Devious Resolutions

by Ashleigh Giannoccaro

  Regina is at the bottom of the stairs. I can tell from the grating sound of her opening the fake emergency exit and the sudden noise of someone vomiting brashly to the blare of ABBA’s Happy New Year.

  God, I hate working at The Red.

  Domino

  In all my three years of working at the bar, it’s never been this empty. That’s saying something, considering last year’s Pride stuff-up. On the day, Regina had decided it would be a great idea to host a last minute after-party. She’d sent Jorge and I to the parade with the sole purpose of handing out badly-printed flyers. Jorge did as he was told – no surprises there. The little twink is so far up Regina’s brown hole he stinks of crap. I, on the other hand, had spent most of the time at Pride with my middle finger inside a ‘totally straight’ finance bro in an alley next to a toy store. He’d ‘only been passing by the parade by accident’ when I tapped him on the shoulder and asked if he wanted a flyer. Men are so easy, it makes me ill. Only twenty people rocked up that night, two of which were Japanese tourists who’d accidentally stumbled into the bar.

  Tonight is by far a new low, but queers don’t like coming here for obvious reasons. The whole place is dark and grimy, lit in a dull red in random areas where the lights still work. It gives off the vibe of a total goth or biker nest, not exactly screaming ‘friends of Dorothy’. There are barely even five people in The Red this evening. I say ‘barely’ because the gentleman who threw up to the tune of ABBA is currently hugging a toilet bowl in the bathroom. A couple, two bears wearing matching dungarees and farmer hats, dance by the jukebox, grinding up against one another and occasionally passing a glance my way. An elderly average Joe in a raincoat nurses his drink in a booth by himself.

  Then there’s Maurice – the leather-clad otter best friend of Jorge. His face glitters with so many piercings that his features droop. The guy can’t finish a sentence without throwing an uncomfortable and often inappropriate innuendo someone’s way. He’s so desperate, I’m tempted to go so far as to jam my cock down his throat just to silence him once and for all. He and Jorge gossip with one another at the edge of the bar.

  It doesn’t seem like anyone will be needing a drink for a while, so I head to the stock room behind the bar. We’ve run out of Glenfiddich, so I may as well bring out another bottle in case one of our patrons wants a glass later. I nab another bottle for myself, hiding it underneath my leather jacket in the staff room on the way out. Why not? It’s New Year’s Eve, and I deserve a treat.

  I check out my reflection in the stained mirror on the way out of the room. Besides for my face, I’m still stupid fine. There’s no point in lying, and it’s not about arrogance. Rather, I’m stating a fact. Expressing gratitude. My chocolate brown hair is fixed in a perfect, shiny coif. My red tank top is stretched over pure muscle, and my arms look fierce in this light.

  I am living proof that Olympian gods still take pleasure in crafting their work. Without having read a single play by Shakespeare, who knew I could be so poetic?

  On my way back with the bottle of Glenfiddich, I find Jorge and Maurice staring and pointing at something at the opposite end of the bar. As I get closer, I hear snippets of their conversation over Lesley Gore’s I only want to be with you.

  “Ah, Christ,” Jorge groans. “What’s he doing here?”

  Maurice grins and puckers his lips. “Who is that?”

  Jorge shakes his head, placing a hand on his best friend’s shoulder. “Don’t even, Maurice. Stacey over there is Domino’s dad.”

  I gasp and the bottle slips from my fingers. It shatters against the floor into a thousand pieces, but I don’t move. My body goes cold. The surge of anxiety from Regina’s office earlier flares up again and suddenly it makes sense. Even growing up, I could always tell when he was close by. It transcended what some would call a ‘gut feeling’, almost as though he’d impressed something on me. A tethering of sorts, a bond that would alert me whenever he was near. It still does, apparently. I once regarded the sensation to be a gift. Now, it’s just a fucking inconvenience, much like him.

  Both Jorge and Maurice jump at the sound of the bottle smashing on the tiles and snap their heads in my direction. Jorge has a taut expression on his face, as though he wants to say something, but doesn’t.

  It’s Maurice who pipes up first. “Wow, Dommi. You look like the sexy MMA fighter I met up with on Grindr once.” He cackles and nudges his friend in the ribs. “That chap made me burst like a plush toy.”

  “Quiet, Maurice,” I snap. “Call me ‘Dommi’ one more time and I’ll rip out your tongue.”

  His eyes go wide and he takes a step back, hands held up in surrender. “Relax, Domino. God, I was just trying to make conversation.”

  Jorge wipes his forehead with the back of his hand, then makes an exaggerated gesture at the mess I’ve made on the floor. “I’ll get a mop for that. Why don’t you go say hi to your father?”

  As he minces toward the staff room I reach out and snatch his arm, pulling him close. “How long has he been here?” I hiss into his ear. I’m not playing around.

  “He just arrived,” Jorge says with a confused glance. He’s never really been able to look me in the eyes for more than a few seconds. “I … I thought he was banned.”

  My eyes return to the red gloom of the bar beyond. Somewhere, a measly few meters away, he’s sitting with his elbows propped on top of the bar or is lounging around in one of the empty booths. Waiting for me, patiently no doubt. A Bengal tiger poised to attack. A lump rises in my throat and I do my best to swallow it down. I haven’t seen him since the last time he was in here. The night he wreaked absolute havoc and nearly got me fired from The Red. That was … Christ, two years ago already? A tragic part of me wonders if he has changed, or if he looks the same. The rest of me wishes he won’t be there when I finally grow a pair of nads to actually find out. My cock twitches and I shiver. Emotions I haven’t dared ponder upon rear their ugly heads and I hate myself for it.

  Jorge whimpers, and I realize I’m still clutching his arm. The tips of my fingers are white from digging into his flesh. I let go of him and offer a quiet apology. I have to pull myself together and face the music – if he’s back after two years he must need something from me. I should find out what it is rather than prolong the inevitable disappointment that’s bound to follow.

  I return to the bar and hold my breath while scanning my dim surroundings. My eyes land on him almost at once. He’s seated by the bar, elbows propped on top of it like I’d assumed. He holds a beer bottle in his right hand and brings it to his lips. Bracing myself for whatever lies in store for me, I roll my shoulders and make my way over. Further away, the bears are fighting over which song to play next on the jukebox. The average Joe cries into his drink.

  I clear my throat. It’s so dry I can barely swallow. “Sir,” I manage to get out, honestly floored that my voice doesn’t quiver, and thankful too.

  He looks up at me and something glints in his eyes. A menacing smile forms over his full lips. “Little Man,” he says. God, that voice. “You look like shit.”

  A muscle in my right eyelid twitches. Leave it to him to point out any flaw he can after not seeing me for two years. The bastard. He, on the other hand, doesn’t look like he’s changed much at all. Sure, his hair is grayer than I remember, and he now wears it short on the sides and combed back on top – but Sir is exactly how I remember him. Tall and sinewy. Eyes the kind of blue a flame turns when it’s scalding hot. Razor-groomed, with a cruel air almost as thick as the cologne he wears.

  He cocks his head to the side lazily, awaiting a response. I give him the only one I can sum up and articulate: “Yeah? Well, you look old.”

  Sir closes his eyes, chuckles and has another sip of beer. “That’s what happens when you reach your forties.” When he opens his eyes, they’re eagle sharp. His smile disappears. “You also learn the true meaning of the word ‘respect’.”

  I shouldn’t push him, but I do. I can’t always be so damne
d submissive around him. At some stage in my life I am going to have to grow up. “Respect is a two-way street, Sir,” I warn. That’s more like it. I embody who I was a few minutes before Sir strolled in from the rain after two years of radio silence. In a world of alphas, I am the twenty-three-year-old Apex. I must not forget who I really am. Who I’ve become without hiding in his shadow. “You shouldn’t be here.”

  “Where should I see the New Year in then?”

  “Anywhere else.”

  “Why?”

  “Because,” I snap as the bears settle on a Lana Del Rey number. “The last time you were here, you broke a guy’s jaw and sent another to ICU.”

  Sir keeps his eyes locked on mine. It’s unnerving not being able to decipher what’s going on in his head. “I don’t remember any of that.”

  I sigh, eventually breaking eye contact. I point at the beer in his hand. “What’s that?”

  “A beer,” he states, taking a swig.

  Anger simmers underneath my skin. “How’d you get it? There’s no one behind the bar.”

  Sir shrugs. He’s wearing a trench coat similar to the one the pale blonde on the street was wearing earlier. “I took it.”

  “You stole it.”

  He toasts the air between us. “I’ll leave cash.”

  The anger breaks through the surface, and I slam my hands down on the bar, but that only makes him chuckle some more. “Fuck’s sake! Why are you here?”

  His smile disappears. “Language, Little Man.”

  Maurice arrives on the scene from out of nowhere, sidling up next to Sir on the other side of the bar. “Hi,” he says cheerfully.

  “Maurice, piss off!” I yell, but he doesn’t look my way once. His eyes are set on Sir, who admires the beer bottle in his hands.

  “You look thirsty,” Maurice ventures, tapping his finger on the bar. “Let me get you a tasty beverage. What’ll it be?”

  Sir says nothing. It’s like Maurice doesn’t exist, which I wish now more than any other time was true.

  “C’mon, big guy,” Maurice crones. “Work with me here. No one ever says no to me buying them a drink …”

  “I doubt that,” I say. Why won’t he bother the weepy average Joe instead? The moron has no idea who he’s messing with. I’ve known Sir since the age of six, and even I don’t know him as well as I should. My mind backtracks to the night of my sixteenth birthday and I shudder. Not knowing is for the best.

  Maurice clicks his tongue when he sees Sir isn’t paying him the attention he craves. “Okay, handsome. Let me cut to the chase, shall I? The vibe here is totes droll, this is probably the busiest it’s going to get.” He leans in closer and a chill coils down my spine. Maurice is sticking his head into a shark tank. “Want to go back to your place … or mine?”

  One of Sir’s hands leaves his beer bottle and comes to rest over Maurice’s right eye. Sir pinches one of his eyebrow piercings between his index finger and thumb. I draw in shallow breaths. The anxiety is making my head split.

  “I’ll let you spread me open like a hamburger bun,” Maurice giggles. “And you can butter me up however you see –”

  With a sickening tear, Sir rips Maurice’s eyebrow piercing off his face. Blood squirts in dark rivulets onto the bar counter as the leather-clad otter screams and falls over backwards.

  “You fucking homophobe!” he screeches from the sticky floor. I lean over to get a closer look. Maurice is covering his wound as blood trickles between his fingers. “You gaybasher! How could you?!”

  Sir laughs and winks at me. He makes a show of flicking the piercing at Maurice on the floor. I hug myself. A fusion of shock, disgust and fear on my face no doubt gives me away. He’s a psychopath, brutally unpredictable. And I’m tethered to him forever.

  “What’s going on? Everything alright?” I hear Regina call from somewhere in the thick of smoke floating in the air of the bar.

  “Jesus Christ,” I whisper, too scared to take my eyes off Sir. “Yes, everything is fine, Regina.”

  She pushes a bar stool aside, her attention first on a squirming Maurice, then Sir. She narrows her eyes and pouts her chapped lips. “You. Why the hell are you back in my bar?”

  Sir clears his throat and stands up, slamming the bottle on the bar. Some beer sloshes out, mixing with Maurice’s blood on the counter. At his full height, the beast towers over Regina even though she’s wearing her Chinatown Louboutins. “I’m here to see my son.”

  “I’m not …” My voice trails off when Sir shoots a glare at me. I hate myself for feeling so small. Apex amongst predators? What a laugh – I’m nothing more than a little bitch.

  Despite being dwarfed by Sir, Regina holds her ground. “I don’t care who you’re here to see, whether it’s Baby Jane over here or Madonna, you don’t show your face here, hunty.” She balls her skeletal hands into fists and places them on her hips. “The fact that you have the audacity to show up here after what you did –”

  “Yeah, yeah. I broke a guy’s arm and put his friend in a coma.” Sir turns to me and winks. “Apparently.”

  My stomach churns. I bring a hand to my mouth and fight any urge to vomit. I must get out of here, I need air – the colder, the better. The floor gives way and my head spins. Sir has reappeared in my life again for all of five minutes … and already my world is falling apart. I’m suffocating. My lungs fill up with the smog and stink of blood and sweat.

  Regina is stabbing Sir in the chest with a clawed finger and his fist connects with her throat. She joins Maurice on the toxic floor as I bolt from the scene. Sir’s too preoccupied to notice I’ve run off. This is my chance.

  I sprint for the exit, running into a stack of boxes and slipping on the Glenfiddich that Jorge hasn’t yet mopped up. I have a glass shard in my hand from trying to scramble to my feet, but I still don’t stop.

  I keep going as though my life depends on it. I cannot shake the feeling that it actually does.

  Domino

  The rain pelts down onto my head and shoulders like marbles as I finally make it outside. Standing in the middle of the alleyway, my stomach turns once more and this time I don’t hold back. With my left hand propped against the wall for support, I bend over and let it all out. I don’t stop until I feel completely hollow.

  I wipe my wet hand over my face and suck in as much of the damp air as my lungs will allow. I look up at the dark sky ahead as lightning zigzags above. There’ll be no fireworks tonight. Knowing I’m not the only one having a miserable New Year’s Eve comforts me, but only just.

  At the other end of the alleyway leading to the street, something shifts between the shadows. I think it’s a mongrel, until a figure steps into a pool of light illuminated by a solitary streetlamp. When I see the dark trench coat, the muscles in my jaw tense, but it isn’t Sir. Rather, it’s the pale, blonde man from before. The one with the strange gait. His arrival on the scene doesn’t exactly put me at ease. If anything, it angers me, especially when all he does is stand and stare.

  “Need something?” I call over the downpour. “This isn’t a cruising joint.” The pale man doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t move. And he’s pissing me off. “If you want to stick your cock in something, I suggest visiting the bar.” I nod my head in the direction of The Red, then smirk. “Otherwise, I hear electric sockets are always up for making friends.”

  The man remains stock-still. A few seconds drag by and I begin to wonder whether he’s real at all. Perhaps some neighborhood kids set up a mannequin at the mouth of the alleyway next to the bar to creep us queers out. I call out to the pale man again, but go quiet when the exit door swings open, revealing Sir behind it.

  I swallow and take a step back. Mud squelches underneath my shoes and I pay careful attention not to stand in my own vomit.

  “Who are you talking to?” Sir asks. He pulls a white handkerchief from his coat pocket and rubs off the blood on his knuckles.

  The viscous sensation of nausea comes back, but after a moment it subsides. I accept
my defeat. I won’t be able to shake him, at least not tonight. But I won’t make it easy for him either. I’ll fight my way out if I have to.

  “I was speaking to God,” I say, leaning back against the cold alley wall. The pale man has disappeared. I shiver, already soaking wet from the rain. Even my bleeding hand with glass sticking out of my palm is numb. “I was in the middle of asking him why he dragged you back into my life.”

  Sir finishes dabbing his knuckles and throws the handkerchief to the muddy ground. “Quit being so dramatic. The color doesn’t suit you.” He gestures for me to join him in the doorway. “Get out of the rain, you’ll catch a cold.”

  I run my good hand through my hair, squeezing water from it. “You’re not my dad.”

  Sir’s eyes darken. “I raised you like I was for ten years. Until you ran away.”

  “Do you blame me?”

  Sir glowers and looks away. “Let me take you home.”

  I shake my head, any energy I had reserved for this conversation now depleted. “Just leave me alone. Please.”

  Sir’s eyes narrow and land on me once more. “Domino, it’s time to go.” I can’t read his expression, but I don’t have to. Sir radiates a primal danger that shouldn’t still exist – he doesn’t belong in a modern world. His kind died out hundreds of years ago on ancient battlefields or in dark pagan temples. Yet here he is – a reaper dead-set on claiming what’s his. And he won’t let me escape.

  “I don’t want to go with you,” I moan, startled by how childish I sound. Another shiver runs up my back and over my arms as I breathe out clouds of air. “Why can’t you accept that? Why won’t you just, for once, lis –”

  I don’t get to finish my sentence. Sir’s gnarled knuckles greet the side of my face.