Page 23

Finn

I ’ve never been in such a place. Sure, in college I visited my share of bars, but this is something out of a movie.

One of those movies, set in a scuzzy old town full of cranky people ready for a fight.

The air is thick with cigarette smoke, and I have to suppress a cough—no sense in drawing attention to myself.

The lighting is poor, the music old, and the guy behind the bar only has one eye—the patch giving him the appearance of a scraggly pirate who holds the keys to the moonshine.

While it isn’t my usual haunt, Wyatt seems to be right at home.

He even waves to a few of what I can only assume are the regulars, as we walk in from the cold.

We walk up to the bar, and Wyatt orders us a couple of beers while I try not to look anyone directly in the eyes, or eye, in the case of the bartender.

The last few days have been so hard on me; not being able to talk with Wyatt about what’s going on at the bank has been sickening.

I know I can trust him, but I can’t bear to see the disappointment on his face when I reveal our current financial situation.

This little outing, no matter how far out of my norm it might be, will do me good and I’m not going to waste the opportunity to get closer to him.

He is something special and I’m not ready to let it go.

“Want to play some pool?” Wyatt asks, already heading toward the back of the bar where the blue felted tables are located.

“Sure,” I say under my breath. Might as well go deeper into the labyrinth. I’m already uncomfortable, but maybe playing a few rounds of pool will distract me from my own potential demise.

There are four tables and three are being used. The unoccupied table is smack in the middle of the room. I would have preferred something along the wall or in the corner, but Wyatt is already racking the balls.

“Do you know how to play 9-ball?” he asks. The sparkle in his eye is intoxicating. He is as competitive as me, and I can already tell we are going to be fierce competition for each other.

I nod. “Is Doris’ apple pie the best you’ve ever had?”

A huge smile spreads across his face. His pearly whites shine in the light that hangs low over the table. “Perfect. Should we flip a quarter to see who breaks?”

“My friends in college had all kinds of ways to determine who went first, but I’m good with whatever you want to do. I’ll leave it in your capable hands.” I waggle my eyebrows at him in mock flirting.

Or is he really flirting?

Wyatt walks around the table so he has to brush past me to get to the front to break the balls.

His butt slides past my crotch, sending goosebumps spreading across my body.

I look around to see if anyone has noticed, but everyone is deep into their play.

The table closest to us has the rowdiest of the bunch.

I noticed earlier when we first got here, Wyatt nods or smiles at everyone but them.

I find that curious.

Crash . The balls spread across the table in an explosion of sound and colors. Two balls drop into the side pockets. At first, Wyatt fist pumps, but then quickly realizes a solid and stripe have gone in—essentially, we are tied.

“Hope you liked that,” Wyatt says with a smirk. “I didn’t want you not to at least get one in before I won.”

“Oh, a shit-talker, huh?” If there weren’t other people around, I would walk right over to him and smack him on that hard butt of his.

The need to touch him and feel his muscular chest and ass in my hands is overwhelming.

My stomach flutters with butterflies every time he bends over to take a shot—I can’t even pay attention to the score, my mind is working so hard on what he would look like naked in the shower, hot water rushing over his body.

“Finn?” Wyatt asks. “It’s your turn.”

“Oh,” I say with a laugh and then seductively bite my bottom lip. “My bad, I got distracted.”

He must catch on to my attempts at flirting because his left eyebrow shoots up and there is a naughty look in his eyes.

I scan the table looking for a decent shot when I spot the 4-ball near the corner pocket.

I can make this shot in my sleep. Stepping past Wyatt, I lean forward, bring the stick to the cue ball, and aim.

Right as I pull my arm back to shoot, I see Wyatt out of the corner of my eye tweak his nipple and blow me a kiss.

The stick grazes the cue ball, sending it wide, causing me to scratch.

I stand up and stare at my failed shot and then back at Wyatt.

I narrow my eyes and stick out my chin in mock annoyance.

Truth be told, I want to tear his clothes off and fuck him right on the pool table, but clearly that isn’t a possibility at the moment.

“Sorry, kid,” he says, laughing. “Tough break.”

“Tough break?” I walk over to him and playfully smack him on the arm.

“Hey now,” Wyatt playfully says, backing away with his hands up. “No violence.”

I laugh.

“I’ve got to hit the head,” Wyatt says, gulping down the last of his beer. “Be right back.”

As Wyatt disappears around the corner of the western end of the bar, I turn my attention to the table. There is only one of Wyatt’s balls left and all but one of mine.

Forfeit and start over.

I go about gathering up the balls from pockets and rolling them to one end so it will be easier to rack. As I reach into the last corner pocket, I collide with one of the rowdy guys from the nearest table.

“Sorry,” I say, waving. “My bad.”

“You have a problem?” The asshole next to him comes charging over, immediately getting into my personal space.

He towers over me. The hulk of a man has a good six inches on me in both height and width. His scruffy beard, unkempt hair, and jailhouse tattoos that cover his neck and left jaw make me take a step back—only there is nowhere to go. I am already butted up against the pool table.

I put both hands up in surrender. “I’m really sorry, man. I didn’t mean to bump into your friend. I should have looked where I was going.”

The ogre of a man leans in, face-to-face with me. His breath reeks of corn nuts, beer, and stale cigarettes. I want to gag, but fear paralyzes me. This guy is going to tear me limb from limb and there isn’t a damn thing I can do about it.

His meaty hand grabs me by the shirt, just under the chin.

What am I going to do? I try reaching for my pool stick, but it is out of reach.

All the balls have been rolled to the other end of the table.

All I have is my two tiny little fists; that would be like a mouse fighting a tiger.

I swallow hard, waiting for the man’s other fist to inflict his first blow.

Please, God, not my face.

“Put him down, Sasquatch,” what sounds like the voice of an angel says, as Wyatt comes walking over to us, holding a pool stick. “Put him down. Now.”

Sasquatch drops me like a sack of potatoes. My back hits the corner of the table and I slide to the floor, the wind knocked out of me.

“You okay?” Wyatt asks, not taking his eyes off the other guy.

I eke out a, “Yes,” but then cough until I see stars.

I hear Wyatt say, “We don’t want any trouble, dude. We’re going to walk out of here and leave.”

“Too late for that, tough guy,” he says to Wyatt.

It is clear the guy is itching for a fight. Thankfully, I am able to breathe again and stand. There is no way this isn’t going to get ugly, and I can’t let Wyatt get killed because some asshole is picking on me.

Before I can step in to try and bring the heat down in the room, Sasquatch takes a swing at Wyatt.

My heart nearly stops, until I see him duck out of the way and follow it up with a solid hit to the asshole’s stomach.

Within seconds, the other guys who are playing pool with Sasquatch, circle around cheering on their friend and mocking Wyatt.

I don’t know what to do. Grabbing for a pool stick, I hold it in front of me, diagonal across my body. I’ve never been in a fight before, and actually attacking another person with a weapon is absolutely foreign to me.

The huge guy grabs Wyatt around the upper body, slamming his fist down over and over again onto the top of his head.

Wyatt counter punches him, but his blows aren’t landing like the other guys are.

The crowd forming around them is getting louder and larger by the minute.

Wouldn’t the bartender come and break this up?

That’s when I see the one-eyed idiot, standing with the crowd taking bets and collecting cash from everyone. “Let go of him!” I yell at the top of my lungs. “Stop this!”

No one in the bar even looks in my direction.

In the meantime, Wyatt has managed to break himself loose of the larger man’s grip and landed two solid fists to his face.

Blood gushes from the man’s nose. I can’t imagine his eyes haven’t filled with tears, obscuring his vision.

Once again, Wyatt boxes the man twice in the stomach and when he doubles over Wyatt lands a punch to his face.

The man staggers backward but catches himself on the pool table.

Shaking his head, blood and sweat fly through the air, little droplets landing on my arms and shirt.

As if reborn, the large man changes his stance and tactics.

This time, as Wyatt closes the distance between them, the man swings out first, making contact with Wyatt’s face—his head snapping back on impact.

Next, the man steps forward and side-kicks Wyatt square in the chest, sending him sprawling out across the concrete floor.

Get up, Wyatt. Get up .

I rush to his side and kneel next to him. The crowd is cheering, and the monster is getting high-fives from everyone. The bartender is counting bills on the pool table when the huge guy steps over to us, his shadow darkening the floor around me.

Wyatt lifts himself up from the floor with shaky arms, sweat and blood dripping from his face.

His hair is matted against his face, and his beard is soaked.

As he tries to get up, a small spot of blood where his face had been stains the concrete floor.

“Don’t try and move. You’re hurt,” I say, urging him not to stand.

There’s no telling if he’s suffered a concussion, or worse.

“If he’s not unconscious,” Sasquatch snarls, “this fight ain’t done.”

I stand, placing myself between this monster and Wyatt. “Don’t you touch him.”

The entire bar erupts in laughter, but I don’t care.

My heart is pounding so hard, I feel like I have superhuman strength.

I widen my stance and continue to hold the pool stick across my chest. Sasquatch turns and looks, egging on the crowd, getting them to start chanting something I can’t fully hear over the whooshing of my own heartbeat.

Without warning, Sasquatch moves insanely fast. He is nearly upon me by the time I register movement.

Without thinking, I stab out with the thicker end of the stick, catching him in the face as he dives at me.

The hulk of a man falls to the floor and begins coughing.

As he raises his head, blood begins pouring from his nose and mouth.

Where yellowed, chewing tobacco-stained teeth had once been, there is now a dark cave since he was forced to swallow his own teeth.

Sasquatch roars like a crazed beast and starts to crawl toward me.

I want to run but can’t leave Wyatt, who stands but is wobbly at best. In the best Karate Kid move I can muster, I crane-kick this monster right in the jaw.

His head slams back almost as fast as his eyes roll back in his head.

He flops to the floor where he doesn’t get back up. At least, not right away.

“Wyatt, can you walk?” I wrap my arms around him.

He nods.

I help him toward the door and grab the keys from his pocket.

The wind hits us in the face as we exit the bar, but I still don’t feel much of anything.

My adrenaline is surging through my veins.

Opening the front passenger door, I help Wyatt get inside and slam the door behind him.

Starting the engine, I throw the car into gear and fishtail out of the parking lot, heading straight for Wildwood.

Doris and Miranda will know how to fix him up better than I can. My brave Wyatt has saved me, and I him. Tears well up and flow down my cheeks as I drive home. We make a good team, but I hope we never have to fight for our lives like that again.

By the time we reach Wildwood, I can barely keep my eyes open. I have nothing left in the proverbial tank and I need to lie down. But, what’s important right now is Wyatt. I can’t leave him.

I come up alongside them as Miranda and Doris take Wyatt into the kitchen and start working on him. “What I can I do to help?”

The two women turn to me, a mixture of concern and anger on their faces.

I didn’t blame them at all for being upset.

Wyatt might as well be their son, but I am sure once they hear what happened, they’ll know it wasn’t all my fault.

“Nothing, I think you’ve done enough for one night,” Doris says as she grabs ice from the freezer.

“It’s not his fault,” Wyatt says before I can even open my mouth to respond. “Piece of shit at the bar was going to kill him. I couldn’t let that happen.”

Miranda put her hand on her hip and sighs. “It’s been a long while since you’ve come home beaten up like this, Wyatt. You’ve given us both such a fright.”

“I truly am sorry,” he says. “It was unavoidable. I promise it won’t happen again.”

“Sure,” Doris says as she swats at him with a dishrag. “Until next time.”

Everyone gives a chuckle as they continue to swarm around him like two mother hens gathering their wayward chick. “I’ll head to bed then if you don’t need me.”

“Get some sleep, Finn,” Wyatt says.

I go straight to my room to sleep. Before I can drift off, though, I start thinking about my father’s journal. I hope he has some wise words or something important to say—I could use it right about now.