Page 22 of Painting Her Fate

I grit my teeth, “I’m fine. Just slept on it wrong.” I stand and try to roll it out, needing to do something, anything to take my mind off it. I shove my cell in my pocket and get ready to prepare the building to open.

“Alright.” He swears under his breath in Spanish and shakes his head,

“It’s not like you to go this long-”

“Drop it, Ford. That’s an order.” I bite out, surprising myself.

Fucking hell. I guess I am a bit testy today.

The tension is tight as we do a stare down, his frustration with me is evident and I’m beginning to think he might not back down this go-around. Silence reigns as we battle for dominance.

“Message received, Corporal.” He submits vehemently, his rigid posture and the crease in his brow saying otherwise.

Ford is no stranger to battle wounds; his cover a larger percentage of his body and some are gruesome, in yet- like an addiction- the hens keep coming back to the cock time and time again.

We cope with our pain differently, that much is obvious. Two vices that work for two very different people.

Ford has hit rock bottom; he’s able to climb further out of hell day after day, as to where my ass is strapped in a chair, an endless bottle of bourbon in my hand and a movie reel of regret playing on the TV in front of me- and I’m unable to look away.

I can’t leave. Might as well make hell my home.

Our infantry came back to US soil forever destroyed. I have to say though, my Gunner changed after I picked him up from Texas; the man who was dead set on having one true ending for himself is now able to find some semblance of good in the world again. The kitchen is his domain, his salvation. It’s his home. I’m not sure where my true home is yet. Or who it’s with. Just me and my bar, no woman necessary.

With a busy day ahead and knowing there is too much to do today to have us pissed off, I allow my anger to diminish in my next breath.

“Thanks man, I’m good. A bit tired- but I’ll survive.” I clasp his forearm over my desk and our eyes lock, understanding within. It takes a second for him to nod, our unspoken words saying everything that’s needed right then. We know how it is, but it’s time for us to get out of this sappy moment. “I’m going to check the front end then I need to finish payroll.”

Ford raises a brow as we unclasp hands, his smirk right back where it was a minute ago, retort evident, “ah, you’re finally getting around to payin’ your staff.”

I send him a glare as I round my desk.Is he trying to get on my nerves today?

Ford is quick with his ‘gotcha’, “You know I’m just fibbin’; I have no fuckin’ clue how you do it all.”

I sigh and shake my head, “Some days I wonder the same.”

We exit my office, Ford heads to the kitchen while I go to the bar area

to check for everything that didn’t get done the night before. Last night’s crew can be lax on their closing duties, and apparently, I need to have a talk with them because it doesn’t take me long to find all the shit they left. Finding one overflowing and leaking garbage bag, I take the container and all to the back door and prop it open.

After scrubbing my hands, I turn to Ford who’s prepping celery pieces for the wings. It reminded me of the phone call this morning with the vendor- best to fill in the person who is doing the cooking about our latest fiasco. I’m contemplating switching vendors if this shit keeps happening.

“You’ll get a kick out of this one,” I start in as he continues chopping, “before you arrived, I was on the phone with John, the warehouse sent us the wrong wings and that shitty blue cheese again.”

Ford’s face scrunches in disgust, “you ain’t lyin’, that bleu cheese is fuckin’ foul.”

I bent down, picked up a piece of celery that rolled off the cutting board and threw it in the trash, “yeah, he blamed sick chickens for jacking up prices.”

“Well, that’s some bullshit.” He shakes his head.

I have to agree, but what do I know? It could just be a ploy for provoking inflation, or maybe millions of chickens could be sick and spreading something. I just want my invoice to match my delivery more than once every other month, now that would be nice.

Ford continues prepping his station as he listens in.

“He’s going to stop by this afternoon with the right items.” I find one last bag of garbage in the kitchen, combine the bags and set them by the door.

“Damn warehouse.” He says after smacking a head of lettuce on the cutting board to shred it. “At least John can get the right stuff here on a Saturday.” He tosses the leafy remnants into the fresh bag then offers to help take out the trash after seeing the pile I accumulated. He finishes placing the lettuce in a container then wipes his hands on a towel.

“It’s one positive for the day.” I pick up the two lighter bags and Ford snags the bin holding the door open. As Ford swings the door wide, we hear a woman’s loud scream close by. I turned to Ford to see if he heard it too or if I was just hearing things.

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