys, I’m going to ask once, and only once—what did you do to scare the fuck out of Justin? I know you scared him—it was plain to see from the panic in his eyes, not to mention how fast he split as soon as he saw you sitting there. Do I have to worry about you hurting him when he comes back for my truck?”

  “Don’t worry about it. What’s done is done. I’m good.” Who cares if I grabbed the guy by his collar in a public place? He’s lucky I didn’t punch him. Actually, he should be thanking his lucky stars Averill was there; she’s what saved his jaw from meeting my fist.

  “I don’t recall asking if you were good. What I want to know is what happened.”

  Getting up from my stool, I calmly walk over to the fridge and grab myself another beer, nodding to Brant as my way of asking him if he wants one. May as well offer him his own beer while taking one. I’m such a standup guy. Chuckling to myself, I twist my bottle open and take a deep swallow.

  “We had an altercation this morning. Nothing more, nothing less.”

  “No. Bullshit answer. It’s more. The dude looked like he was going to shit himself. As someone who’s known you for practically your whole life, I’m not accepting that answer. How easily you forget that I know you, Rhys. I fucking know you.”

  “Do you want to paint our fingernails while we share our innermost secrets, too? Because that ‘I know you’ bullshit makes you sound like a pussy, Brant.”

>   Instead of sharing what happened this morning, I elected to piss him off by calling him a pussy. Can you blame me? It does sound like the sort of thing a chick would say.

  He stares at me as I plop back down and resume skimming through the proposal he called me over to look at in the first place. It’s a full five minutes before he caves and does the same while twisting open his own beer.

  “Calling me a pussy was a low blow, man. All I was saying was I know who the fuck you are and what the fuck you do for a living. You chose to take it another way. Justin was scared of you, and there has to be a reason. Your lame excuse is just that: lame. Give me the real answer. I at least deserve real honest answers.”

  He’s right, he does. He’s been with me through some pretty dark times. When it comes down to it, he does know me. Sighing, I drag my fingers through my ebony hair and decide to tell him about my morning.

  “Do you remember Tiger Lily?”

  “The character from Peter Pan, the tiny Indian girl, right? What does a Disney character have to do with Justin?”

  “No, Averill from growing up, that Tiger Lily. Do you remember her?”

  “Yeah…?”

  The expression he’s giving me is one of sheer cluelessness, as if his response wasn’t clue enough for me to get to the fucking point.

  “I’ll start from the beginning. My alarm went off and woke me at around ten this morning. After cursing it, I turned it off and decided to stay up. Anyway, my Keurig quit working, so I made a ’Bucks run. She happened to be there. If you can believe it, she’s more striking now than she was as a teenager. While she and I were catching up over coffee, Justin got offended by our laughing and switched tables—you know, being one of those people. His mistake happened when Averill laughed a bit later. Man, she lit up the entire room. He gave her the dirtiest look, like her laughter offended him, when it was obvious she was bringing the sun in. Me being me, I took care of him for taking her moment away. Let’s say he won’t be giving her another dirty look again.”

  “Hmpf.”

  What the hell kind of reply is that?

  “You sound like a chick again…one who’s sucking a cock.”

  Before he can argue, someone rings the front bell, and it’s soon followed by the sound of the door opening. Justin must be back to grab the keys.

  “Hey, it’s me. I’m grabbing the keys and heading out. Thanks again, Brant. I’ll have it back in two hours, max.”

  “Justin, wait up a sec.”

  Screw it, I’m done looking over the proposal, so I’m not needed here anymore. My evening plans consist of binge watching the last season of Arrow. It’s my night off, and I’m using it to relax. Most weekends I go out on the town, maybe catch a live show or two, but not this weekend. No, this weekend I plan on doing absolutely nothing.

  Leaving my unfinished beer on the counter, I make my way to the front door, where Brant is talking to Justin in hushed tones. Fuck it; it is what it is. Giving them both a head nod, I walk out the door, ignoring Brant’s calls to come back.

  I have a date with Netflix to keep.

  I’ve barely had a moment to set my pizza on the kitchen counter when there’s a knock on my front door. A million dollars says it’s Brant on the other side. He’s been calling since I left his place over an hour ago.

  He knows how I am: if I’m driving, I’m not answering the call unless it’s my boss. Leave me a message and maybe if you’re lucky, I’ll call you back. It’s another one of my various quirks. Without bothering to check to see who it is, I swing the door open and catch Brant mid-knock.

  “What the hell, man, why’d you leave? Not only that, why are you being such a dick? I mean you’re always a dick, but you’re being more of one today. Not cool, not fucking cool, Rhys.”

  “That’s a lot of words before you’ve entered my door. I didn’t answer because I was driving—you know how I am—and I left because I was done. I was going to call you, but I only just walked in the door.” Motioning behind me to the kitchen, I invite him in for dinner. “I have a pizza, if you want to hang out. Beer too.”

  “Pizza sounds good.”

  And with those few words, we’re back on normal ground. Our friendship is weird at best. We’re both assholes, which is probably why we get along so well.

  “Is there a game on tonight?” he asks as he grabs the pizza box and heads into my living room.

  “No, we played last night. Tigers won by a single run. We play again tomorrow. I planned on watching Oliver Queen kick some vigilante ass, but if you want to turn something else on, go for it.”

  Arrow can wait; I know not everyone is like me and watches it a season late. I like watching more than one episode at a time, so I usually binge a few once they’re up on Netflix. In case I catch up, I do also DVR the current season. It’s happenstance that I’ve never caught up yet. I’m typically a busy guy.

  “We can watch whatever, I’m good. Thanks for going over the proposal for me; I went over your notes after you left. On Monday I’m going to tell the client I’ll work with them. Thanks again.”

  Handing him the beer I grabbed for him on my way into the living room, I give him a slight nod, and then we sit in silence watching Oliver and crew while demolishing the pizza. We’re into the second episode before he brings up Averill.

  “Tell me more about running into Averill. What’s she doing here? Does she live here now?” he asks.

  “Yeah actually, she does. I didn’t get to spend much time with her thanks to your friend, but she moved here recently for work. Remember how spunky she was back then?” He doesn’t answer, simply takes a page from my book and nods. “She’s still sassy as fuck. Made me choke on my coffee when she called her younger self a twat.”

  He’s laughing, but I’m lost in the memory. Her laugh this morning was truly infectious. She really did light up the room, and my flying off the handle extinguished it, not Justin’s dirty look. I seriously need to get a handle on my temper. It’s been getting worse lately.

  It’s my job.

  Isn’t it always?

  If only there was a way out. The thing is, I can’t begin to tell you how exactly I got myself in—or as far in as I currently am—and that’s the problem.

  “The expression on your face a few seconds ago was one I haven’t seen since we were kids, Rhys. To me, it says something. You should call her. As soon as you started thinking about something else, the look went away and was replaced by your so-called ‘cloud of doom’. If just thinking about her can bring a look of happiness back, something tells me she’s the answer you’ve been searching for. I hope to God you were smart enough to not let her leave without at least getting her number.”

  It figures he’d call me out on a look. Normally I wear my sadness like a souvenir; I’ve earned this solitary life. Just because it’s a somewhat lonely life of my own making doesn’t mean I don’t long for something more. He always knows when something is bothering me. He’s the only one who knows exactly what I do and why I do it, why I can’t or shouldn’t bring my something more into this chaos of my existence.

  “At first she ran off without a second glance. It took a bit of convincing, but I have her number, yes.”

  Giving him a look that pleads for him to drop the subject while I answered him didn’t work. He presses on with more questions. Instead of answering, I do what I do best—ignore them. Hitting play on the paused episode is my way of saying the conversation is finished. He didn’t take the silence as a hint, so hitting play and being a dick is called for.

  Deep down, I know why he’s pushing me toward her.

  He wants me to be happy.

  He thinks I deserve to be happy.

  Funny thing is, I don’t deserve it.

  A year ago? Maybe.

  Today? No way in hell.

  But I’m sure as hell going to chase it—later.

  Most of Sunday is spent much the same way I spent Saturday.

  I’m lying on the couch semi-watching the Tigers game wh
en my cell rings from the coffee table. Seeing the name lighting up the screen, I groan while sliding my finger over the screen to answer.

  “Gallhagar,” comes snapping out of my mouth.

  Last I checked it was Sunday, and last I checked, I don’t work on the weekends. This makes two days in a row my boss has called. Yesterday I ignored him; I knew it would cause trouble, but I did it anyway.

  “Your special skills are needed. Mikey will pick you up from your residence in thirty minutes. He knows where you’re needed.”

  No greeting of hello, no reprimand for leaving his calls unanswered yesterday, nothing but an order.

  “It’s a Sunday, is this something I can take care of tomorrow?”

  For a few seconds, I swear he hung up after barking out his order because he doesn’t reply.

  “If this matter could be handled tomorrow, don’t you think I would’ve called tomorrow? My orders stand, Gallhagar. Don’t make me turn Saul on you again.”

  With that, he hangs up.

  Fuuuuuck.

  It’s not like I’m afraid of Saul. I’m not. He’s followed boss’s orders and turned on me before, and I’m sure he’d do it again. It’s their way of keeping their employees in line.

  I have other issues with it, mainly the fact that the last time I didn’t follow orders, it ended with me in a hospital bed recovering from stab wounds for an entire week.

  Last time, he didn’t use his hands. No, Saul used the combat obsidian Jagdkommando tri-edge dagger he keeps strapped to his ankle.

  He’s not your typical enforcer. They tend to use guns, but he has a fetish for blades, all kinds of ’em—switchblades, bowie knives, machetes, bayonets, karambits, even a damn tomahawk.

  Shit.

  Shit, shit, shit.

  Sounds like I’ll be masking bruised knuckles in my normal meetings this week since I’m being called in to use force today. It’s harder to evade questions when I have bruises covering my hands.