by Lisa N. Paul
Nodding solemnly, Nixon placed the file on the coffee table. “This is their address and phone number. In case you change your mind. And Kyle, no matter what, I will always love you. I will always choose you. And I will always be there for you. You are the only person who has ever stayed by my side. That being said, I need to let go of my anger before it kills me. I advise you to do the same.” Nixon clapped Kyle’s shoulder and walked out, leaving Kyle standing alone in his apartment with a manila folder, a shit load of emotions, and a full bottle of whiskey.
No wonder that Sunday dinner went to hell. He should have never taken his shit out on Lyla, but with his mind saturated in alcohol, all he saw was a beautiful, independent, self-made woman living life by her own rules. All thoughts of their close friendship up until that point vanished, leaving images of Kyle’s mother and her negligence behind.
Fuck, he thought, rubbing the tight muscles on the back of his neck. His mind was still too messed up to go back there. The buzz was long since gone, and there was no way he’d be able to clear it enough to sleep without some liquid memory loss.
“Ly,” he called out, knowing she would hear him from anywhere in the house. “On your way back, would you mind bringing me a shot of vodka?”
“Yeah, Kyle,” her voice travelled from upstairs, “I would mind. I’m already getting you a pillow and blankets. Does it look like I’m running the fucking Ritz here? Pour yourself a drink.” The instant grin that lifted his lips followed by the comfort that slid over his soul, told him his decision to come here was one of the best choices he had made in a long time. Unable to contain his chuckle, he let it rip into a fit of laughter. Christ, when’s the last time I laughed?
“Some customer service you got goin’ on here. Geez, Ly. While I go serve myself, can I make you anything?” Lyla breezed past, hip-checking him non-too- lightly on the way to the family room, and automatically started making the couch into a cozy resting place. This was their routine…or at least it had been before the accident, when he stayed on her couch at least a couple nights a week.
“Yeah, I’ll take a shot, too. But, Kyle, each of us gets only one. You already smell like a frat house, and we both look like shit.” Her glower told him she was serious about having just one. That particular glare was saved for rare occasions. Therefore, he did not intend to fuck with her. He left the family room and headed into the kitchen to pour their drinks.
One drink. No talking. No comparing sexual conquests. No family sharing. No uncomfortable silences. They were just two friends taking a well-deserved and incredibly needed drink, and then attempting to grab sleep that was equally as needed. As he put the cap on the vodka and slid it back into the freezer, Lyla stepped next to him and sighed. He knew the best way to shut her down was to dig into her private thoughts. Instead, he focused on the thing he knew she’d accept.
“Come here, Ly. Let me hug you. You look like you could use one of my famous hugs.” With her head down, Lyla stepped into his open arms. After a brief moment, he heard sniffing. “Are you crying?” The thought of Lyla actually shedding tears in front of him nearly had his knees buckling.
“No, Ky. Crying is for pussies. I’m smelling you. You stink of cheap, 1980’s perfume. Was your dick in a bottle of Jean Naté?” It took all of about fifteen seconds for Lyla’s serious face to split into her typical ball-busting smile.
His small chuckle turned into a deep chortle as he nodded his head in shame. “Yeah, and her voice was just as bad as her perfume. It took a concerted effort not to call her Sinus Infection to her face.”
“Oh my God, you are such a pig.” Lyla wiped the unshed moisture from her eyes as she continued to laugh at her friend’s nasty behavior. She wrapped her long fingers around the shot glass and lifted it in a toast like movement. “Ky, you’re disgusting, but EVERY man falls. I can’t wait to meet the woman that pushes you, ‘cause she’ll have not only your heart but your balls. Cheers.”
“Whatever.” Kyle cringed at his lackluster come-back before allowing the familiar heat of the liquor warm the back of his throat. Lyla grinned, obviously happy with results of her joke, as she retrieved two bottles of water from the refrigerator, handing one to him and immediately drinking the contents of the other. He took a long pull from his water bottle and watched as his friend dimmed the lights in the kitchen. She never kept her house completely dark. There were so many incredible and puzzling nuances about Lyla Dalton that he was certain it could take multiple life times to figure her out.
“Hey, Ly, do you ever wish that our kiss would have ended up differently?” He stared as her eyes first widened and then narrowed into small slits as she swallowed loudly and glared at him with a half empty bottle of water in her hand. He’d never forget that kiss.
Truth was, at the beginning of their friendship, Kyle had a mad crush on Lyla, and she later admitted to mutual feelings. But he was too intimidated by the sexy sprite to act on his desires and then they became friends. While he had no problem with the infamous F&R (fuck and release) practice he was known for, there was something about Lyla that stopped him from having a meaningless one night stand. After the Sunday night dinner debacle, when Kyle finally got the balls and the courage to apologize to Lyla, the moment presented itself and the two friends, both vulnerable and hurting, finally gave in to their curiosity and kissed.
“Oh stop all the girly drama, Dalton, we are never going back for seconds, relax.” He nudged her shoulder, trying to lighten the mood as he left the kitchen heading for the family room. Smirking as she followed closely behind.
“Oookay,” Lyla stretched out the word showing her confusion to his question.
“What I meant was, if that kiss, our kiss would have…you know, not sucked,” he chuckled, remembering the night clearly “we could have actually been something.”
“Yeah.” Her brows lifted, and her lips curled up in a devilish smile. “A total fucking disaster. Kyle, you and I would never, I repeat, never have worked. Not then and not now. You know that right?” While the question was light and airy, he could see the concern etched in the lines on her forehead. She had no reason for concern. He completely agreed.
“I fucking love you.” He rubbed his jaw as her eyes shot wide open in what appeared like fear. “Relax, I love you like a sister. Christ, I’d be offended had I not been party to that kiss.” He cringed.
“Oh, stop it. It wasn’t the kiss that was bad. I thought we discussed it that night. The actual kiss was really…nice.” A rare, shy smile spread across Lyla’s face. It was a smile that reached her eyes and made them sparkle, even in the middle of the night.
“You’re wounding me here, Dalton.”
“Marx, your skull must truly be made of steel. You’re stubborn as hell, and you don’t listen to shit anyone says. It’s the only way you could’ve possibly survived that accident and came out still acting like an ass. Now, let me repeat what I said the night we kissed, One day, when the time is right, you’ll find the woman that kiss was meant for. It just wasn’t me.”
Chuckling, he admitted, “No my friend, it certainly wasn’t you, for multiple reasons. First, it really felt like I was kissing my sister. I know I don’t have a little sis, but if I did, I assume that’s what it would be like…blech.” He laughed out loud when Lyla punched his arm. “Second, there is a six foot, four inch dude that would have no qualms murdering me, and smiling as he did it, if he ever caught wind of my lips on his girl.”
“I am not his anything.” Her denial was too quick and too adamant for Kyle not to chuckle again.
“Honey, I didn’t even mention his name and you knew who I was talking about. Denial ain’t just a river in Egypt.”
“I hate you, Kyle Marx.” She tossed a pillow at his face.
Catching the soft cushion and yawning, he responded, “I love you, too, Lyla Dalton. Good night.” When he heard her bedroom door click closed from upstairs, he switched off the lamp next to the sofa. With the room blanketed in darkness, he drifted off into a dreamle
ss sleep.
“It’s two-thirty in the morning. Are you baking,” Elliot walked into the kitchen and made a show of sniffing loudly, “brownies?” Cate turned to face her best friend. Elliot’s hair resembled confetti after a New Year’s Eve party, with wild corkscrews tossed in all directions. At one time, it could have been a beautiful decoration, but now it looked more like a beautiful disaster. Even half asleep with sheet marks on the side of her flawless skin, Cate thought Elliot was perfect. There were many times when Cate wished she could be more like her friend, energized and happy. Elliot’s melodic voice still laced with a hint of southern accent that came from living in Texas as a small child. She had a twang that only seeped out when she was extremely sad or incredibly irate, neither a common occurrence for an upbeat and happy blonde. Cate loved how Elliot was able to take life and all of its craziness, make it look easy, comfortable—like a pair of well-worn jeans. “Yeah, I couldn’t sleep,” Cate shrugged, “I figured I’d bake.” It didn’t take Dionne Warwick and her Psychic Friends to know that she didn’t sleep well. In fact, she rarely slept more than a handful of hours a night. Being that she spent more nights under the same roof with Elliot than not, her sleep habits weren’t a secret. However, since Elliot’s showdown with the lightning bolt, it seemed like her friend had taken to crashing at Cate’s house more than her own apartment, hence spending less time sleeping as well. Cate questioned her friend about the frequent over-night visits once, but Elliot had shrugged, claiming that while she liked having her own place, she also missed the days when the pair was just a room away from each other. Sure, Cate could have pressed for a deeper answer, knowing one most likely existed, but the truth was she enjoyed Elliot’s presence in her home. Selfishly, she let it go and relished the comfort of her best friend.
Avoiding eye contact, Cate faced the stove, pricking the brownies with a toothpick to test their readiness. She knew full well that the moment her friend locked eyes on her the questions would start…again. From the stovetop to the sink, she moved fluidly, tilting her neck from side to side, stretching her tired body before she began to wash the dirty bowls.
“Honey, do you honestly believe that avoiding me is gonna shut me up? And don’t you dare wash that spoon. My goodness, what a waste of brownie batter. Gimme that.” Quickly crossing the space from the counter to the sink, Elliot swiped the mixing spoon from Cate’s hand and took a huge lick. “Mmm, you make the best brownies. Are these raspberry flavored?”
“Uh ha, I thought I would try something fruity this time, instead of using peanut butter.” To Cate, baking was soothing, hence she spent a lot of time doing just that. She was able to lose herself in the exactness and precision of baking. There was no room for extra thoughts when it came to confections, and that was exactly how she liked to live her life. No thinking, no feeling…just being.
“Ells, I’m not avoiding you,” she lied, thankful that she was facing the wall instead of her friend. She hated lying. Therefore, she did it horribly and was busted every time. “I just couldn’t sleep. I have a lot on my mind with work and stuff.”
“Care to talk to me about the stuff?” Elliot’s voice trailed off at the end of her question. Cate’s hands stilled in the soapy water, the dream that had her up in cold sweats a little over an hour ago still fresh in her mind—sitting hands and feet bound, shaking, scared.
Breathing in deep and then exhaling, Cate turned off the spigot but didn’t turn to face her friend. “It’s just stuff.” Finality of the discussion was evident in her tone. “Now go to bed. I’ll see you in the morning.” Her friend’s sigh of defeat hung in the air between them. Tears pricked Cate’s eyes as unwanted emotion tried to claw its way out of her body.
“Okay… I’ll let you be. Good night, Catey. I love you.”
“You, too,” she whispered, facing the wall, waiting for the click of her friend’s bedroom door to close before allowing just one stubborn tear to fall. She made quick work of finishing her clean-up and headed back to bed where a fitful few hours sleep kept her occupied until the sun finally peeked through the clouds.
Better Choices
KYLE SAT PERCHED on a bar stool, an empty shot glass in his left hand and the bottle of vodka in his right. The bar wasn’t set to open for another hour, and while he had already been back to work for two weeks, since being released from house arrest, his bruised body still rebelled from the heavy pace of a busy bartender. He’d started back slowly, taking mostly day shifts and quieter evenings. The previous night was busy, but nothing in comparison to the crowd the current night would bring, and his ribs already ached, his knee throbbed, and fire burned through his lungs with each deep breath. Another shot or two and I should be comfortably numb. He knew the thoughts were lies, the alcohol had stopped silencing his mind a while back but he still continued to drink hoping to beat the demons back long enough to get him through the shift. Anger swelled through his chest as he glared at the bottle in his hand. He’d promised himself as a child, as a teenager, hell up until last year, that he would never use booze to manage his emotions, but here he was doing just that…again.
Not needing the alcohol but needing to turn off the pain that waged a war in his brain, he poured another drink and cursed himself for the life he’d been living over the past eleven months. His parents had already taken so much from him, and now he was trying to “just make it through the night”—since when?
Work had never been an obligation for him, it was always his passion. Some people may have thought he was just a bar tender, but to Kyle, it was much more. Eyeing his surroundings, his mind screamed for him to remember—the only thing that ever brought him any real happiness, gave him any true comfort, was Danny’s on Main and those who worked here with him. The new place gleamed with promise, a pledge of devotion to each of the people who invested their heart into the four walls that surrounded him. The question was, did he still have a heart? Or had they taken it with them when they exited his life for good? Hell, part of him knew better. He was a fucking grown-up. What was lost he had pissed away with his own actions. Maybe he was no better than they were. That thought definitely required another gulp of vodka with a vodka chaser. Yep, that should tide him over for a while.
“I still feel butterflies in my stomach every time I walk through the doors of this place.” Ashley sighed as she and Ryan strolled into the bar laughing, being their nauseatingly cute selves. “It amazes me what we were able to accomplish in such a short time.” Ashley glanced around the newly constructed and re-opened Danny’s on Main, a look of sheer bliss blanketing her face. “It feels like yesterday we stood here in the rubble and wondered how we could make something out of nothing, and now look. This place is better than it ever was, and in the few weeks since we re-opened, I think it’s safe to say our whole crowd is back and then some. What we need is a huge grand opening party.” Ashley’s smile illuminated her gorgeous face as she tied the black cocktail apron around her slender waist.
“Hey, Ky, this is your first Thursday night back behind the bar since the accident. Do you think you’ll be okay?” He heard the sincerity in her voice and saw it in her eyes as her gaze swept from his face to his injured leg, but his frustration answered her question before his common sense jumped into the game.
“Um, yeah, Ash, I think I can handle tending bar. It ain’t rocket science, and contrary to popular belief, I’m not a total fucking moron. Jesus!” As he huffed out his response, he mindlessly poured more liquid into the shot glass.
“Dude.” Kyle felt Ryan’s close proximity before the glass hit his lips. “We all understand you’re going through something. You chose to go it alone and keep the weight solely on your shoulders, and while I don’t agree, I can’t stop you.” Ryan leaned in closer to Kyle, only an inch separating the two large men. “But I can and will stop you from treating Ashley or, for that matter, any of our girls like shit. So back it the fuck down, man.” The deep growl in Ryan’s voice and the stubborn set of his jaw informed Kyle that there was no room
for leeway or argument, inhaling, Kyle lifted the small glass to his lips and let the clear liquid drain to the back of his throat. No doubt, the numbness would set in soon and the night would be easier, less painful, and less raw. He could deal with life as soon as it went numb. Numb is exactly where he needed to be.
“Did you hear me?” Ryan snarled.
While Kyle stood a few inches taller than Ryan, Ryan outweighed him by a good twenty-five pounds, and every damn pound was solid muscle.
“Back off, man. I heard you. Ash, call off your guard dog!” He grabbed his pack of cigarettes from the bar top, and eased off the stool. “I’ll be back.”
Kyle had always loved the tinking noise his Zippo made when he flipped open the metal top followed by the perfect scrape as the blue and orange flame came to life in his hands. He’d spent months studying the process since his accident. First while he was healing at his brother’s apartment and then during his thirty days of house arrest. The good ole state of Pennsylvania didn’t take too kindly to repeat offenders of the DUI type. In fact, he could thank PA for single-handedly upping his smoking habit from one to two packs a day; he was bored as hell sitting in his house.
Tink…scrape. Kyle leaned into the flame and lit his cigarette. Inhaling deeply, he let his eye lids drift closed for just a moment. There was a peaceful feel to the darkness without the nightmares, the memories, the hell, and her. His angel, the brightness in all that dark. She didn’t belong in his hell. Sleeping already sucked, and now he had another reason to avoid what lay just beyond his consciousness. He needed to keep her safe from the twisted mind-fuck that was his dreams. So he forced himself not to sleep. Between the steady incline of booze, drugs, and women, he almost found the perfect way of negating sleep altogether, but sometimes, just sometimes, his body shut down for a few minutes, and he dozed without meaning to… You’re a worthless piece of shit. You’re not fit to breathe the oxygen I allow you. She should have taken you when she bailed and left me the goddamn house. But no, she took her money and left me the fucking garbage. But hey, you do make a handy ashtray.” His father grabbed him by the upper arm, his large fingers wrapped around Kyle’s skinny bicep, no doubt leaving bruises on his already marred skin. “Don’t fight me, you worthless son-of-a-bitch, or I’ll use your brother’s back instead. And we know how much he enjoyed that the last time…don’t we?” The spittle from his father’s mouth slapped Kyle in the face with the same harshness as his alcohol saturated breath. With memories of caring for Nixon’s burns still fresh in his mind, Kyle turned his head and tried to remove himself from his body. He would take his father’s wrath if only to protect his little brother.