Page 6 of Fighting for You
My brows furrow, pulling at the tender wound on my cheek. “How do you know what my type is?”
She looks down at her watch, the blush still spreading down her neck. “I umm… I have to go. But please, get your cheek checked out. It looks like it could be getting infected.”
Before I can say much else, she’s walking past me, and for the first time—maybe ever—I realize I just got turned down by a woman.
My helmet balances on the handlebars of my motorcycle, gently swaying back and forth as I shove the keys into my pocket. Based on the number of cars in the parking lot, it seems like the lunch rush has probably died down. I’m here to get my check so I can cash it before the banks close, but I figured I’d see if Thea still needs help with anything for tonight.
Ripple Effect Distillery and Restaurant has two sections to it. The restaurant has a full bar and panoramic lake views; the distillery and tasting room are where the bourbon is made and stored. They’re separated by a walkway and swinging doors on each side, and both sides have their own entrances. I do a little bit of everything here, but I usually spend the most time working at the distillery. So I opt to use this entrance, especially considering my current state. I have no desire to hear anyone else’s commentary on how I look. Aside from Thea. I know she’ll berate me, but that’s okay. I expect it. And if anyone’s allowed to, it’s her.
I push through the door into the empty rackhouse, passing by the barrels I spent most of this past Saturday reorganizing. I’ll be happy once we start the tours in the tasting room again. We postponed the last few due to my parents’ deaths, and then with Thanksgiving tomorrow, we pushed the schedule to next week.
Ripley and I usually run them together and have created a good bit of banter the visitors enjoy. I’ll admit, it’s cool as fuck to see people going insane over the bourbon Ripley creates.
Our house bourbon, appropriately named RED, is becoming one of the most sought after small-batch bourbons on the market. We’ve got people traveling from all over to come see the facility and do a tasting with us. They love the deep vanilla notes and crisp cherry finish.
I’ve never seen a tasting where every single person doesn’t rave about it by the end. It’s so smooth we’ve converted more than one non-bourbon drinker.
As I walk behind the bar to grab my check from the safe, I pour myself a finger pour of the spirit then throw it back, setting my glass in the sink for later. Once I’ve opened the safe and secured my check in my wallet, I make my way toward the restaurant side of RED.
The moment the door connecting the two sides swings open, I hear Thea’s voice filtering through the hallway.
“—I don’t know, Travis. Maybe he’ll show up. Maybe he won’t. I’ve stopped depending on him for even the smallest of things. I asked him to bring up the new bottles of RED the other day, and even that didn’t get done.”
My mood instantly sours again. I’ve spent all day dealing with letdown after letdown. Even coming here to help, I’ve already fucked up.
I don’t go any farther, turning around to leave instead. As I stomp back through the distillery, I throw a chair to its side as I walk past, doing anything to expel the anger roiling in my chest.
As I slam my helmet on my head, I decide if everyone else has already given up on me, what’s the point in trying? I’ve got a whole check’s worth of money I can spend drowning my sorrows.
I rev the engine on my bike and exit the parking lot, some bar a couple of towns away the only thing in my future.
Chapter Two
Margot
“I’ll be back here around noon, and we can head to RED together,” I say as I finish folding the blanket I collected off the wheelchair Lydia uses and place it on her dresser.
“Thank you for everything today. Have a good night,” Lydia says with a smile, turning back to the soap opera playing on the TV mounted in the corner of her room.
I dim the lights and step out of her suite. Lydia Ashford is one of my favorite patients here at Saint Stephen’s Assisted Living. She’s kind and has a sharp sense of humor. We’ve gotten close over the last six months I’ve worked here since moving back to Southbury. Taking care of her hardly feels like work at all. The time I spend with her flies by with us gossiping about the other patients on her floor—Susan from a few rooms down who’s constantly losing her dentures and Georgie who faked dementia symptoms when he got caught with not one, not two, butthreegirlfriends. Weeks of testing resulted in the doctors declaring he is nothing but a horny old man.
Lydia is one of the youngest patients at the facility by a few decades, but her MS symptoms progressed past a point her daughter, Thea, could handle a few years ago, and she ended up moving here. I’ve gotten to know both of them well and consider them to be the first friends I’ve made since coming back. Thea often invites me out with her boyfriend to check out the local bar, and maybe one day I’ll take her up on it.
With my shift over, I step into the nurses’ lounge and collect my jacket and purse from my locker before wishing a good evening to a few of the other staff members milling about.
I make a mental note to bring in a few more pairs of backup scrubs tomorrow before Lydia and I head over to RED for a Thanksgiving Day lunch in honor of Hazel and Owen Grant, Brooks’ parents. Apparently the lunch is something they do every year, and anyone in town who doesn’t have a place to go or someone to celebrate with is welcome. The event—hosted by Thea and the Grant brothers this year—will serve as a memorial of sorts.
It’s dark when I step outside, the air is crisp now with it nearing the end of November. Thoughts of the memorial lead me to recount my run-in with Brooks from earlier today. That man has trouble written all over him. In my short time here, I’ve heard whispers about him around town. About how he gets into fights constantly, all the women he’s been seen with.
He checks off all the boxes for a stereotypical bad boy: tattooed all over, loud motorcycle, killer smile. That last one had me second-guessing saying no to his invitation today. Between the smile and piercing blue eyes, it’s no wonder he has women throwing themselves at him—women who would probably know what to do if they got him alone. I’m not looking to be another notch in his belt, and I’m sure he’s not looking for a twenty-three year old virgin he’d have to walk through everything past a blowjob.
Still, the thought of seeing him tomorrow has my tummy clenching and my heart rate picking up.
I smile to myself as I round my car. Opening the door, the back of my neck prickles. My eyes dart around the lot, but I don’t see anyone in any of the cars. The sense of being watched never really leaves me, I’m constantly on edge, but something feels more off than usual.
I’m being paranoid. Shaking my head to clear the feeling, I get in my car and start the engine. With another deep breath, I pull out of the spot and onto the road. Grocery store and one more stop before I can head home.
“Hi,” I whisper as I gently pull the half empty plastic bottle of whiskey from his hand. He’s passed out on the recliner, TV playing sports recaps at a low volume throwing shadows over his gaunt face. His mouth is open, and he’s snoring gently. I can’t remember the last time he was awake when I visited.
