Hendrix (Caldwell Brothers #1)

by Chelsea Camaron

  I start up the coffee pot in the kitchen then walk out behind the bar. The place looks like hell. It better have been a busy fucking night.

  The weekday barmaid Lola is getting lazy. I swear to fuck, she spends more time applying that glossy shit to her lips than she does doing the job she is paid for.

  Work ethic is sorely lacking nowadays. Everyone wants something for fucking free. What happened to hard work, perseverance, dedication, and determination?

  I watched my momma bust her ass for years. Even though I heard a million damn times, “This is my bar,” come out of my old man’s mouth, it was Momma who held those qualities—the ones it takes to run a business—not him.

  Sighing, I wipe the sticky mess from last night off the nicked up, old, oak bar. One of the four sinks under the bar hasn’t drained completely, so I reach down, pull out the lime wedges, and throw them in the trash that wasn’t taken out. The coolers aren’t stocked, the fruit trays are sitting in the melted ice under the soda tap, and I am ready to fucking explode.

  When I walk around the bar and look down, I find the fucking floor isn’t swept or mopped, and there are full ashtrays on the pub tables. What’s more, I have more than an hour’s worth of paperwork and orders to place before I can even start the damn clean up. Orders that have to be placed, or I won’t get a delivery on Monday when the bar is closed, and I will be fucked.

  I decide the priority lies on getting the order in, so I head back behind the bar and walk up the steps between the kitchen and the back of the bar to my office.

  I walk in, and there is old Lola, bare-assed, laying across my old man’s waist.

  “Get the fuck up,” I yell.

  She startles and jumps. “Oh, God. Oh, Hendrix—”

  “Get the fuck out of my office. You, too, old man.”

  “You watch your tone with me, boy.” He glowers at me as he sits up.

  “I ain’t gotta watch shit, old man. What the fuck are you doing here? What the fuck are you doing with my employee?”

  “I think it’s obvious what I’m doing here, son,” he slurs as he stands.

  “Get your pathetic ass out of here.” I point to the door. “Lola, I’m sorry about this—”

  “We love each other,” she says and starts crying.

  “Is that so?” I force a laugh and shake my head as I look at my pop’s pitiful ass as he buttons up.

  “Yes,” she answers and grabs his hand when it is free. “We’ve been in love for a year.”

  I look at him, waiting for him to deny this ‘love.’ Hell, as long as I have been alive, I have never heard him say that word to Mom or any of us. The denial never comes, though.

  “A year? So Mom was still alive?”

  Still no answer, and at that moment, charity ceases to exist.

  “Get your shit out of the apartment. And, Lola, you’re fired. You may wanna get yourself checked, too, old girl. His dick is a weapon.”

  “How dare you? You can’t do that!” he yells at me.

  “It’s done. Now get out.” I don’t yell, don’t fight. This is actually fucking perfect.

  He had been under the protection of my mother for all my life and stayed that way through grief’s numbing after effects over the last year.

  The first step in the grieving process is denial and isolation. My brothers and I hit denial from word terminal, but with only a two month warning of expiration, there wasn’t time to go hiding out. The next step in the grieving process is anger. I have been stuck on that one for a while now. There are even stages to this particular stage. I get pissed, and then I am numb. Then, before I know it, I’m right back to being pissed again.

  Lola is wiping the smudged mascara off her face. I can hear my dad mutter to her, “Guess we were meant to be, you and me.” He puts his hand on her ass as he looks over his shoulder at me, giving me his glare. It is the same glare that once made my mother and us boys cower, but now holds no weight over me.

  “It’ll last as long as she stays your meal ticket,” I respond back as Lola shakes her head and they keep walking around, gathering their things.

  I head down to get back to work. He has no more control over this family any longer.

  “Lost another one?” Jagger strolls in and laughs. His assumption is based off the obvious fucking mess of the bar he is looking around at.

  “Maybe,” I answer noncommittally.

  “Seriously, bro, you need to learn to play nice with others.”

  “Look, unless you’re here to take on another night—step it up a bit—I don’t wanna hear shit.”

  “I liked Lola,” he says as he sits down on the other side of the bar.

  I hold my finger in front of my mouth, keeping him quiet, and point up. “You hear heels clicking up the wooden stairs into the apartment?”

  When he looks at me like he has no clue, I raise my eyebrow and shake my head.

  “No shit?” he asks when he catches on.

  “Just found ‘em in my fucking office. Told him a month ago, when I caught him skimming from the till, he was out. Not to step foot in my fucking place again, or he could pack his shit.”

  He nods and then shakes his head. Then, his fists ball up as he takes a moment to look down.

  “What are you gonna do?” he asks finally.

  “He’s packing his shit.”

  “You for real, man?” There is a mischievous look in his eyes, making my kid brother look kind of happy. Looks good on him. Ain’t seen it in a long damn while.

  “As fucking real as terminal cancer.”

  Some people wouldn’t find that the least bit amusing, but they aren’t Caldwells. If we aren’t able to find humor in our misfortunes, we would never laugh a day in our fucking lives.

  I look up when the door opens to see my buddy Johnny, the cop. It isn’t unlike him to stop by on a chilly morning and grab a cup of coffee.

  Jagger stands to greet him. “Got bail?”

  “You’re fucking joking, right?” I shake my head as I look at his knuckles, and nah, he isn’t joking.

  “Jagger, you know I have to take you in.” Johnny is pissed. “You beat the shit out of your landlord.”

  “His kid was crying. Heard her through the wall, opened the door, and she’s running down the hall. Fucker came out chasing her with a belt.”

  “So you beat him to the ground?” Johnny asks, taking the cup of coffee I slide across the bar. “How about call 911? That’s my job, man. Now she’s so scared she’s not talking and won’t press charges—”

  “What do you mean, won’t press charges.” Jagger’s vein is popping out of his neck. “She had switch marks across her goddamned neck, Johnny. She’s a fucking kid; she needs someone—”

  “She’s seventeen. Can’t make her do shit, you hear me?” Johnny states then points to the door. “Restraining order, so you got nowhere to live, and when the judge asks where you work, what are you gonna say? ‘I smash people up in abandoned warehouses while others stand around and watch?’ It’s fucking illegal.”

  “Nah, man, I got a job.” Jagger chuckles. “I’m a motherfucking astronaut. Just got back from the moon last night. Shit looks good up there.”

  “Last time, you told the judge you were a fucking OBGYN apprentice, and that got you a week in county.”

  Jagger smirks and looks to me. “Do I have a place to live?”

  “Of course you do.” I lean against the bar and cross my arms over my chest.

  “I work here, right?” Jagger winks.

  “Yeah, man, you do. Call me after your photo shoot and fingerprints. I’ll be down to pick you up.”

  With that, I watch them walk out. Only Jag can climb in the back of the squad car like he is getting in a damn taxi. Then, I see the old man and Lola the bar whore walk by with garbage bags from the side alley. They must have taken the back exit. Good riddance.

  I feel a weight lift off my shoulders just before the guilt washes over me. I should have booted his ass years ago. Then, maybe Momma would
have paid attention to the few symptoms she did have, cramping and shit. She wouldn’t have thought they were just everyday stresses of working too damn hard. The everyday stresses I knew damn well came from dealing with his sorry ass.

  I wish I could go back so fucking bad.

  You know what the third step to grief is? Bargaining. Right now, that is what I’m doing. If I only had done this… God, if I do this, will you make the loss less?

  Yeah, that shit is what I’m doing right now. Does it bother me? Hell yes. But, I also embrace this new stage in life.

  Bring. It. On.

  Chapter Two

  ~Olivia~

  After four years at The University of Detroit Mercy, living at Holden Hall with a group of girls I grew to either love or avoid, I am finally free. I look down at the last bag I have to lug out into the hall, down three floors, and across the yard to my car.

  I don’t have family waiting; I am doing this on my own. My parents live on separate coasts with separate families. In fact, the only thing they have in common is me—the product of a business trip fling.

  My father and I were close until I was eleven. Well, as close as we could be only visiting summers and every other holiday. I only met Victoria once before they married, which is when everything changed. Along with Victoria, came her three boys. It was awful, and I couldn’t wait to get home to my mom and half-brothers. I was forced to go every summer for an entire month. However, my junior year in high school, I stopped going all together.

  I couldn’t handle it anymore, and I didn’t have to. I didn’t have to feel judged by his wife. I didn’t have to feel the looks from my stepsiblings. The looks that made me feel like I was odd or an intrusion on their lives from Colton and James. More so, I didn’t have to deal with Bryce, who was once my playmate and eventually became something else entirely. I didn’t have to deal with any of them.

  My dad, on the other hand, was supportive, kind, and we had our own unique bond. He was just too wrapped up in Victoria and keeping her happy to see everything going on around him. When I stopped visiting, my dad refused to pay for any of my schooling. I should say Victoria refused to pay for anything involving me.

  My mother is a strong woman, but she is also proud, so when he told her he wouldn’t help, she told him to go to hell. Their once friendly, co-parenting relationship was quickly a tolerance of one another’s existence.

  I throw my last bag in my car—the one I am sure won’t last longer than another month—then open it to retrieve my keys to give to the RA. Inside, I see the rolled up paper—the symbolism of my degree, my bachelors in social work. I should feel a sense of accomplishment. The single paper holds my future in the ink that is practically still drying on the paper.

  Accomplishment is not what I feel, though. No. Instead, I feel the pressure of the student loans looming over me. The loans that are unending as I currently only hold an assisting position at a hospital until I complete my masters, something that isn’t happening anytime soon.

  *.*.*.*

  I walk into my little studio apartment that I was so excited about moving into just nine months ago. After four years of sharing half a shoe box to having a place that is practically four shoeboxes, it feels like I am getting somewhere in life. However, the size doesn’t matter. One shoebox or four, it is cold.

  Of course it’s cold, I tell myself, it’s February in Detroit.

  I nearly run to the bathroom and then turn on the shower. Knowing the neighbors all seem to come home around six, if I don’t do this now, I will be taking a cold shower. Well, no shower, actually, because the point of this shower is to get warm after my walk home from the hospital. I need to defrost my bones right now and that requires some serious hot water.

  My car stopped running on New Year’s Eve, just like I knew it would. If it is under twenty degrees and I have any extra money, I take a cab, the bus, any form of public transportation; otherwise, I am reduced to using my own two feet. Unfortunately, it isn’t often that I have extra money.

  New Year’s Eve, an unforgettable night. I have made a couple friends at work. One is a nurse on the pediatric oncology floor, Tabby, and the other is my co-worker and office buddy, Toni. We went to dinner at one of the hotels throwing a New Year’s Eve bash where we danced, drank, danced again, I stopped drinking, we danced some more, and they got snookered.

  It was already planned that I would drive. I like knowing I can leave when I want to. I never want to get stuck in a place I can’t escape from if need be. It has happened. I am older now, though. I know better.

  We finally left shortly after midnight, but I lied and told them it was after one. They were so messed up it didn’t matter—they would never know. We got to my car, got in, I turned the key over, and … nothing. I tried again, gave it a little gas, still nothing.

  They laughed, and I cried. When they tried to assure me it was no big deal, I agreed, knowing full well it was since I couldn’t afford to fix it.

  The next morning—the start to my new year—I walked to where my car was parked a mile away while freezing my buns off. The entire way, I said a little prayer. Please Lord, let my problems disappear just for one day. I truly wanted to get it back to my place, park it in the lot across from my apartment building—the lot I paid way too much money for the privilege to park in—and let it sit until I could figure out where to scrimp and save.

  When I arrived at my destination, I stood there, looking at an empty spot, and glancing up at the sky, I laughed.

  “Thank you, Lord, but this isn’t what I meant when I used the word disappear.”

  Eventually, I found my car. She had been towed and impounded. I had to come up with three hundred dollars and then more money for a tow just to get her back here to sit in the parking lot across the street.

  I walked to work the next couple days, waiting for my paycheck so I could spring my car.

  Toni, never one to hold back, asked me why I was walking in the freezing cold. When I told her about the car, she was not happy with me for not asking for a ride.

  “It’s not a big deal. I knew it was coming.” I laughed, trying not to show just how stressed I am as I unwrapped the first of three scarves I had on and began to un-thaw from the heat of our office.

  “It is a big deal. It’s Detroit in January.” She stood up then stomped out of the office.

  I sat in my chair and pulled off my boots slowly. My feet were so cold they actually hurt. I grabbed my bag and pulled out a pair of thick, wool boot socks and pulled them on over my dress socks. Then, I swiveled my chair and stuck my feet on the baseboard heater.

  Toni walked in with a big cup of coffee and Tabby right behind her. “Livi, you’re so damn stubborn!”

  “Good morning, Tabby.” I smiled as Toni handed me the cup of coffee. “Thanks, Toni.”

  “This isn’t funny.” Tabby sat on the edge of my desk in her smiley face scrubs, and I couldn’t help smiling. “Liv—”

  “I honestly can’t keep a straight face when I’m looking at those.” And I couldn’t.

  “They’re for the kids, just like the mustache ones and the Hello Kitty—”

  “Don’t even say the Hello Kitty ones are for the kids.” Toni air quoted when she said kids. “That damn white-ass pussy is for you, Tabby cat.”

  “Okay, Toni the tiger.” Tabby rolled her eyes. “Fine, I like the white kitty. But that’s not what we’re talking about here.”

  “Look, I’m going to find a part time job, but right now, I can walk.”

  “Where you gonna find a job when you’re here all the time?”

  “I’m not here all the time,” I said as I pull my thawed feet away from the heater and then swirled around in my chair to face them both. “Look, I don’t have kids, a boyfriend, a—”

  “Life,” Tabby reminded me.

  “I went out the other night,” I retorted. I wanted to add, “You know, the night my car broke down,” but I didn’t.

  “You hadn’t been out in six months be
fore that.” Toni looked up over her leopard-spotted frames, glasses I could almost guarantee were more for the statement than the optical aid.

  “I don’t like to go out. It’s a waste of money.” I also don’t like going out because I am far from comfortable in my own skin. How could anyone be after everything I have been through?

  No more wallowing allowed. My New Year’s Resolution is about becoming. Becoming comfortable in my own skin, becoming the woman I am meant to be without the past holding me back, and becoming confident in myself.

  “I won’t rag on you about the second job if you agree to go with me to a fundraiser event on Valentine’s Day.”

  “Valentine’s Day?” I asked. “What about Shawn?”

  “He has to work the night shift, so I’ll be all alone.”

  We both turned our attention to Toni, who shook her head. “Oh, no. I have a date. No girl’s night thing for me. I gave up getting laid on New Year’s Eve. Valentine’s Day is for lovers, ladies, and I’m gonna get some loving.”

  Tabby and I laughed at Toni, although not because we thought she was full of it. In fact, we knew she wasn’t.

  Tabby had a smile in her voice. “Maybe Livi and I will—”

  “Uh-uh, you march your white pussy-loving, smiley face ass right out of this office. You know I don’t wanna hear that shit,” Toni stopped her.

  Tabby winked at me and smirked. I knew how much she loved to get Toni going. “Is it a date?”

  “I really can’t afford to right now, Tabby.”

  “I have Shawn’s ticket already, so it won’t cost us a thing. Besides, it’s a masquerade ball the White family is putting on. All proceeds go to educate young women on HPV. Remember, they lost their twenty-year-old daughter?”

  Of course I remembered. She was my first case. I was with them when they found out she was terminal. When they would leave the hospital to shower and get a fresh change of clothes, I was the one who sat with her and helped her plan for a future she knew she would never have. I was also there the day she died.