Page 4 of Gotta Dig Deep
“We’ll be there,” Cage answered for all of them. Graeme nodded and gave the bike a final pat on the tank.
That night at the bar, the back tables near Graeme’s normal observation spot slowly filled. More than a dozen men had trickled in over the course of a couple of hours and greeted him before finding a seat and ordering a drink. The low buzz of conversation was constant, and they frequently pulled him in with questions and comments, laughter rattling around the room as tales were recounted. It occurred to Graeme that they were here to say goodbye. To him.
My friends.
At her place at the bar, Dorothy kept glancing at the full tables, then towards Graeme. She finally crooked a finger his direction even as she turned to face her drink. Graeme slapped Junkyard’s shoulder on his way past and paused to shake another man’s hand when it was thrust out at him. When he finally made it to where Dorothy sat, anger was evident in every line of her body.
“Who are those men? It’s a weeknight, don’t they have families and homes?” She lifted her drink and drained it, tapping the bottom of the glass against the bar top as if it were a shot glass. “Why are they here?”
“To drink?” Puzzled at her questions, he studied Dorothy’s face in the mirror of the barback. “You’re right, we’ve got good trade for a weeknight. I’m not going to look a gift horse in the mouth.”
“Gift horse.” Her shoulders moved restlessly, caught between a shrug and a shiver. “Not something you would have knowledge of.”
“Kidsarea gift, Dotty.”
Graeme spun at the words spoken by a well-known voice. Medric stood at his shoulder, feet planted wide.
Head moving ponderously back and forth, the old man continued, “He is a gift horse, and you didn’t do right by him. Wasn’t Alek’s fault he shipped out before he knew. Wasn’t his fault he didn’t come home, either. Wasn’t your fault what happened to you. You got the shit end of a deal, and then you were lost inside your own grieving when you found out you had horror heaped on top. But that’s not the worst of it, is it, Dot? Worst is that you had terrible things happen toyou, and then have steadily taken it out on the boy. Pound after pound of flesh, drawn from your own child. Woman, you and I both know that isn’t right.” The edge of Medric’s fist settled on top of Graeme’s shoulder, pressing down. “Time to say your goodbyes, Graeme.”
“What? Who’s Alek?” The air was electric, sparking off the fine hairs of his arms. “What are you talking about?” Another hand touched his back, firm pressure spreading across his spine, and he whirled, shocked to see the men—his friends—crowded around. “What’s going on?”
“Medric is speaking out of his ass, as usual.” Dorothy rattled her dangling bracelets against the bar. “Refill, Donny. Chop chop.” The bartender was at the other end of the bar and gave her a nod, but kept wiping and straightening bottles where he was instead of moving to answer her demand. “Well then, if the owner can’t get a drink, I guess the bar is closed. Everyone has to leave.”
“What the hell, Dorothy?” Graeme moved in a full circle, not surprised to find that outside of the wide ring of men surrounding them, every eye was on this encounter. “Bar’s half full and last call isn’t for another three hours. We’re not closing.”
“We are if I say we are.” Hooking her heels over the rungs of the stool, she pushed up, arms braced against the edge of the bar so she was towering over the men gathered nearby. “Bar’s closing. No last call, just tally up your tabs and go.” Flopping back to the seat, she looked everywhere except at Graeme. “I don’t control much, but I do have hold of this damn bar.”
“Who is Alek?” He made the demand a second time, thinking back over what Medric had said, coming to his own conclusions. “He meant something to you, didn’t he? Boyfriend? Lover? What happened to him?”
“Aleksandr Solkolov. Local boy who joined the Navy. Alek was killed in a turret explosion. He was my best friend.” Medric tipped his head towards Dorothy, and Graeme saw how her shoulders had curled in, making her look small. “They were engaged.”
“Is he my—” He couldn’t finish the sentence, clamping his lips together.
Medric shook his head. “No. No, he was not.”
He’d always known there’d been a thread of truth to all of Dorothy’s stories, woven in between the lies.
Tall, blond, and handsome. A Russian boy. A sailor.
Never saw his face. Lay in a pool of my own blood.
He could pick his lineage out of that mix, and the realization chilled his blood. Knowing shouldn’t matter, not in the grand scheme of things. He’d always accepted the start of him was something she had suffered through, just like she had his whole life. With that much hurt at her doorstep, of course she would reject him. Poison in her veins.
“I remind you of the worst possible things. I get it, Dorothy.” Pain snaked up his arms and he lowered his head to look at fists clenched tight, knuckles white and bloodless, nails pressing pale moon crescents into the flesh of his palms. “I get it, and I won’t do this to you anymore.” He snorted. “Gift horse, right.” When he looked up, he was surprised to see most of the bar vacated, the cluster of men surrounding him and his mother the last in the building. “I’m leaving. Medric has my phone number, if you decide you want to get in touch.”
Donny hit a button on the register and the ding of the drawer opening was loud in the quiet room. He lifted the change tray and dug at the larger bills underneath, coming up with a handful. Dorothy took the offering, head down as she straightened the money, putting everything into order. Then she lifted her arm and without looking at him, thrust it towards Graeme. “Be safe.”
Numb, he accepted the cash and shoved it into his front pocket. So many thoughts and words battered at his brain, shouts teetering on the tip of his tongue, a confusing tangle of demands and questions. In the end all he said was “You too.”
The men murmured and shuffled so they stood between him and the door. It was like walking a gauntlet of affection instead of combatants, and by the time he’d been caught and released by each of them, he was fighting back tears. Then he was through the door and outside, only to be pulled up short by the sight of his motorcycle parked ten feet away. There were two bags already strapped to the rack over the back fender. Graeme turned and Medric was there, grin on his face, hands held out to the sides.
“You don’t own very much, boy.” Medric pointed to Junkyard, who had exited right behind him. “And this boy’s got untapped skills at B and E.”
Rolling his eyes, Graeme shoved a hand towards him, clasping tightly as he muttered, “Thank you.”
“Got any ideas where you’re headed?” Junkyard dropped his hand and ran it over the grip, fingers flicking the clutch lever a couple of times. “A direction?”
“Not here, that’s the only sure thing. I’m just going to aim west, see where I wash up.”
