The North Star

by Wendy Cole

  I pushed forward, through the crowds and into the first door propped open. Smoke drifted like fog, and the dim light inside offered a small semblance of safety. I moved to the far side towards the emergency exit and took a seat on a stool in the corner.

  The bartender stood close enough, so I was easily able to get his attention, and I slapped all the money I had on the bar between us. “I want something strong and cheap. Whatever this will get me.”

  His eyes met mine with disinterest before he fingered his way through the change and handed me three shots of amber liquid.

  I downed the first and sucked in a breath as the fire coursed a path towards my stomach.

  Warmth.

  The other two sat like precious heirlooms in front of me as I forced myself to take a moment to savor the first.

  I stared at the second glass for at least five minutes before I finally gave in and clutched it between my fingers.

  I’d just tilted it to my mouth when a man took the seat beside me. Bloodshot eyes met mine, shiny and full of interest. Stubble coated his jaw, and the red tinge to his cheeks spoke of a life of hard drinking.

  “This seat taken, beautiful?” His words slurred, and his breath smelled of something far stronger than I could afford.

  I leaned back and took the third shot. On one hand, I could keep him there and get more drinks out of him. On the other, I’d have to deal with him to do that. He seemed too drunk to pose any real threat, and his lack of tattoos and plain old, worn clothing didn’t give the appearance of a man affiliated with any clubs.

  Before I could decide, a large hand clasped the man’s shoulder, and a voice deeper than any I’d heard before gave an answer. “She’s with me.”

  My eyes shot up, traveling far to take in the massive mountain of a man before me. Long hair hung wild around his face and shoulders, and a full beard obstructed any chance of a good view. His eyes held the glassy evidence of someone who’d been drinking, but not of a person who’d lost focus. They cut through my unwanted visitor, sharp enough to warrant pause.

  I swallowed hard as the drunk lifted his hands and stumbled from the chair without complaint.

  “I didn’t know,” he said as he walked away.

  The newcomer took his spot and motioned to the bartender. “Give me my usual, Paul.”

  He didn’t look at me, just focused on the bottle of Wild Turkey as it was placed before him. He opened it up, took a long pull then set it back down. His expression was blank, borderline guarded.

  Nothing about this one seemed harmless. His rough and hardened exterior put me on edge, and while I didn’t see any ink on his skin or a cut on his back, he didn’t need it. He held the look they held. He had the posture: alert and poised. I’d only seen it in a few men, and all of them had long ago lost any fear of death.

  He took another drink and motioned the bottle over, filling my three empty glasses.

  “That guy that came over to you is a piece of shit,” he said, his voice smoother than a radio DJ’s. “He’s in here every night, and while he looks harmless, I’ve seen him do some things you wouldn’t want to be a part of.”

  I watched him take another drink, then eyed the three glasses with longing.

  “And you?” I swallowed the nerves his presence brought.

  He cut a glance over at me, and those dark intelligent eyes scanned my face. Like the pages of a book, they cut through every defense I had and read the secrets I kept so closely guarded like the blonde roots just starting to peek through at my hairline and the still-healing tattoo.

  “I came here to drink,” he said, meeting my gaze. “That’s the only reason. If you want to do the same in peace, no one will bother you with me here. If not, it makes no difference to me where I sit.”

  Something about his tone resonated with me. Truth rang through each syllable, and a familiar bitterness echoed through his words.

  I looked away, downed another shot, and neither of us spoke for a long time after that. He didn’t try to get at me, didn’t even look my way. Instead, he scanned each face within the room, then settled his gaze to his bottle. His hawk eyes lost some of their focus as his thoughts seemed to drift.

  He didn’t acknowledge me again until my third glass was empty. Without looking at me, he held the bottle over and filled all three. For a span that felt like hours, that was all I got from him. There was no conversation, no eye contact―just a steady stream of refills.

  Who was he? In that moment, he felt like an angel―a bar angel. Do guardian angels sit in bars and offer free drinks? I could imagine that if I’d ever been granted one, they’d be down for that.

  The more the alcohol loosened me, the more interesting he became. I couldn’t figure him out. Men didn’t offer free booze to women unless they wanted something, and in my current state, he didn’t seem anywhere near drunk enough to want what I had to offer, nor did he show even the slightest interest in it. I leaned forward and peered up at his profile.

  “I don’t like people,” I said, gauging his reaction, “especially men.”

  He took another drink, then lazily tilted his head in my direction. “Neither do I.”

  It wasn’t the answer I expected, and the way he said it made a foreign smile flicker across my face.

  “If you don’t like people, then why are you giving me all your Wild Turkey?”

  His eyes darted down to my smiling mouth, then averted to the task of, once again, filling my glasses. “You seemed like you needed it.”

  “You don’t want to sleep with me?”

  He didn’t even flinch at the accusation. He settled back, took another long drink, then studied the faces in the room once more. This time, he motioned to an older woman in the back corner. “That woman comes here every night. She sits in that same spot and drinks Jim Beam until the bar closes.”

  Each word was forever smooth, a caress against my eardrums. While he wasn’t particularly attractive, not with his rough and ragged appearance, his voice was something to behold.

  It made me want to listen.

  “She brings a photo with her.” A frame sat on the tabletop, and her eyes seemed fixated on whatever picture it held. “She sets it out on the table and just looks at it while she’s drinking. I think it might be of her husband, but I’ve never actually seen the photo.”

  He took another drink and looked over to the end of the bar. “And the man down there, the one at the end…” He nodded towards his target: a white-haired man who sat slumped forward, one arm rested against the bar and the other wrapped around the neck of a bottle as if it were the only thing holding him upright. An embroidered Larry graced his blue jumpsuit. “His uniform is from a factory that closed down last year. He still wears it every night when he comes here.”

  His attention turned to me. “Some of these people just want to get drunk. But some…some come to forget things.” His eyes sharpened once again, seeing far too much. “It’s easy to spot the difference if you take the time to look.”

  I swallowed hard, then bitterly downed the glasses in front of me in quick succession.

  He filled them again. “What’s your name?”

  I narrowed my eyes at him.

  His lip twitched. “Alright. No names.”

  I studied his hint of a smile, unsure if I could even call it that. “So why do you come here?”

  He took a drink, sat the bottle down, then whipped his body around to face mine. “You ever see a hillbilly wind-up toy?”

  My brow furrowed. “What?”

  His sudden change in posture and expression made me lean back an inch. It was as if a block of ice had thawed before my eyes, and he watched me with an open expression as I tried to adjust to the sudden change.

  “A hillbilly wind-up toy…” His lip twitched again. “You ever seen one?”

  I shook my head slowly.

  All business, he placed his large hand down onto the bar and looked at me. “Put your hand over mine.”

  I paused. “Do what, now?”<
br />
  He nodded towards his hand. “Hold my hand down.”

  I took another drink, puzzling over the request, then with an odd look in his direction, did as he asked.

  His skin felt rough, and coarse hair scratched my palm. My smaller hand was barely able to cover what could have almost passed for a baseball glove.

  His brows lifted. “Hold it down tight, now.”

  I pushed down, then looked on in confusion as he gripped his own thumb and started to twist it over and over in a cranking motion. He pretended to strain. His forearm flexed as his shoulder shifted.

  Finally, he released his thumb and straightened. His eyes danced as they met mine.

  “You ready?” He looked down to our contact.

  “For what?”

  His lip twitched again. “Lift your hand up.”

  I did, and the moment the pressure I’d applied released, his hand went apeshit against the bar, flipping, jerking, bouncing movements.

  A wind-up toy.

  I laughed. A genuine one. I laughed like I hadn’t done in a long time. I laughed so hard, tears filled my eyes. I tried to stamp it back down, but each time I thought I’d managed to calm, I’d envision it over again and lose the fight.

  “Pretty neat, huh?” He took another drink as he watched me with light eyes.

  This time, I sobered, but the smile didn’t leave my face. “You’re crazy.”

  His lips lifted against the bottle, and he lowered it to reveal the first real smile I’d seen from him.

  I stared, catching a glimpse past his rough and wild appearance. Perfectly straight white teeth and laughing eyes did something to his face. It made it less harsh and gave a peek of what may lay beneath the mess of hair that shielded him.

  I cleared my throat and turned back to the bar. “That was funny.”

  Another drink, then two more. The time was slipping away, and I knew I needed to go. I was enjoying this now, but I hadn’t come for company, especially the company of a man. There was enough danger in my life without me adding more to the pile.

  “Thanks for the drinks,” I said as I slid from the bar stool. “I better head out.”

  His eyes met mine with knowing. He nodded once, then took another drink as he watched me move around him.

  “I’m here most nights,” he said, “if you find you need to forget.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Throughout the night, as I lay curled in my worn blanket surrounded by cold dank cement, I thought about the man. Each time I revisited that smooth voice, his simple joke, and the forgotten feeling of genuine laughter, I found it harder not to smile again.

  It’d been fun.

  Fun.

  I didn’t have fun, and I especially shouldn’t be having fun now of all times.

  But he’d shared his drink with me and expected nothing in return. He’d made no objection, nor shown any sign of irritation when I’d made my abrupt escape.

  What was his angle? Didn’t he know that’s not how it worked? Men buy women drinks so they’ll sleep with them. I remembered his smooth explanation of the others around us and stared stoically at the ground beneath me. He’d seen right through me, every scar, physical or otherwise. You seemed like you needed it.

  I pushed thoughts of him away and focused on the warmth instead. The alcohol still coursed through my blood, chasing away the October chill. I prayed it would chase away my demons as well.

  ***

  A soft pat to my face woke me. “Girl.”

  Another slap.

  “Get up! What’re you doin’? You’re usually gone by now.”

  I clenched my eyes shut tighter. He might as well have been beating me in the head with a hammer with his gentle slaps. The sound of his voice shot daggers to my brain and brought bile into my throat.

  “I’m not going. Go away.” I tried to turn, but one grizzled hand stopped me.

  Mr. Frankfire yanked me to my back and peered down through narrowed eyes. “Are you sick?”

  His furrowed brow and pursed mouth deepened the wrinkles on his face. He palmed my forehead, then my cheek. “You’re not hot.”

  I shook him away. “There’s no point. Nobody’s going to hire me. I’ve gone all the way across town.”

  His jaw was set. “That’s bullshit, girl. Get up! You must not be doing it right.” He bared his teeth when I didn’t move. “C’mon! Get your shit! We’re going!”

  His heightened tone was a jackhammer to my shriveled and dying brain. I sucked in a breath and clutched my forehead. “Fuck off, old ma…motherfuck! Ow! Ow!”

  He gripped my ear and yanked hard. “No respect! You young people nowadays think you can talk to elders however you damn well please! Not me!”

  He released his grip and showed no remorse as I rubbed the spot where he’d held me. “Get. Your. Shit.”

  I sneered at his retreating form. The fact that I hadn’t swung on him was a testament that my soft spot for the old man had gone too far. Regardless, I grabbed my pack from the ground, hoisted it over my shoulder, and muttered every vile word I could think of as I fought to catch up.

  We walked for ages, and I didn’t hide my smug expression when each place the old man pointed to was one I’d already tried. Then we made it to the grocery store, and I made a point to pull my hood up and let my face fall forward.

  Would he wait around and check here again? He had to know I wasn’t stupid enough to come back. My lips pursed as I realized my own thoughts. I obviously wasn’t very smart at all.

  We kept going, down to where the businesses thinned to give way to houses. I kept my gaze mostly on the ground, my hair hung loose around me. This was a stupid fucking idea.

  “Did you try that one?” The old man’s arm entered my line of vision as he motioned to my right.

  I cut my eyes over.

  “It looks like you’d fit in.”

  Painted black and heavily graffitied, the converted garage stood on a large lot and looked out of place in its surroundings. I wouldn’t have known it was once a garage if it wasn’t for the large steel door directly in the center of it. Additions were on either side, and the one to the left had a door labeled Entrance. Across the original door, a giant skull with snakes weaving in and out of its hollow sockets was painted with such detail; I could do nothing but stare in awe of it. Cutthroat Ink graced the area above in sprawling neon green script.

  A tattoo shop.

  A figure rounded the corner of the building, and I whipped my face away and ducked. It was the man, Zeke; the one I’d seen the day before. My mind ran rampant with a combination of panic and stunned revelation. My racing heart and pulsing adrenaline made it hard to keep a clear head, and one nagging thought wouldn’t stop screaming.

  Had he been telling the truth?

  Mr. Frankfire, having none of the social skills needed to notice my reaction, called out, “Hey! This place hiring?”

  “Shut up.” I hissed as I turned and yanked his arm.

  My eyes met Zeke’s across the way, and I watched as recognition sparked in his gaze. He smiled and steadily approached us.

  Mr. Frankfire pulled away. “Stop it, girl. No wonder you can’t get a job. Just smile pretty and let me talk to him.”

  I eyed his rough appearance. He looked far worse than I did, but that wasn’t the point. The point was only a few feet away and gaining ground fast.

  Zeke reached the spot in front of us and offered a friendly smile. He looked at the old man, then me. “You changed your mind?”

  Mr. Frankfire shot me a look, but he didn’t get a chance to say whatever snarky comment he undoubtedly had before his attention was pulled away.

  “I’m Zeke.” He held a hand out, and there wasn’t a hint of judgement or pause at the dirt crusting Mr. Frankfire’s. “It’s nice to meet you. I met this girl yesterday, but I think I gave her a spook.” His eyes met mine. “I apologize. I promise, I mean no harm.” He motioned to the building behind him. “This is my shop.” The words were slow and careful. “As you
can see, it’s real. All legit.”

  For a brief moment, a tiny flame of hope flickered within my chest, warming the cold, dead, hollow heart inside me. But before it could burn too bright, I snubbed it out. No chance. This couldn’t be real. It was too good, too convenient. I narrowed my eyes and opened my mouth to speak.

  Zeke cut me off. “You folks are just in time for lunch.”

  “I don’t think…”

  “Shut up, girl,” Mr. Frankfire said. “We’d love some.”

  “I’m not hungry. Neither is he.” I grabbed the old man’s arm and tugged, but he suddenly became a whole hell of a lot stronger than he looked.

  “Shut up, girl!” He hissed. He looked back at Zeke in a way grown folks would around a pestering child. “We’d love some lunch. I know for a fact that girl hasn’t eaten in two damn days.”

  My mouth fell open. “How the fuck could you know that?”

  “Your stomach growls like a damn bear at night, girl! I’m an old man. I need to rest. How can I be expected to sleep with that racket you make all hours of the night?!”

  I glared at him.

  His lips curved into a sly smile, and he shot me a wink. In a conspiratorial voice, he leaned over and whispered, “Just take the damn sandwich. I’m hungry.”

  Zeke heard and grinned. “We don’t have sandwiches, but I’ve got T-bones.”

  I opened my mouth.

  “Girl! I ain’t ever hit a woman in my life, but if you say one word…” Mr. Frankfire said, his hand lifted and ready.

  Zeke let out a deep belly laugh that rumbled his chest. His smile widened and his eyes lit as he clasped a hand onto the old man’s shoulder.

  “Calm down, old timer. No worries. We’ll get you fixed up.” He turned and guiding the old man with one massive arm draped across his shoulders.

  I stared at their backs and chewed my lip. I could have run. I could have turned away and left the risk behind where it belonged, but knowing Drake, if this was a bad deal, he’d cut that old man into pieces and save the scraps for when I came looking.