Page 1 of Hurt
1
FULL OF BROKEN THOUGHTS, I CANNOT REPAIR
Atwo-lane highway cut through the desert. There was nothing as far as the eye could see—inky, impenetrable blackness where foreboding nightmares lurked. It was the kind of highway where you could drive for a hundred miles and never see another soul. Far enough out that you might be on another planet. The radio coverage was spotty. You would be lucky to hear bursts of staticky AM talk shows.
Just past the sign for Mile 227, there was a glow. A soft brightness that looked foreign, a small bubble of a light that struggled to stave off the oppressive blackness that choked it. Its very existence was strange enough to draw attention to it.
The battered sign stuck into the gravel parking lot said, ‘The Sunspot Bar.’ It was the kind of dilapidated place that one would expect in the middle of nowhere. The kind of place that any sane person would avoid like the plague. Between its corrugated steel siding, wooden patches, blacked-out windows, and remote location, it wasn’t getting a Yelp review anytime soon.
Not that you could find the place on the internet. Even GPS couldn’t take you there.
Through the thin door, you could occasionally hear music pumping. A staccato rhythm playing for the nocturnal creatures scurrying around in the dark. Anything from thethumpa thumpathat the clubs in the city played to the soft keening of a country singer pouring his heart out for a glass of whiskey.
For all its faults, it was an unpretentious sort of place. The kind of place that welcomed anyone as long as they kept to themselves.
The Sunspot was darkly lit and decorated with just about anything—old license plates, fancy glass, and gold chandeliers. Even a stuffed Capybara was mounted to the wall. To the right was a little stage, complete with a stripper pole and spotlight lighting. Why? No one knew. It was as if one day, The Sunspot appeared and hadn’t changed since that day. On any given night, you could walk in to see a strip tease or a local band crooning away off-key. Sometimes there was no entertainment. The only sound in the place was the racking of pool balls and the ice clinking in the second-rate alcohol.
No one was coming to The Sunspot for quality alcohol—they came for the burn. For the unpleasantly pleasant sensation of cheap liquor running down their throats and igniting a fire in their bellies. Some people needed it to forget. Some people needed it to remember.
And some needed it just to feel something. Anything.
It didn’t matter why.
The staff at The Sunspot was as eclectic as the place itself. Anyone from barely legal teenagers to old men who may or not have been around long enough to see the asteroid hit the dinosaurs. Boys, girls, and anyone who could sway their hips to a tune were up on the pole. If you were expecting to see full nudity, you’d be disappointed. The Sunspot was topless only, but it didn’t really matter. With the alcohol running through your veins and the dim lighting, you couldn’t really see anything anyway.
It was an illusion. A beautiful mirage shimmering in the middle of nowhere.
Occasionally, men and women dressed in smart suits would crunch through the gravel parking lot. They would leave their high-end cars, always in black, idling in park and enter the place. Most of them would never take their sunglasses off, preferring to see the place through a dark tint.
No one greeted them or asked for their order. In fact, it seemed like the employees in the place seemed to scatter. Patrons who knew better kept their eyes on their drinks.
The Sunspot had one distinct feature that couldn’t be found just by looking at the place—it straddled the border between two of the largest gangs in the state. No one knows just how The Sunspot came to be the neutral zone for the gangs. There was no written history, and no one who was around at the time was alive today.
Anyone from any gang could come in and get a drink, relax a while, spend some money, and let their guard down. For the right price, they could even convince the owner to dust off her medical degree and treat their wounds. Despite being out of practice for years, her hands were still steady, and they called her the best in the business for a reason.
Maintaining neutrality took a lot of rules, but even in the midst of the bloodiest of gang wars, The Sunspot stood firm.
No one looked up when the front door of The Sunspot opened, and two men stepped through. Both men were beautiful and reeked of an elegant confidence. Their suits were high quality, pressed to perfection.
The taller of the two scanned the place quickly. His tawny eyes took in the scarce patrons before silently moving to his usual table. One of the lesser popular tables, it was pressed against the back wall in a dark spot. He pulled the chair out and braced it against the wall, taking a seat and crossing his legs. From his vantage point, he could see the stage, the door, and the bar. It was a strategically placed position—only a man hyperaware of his surroundings would pick a seat so meticulously.
His companion followed him briefly before a silent exchange between them had him changing course. He took a seat at one of the poorly padded bar stools. Loosening his tie, he smiled politely at the bar tender.
“What’ll it be this time, pleats?” Kurt asked the blond-haired kid as he reached for the refrigerator behind the bar and pulled out a soda. He didn’t open it or pour it into a glass.
Elijah smiled as he took the can from the bar tender. “You always ask.”
“Habit,” he answered gruffly.
Elijah and his boss Roland Weaver had been coming to The Sunspot every evening for the last three weeks. They never spoke to anyone, and they never drank any booze. Roland would sit in that same chair and silently watch the stage. He never bought any personal dances, and he never tipped any of the dancers. Instead, he had Elijah leave a tip when he paid for his single soda. Then they left.
Sid came from the back and dropped a box of beer on the bar. He stretched his back and smiled at Elijah.
Kurt tuned out their greetings. Turning his attention to unpacking the beer in the box Sid had just brought. He didn’t really do small talk. He didn’t do much talk at all, actually. He preferred his customers to order, pay, then leave. In that order.
Kurt Beckett was as far from your friendly neighborhood bar tender as you could get. He never smiled or handed out life advice to his customers while wiping down the bar with a rag. There would be no flash of skin, a wink, or harmless flirting for a bigger tip. His dark hair used to be purple, but the roots had grown out, which left him with a terrible dye job he didn’t care enough about to do anything with. The shoulder-length hair was pulled back into a messy bun, loose strands tickling his too angular face and hiding a scowl.
Unpacking the last of the beer in the fridge, he adjusted the leather bracelets around his wrists before standing up. The lights were flickering on the stage, and he glanced at the clock on the wall. Someone had stolen it from a high school gymnasium years ago—it was excessively large with a metal cage around it. The kind of ridiculous thing that wouldn’t work in any other bar unless its décor was junkyard chic.