Page 127 of Hurt

With more confidence that he actually felt, he reached for the knob and let his fingers run along the worn metal. Instinctively his fingers opened the door. A bell jingled as the door brushed past and it sent a familiar shiver down his spine. The bar was technically closed this early in the day. Everything was dark and chairs were flipped up onto tables.

He stepped inside and let his hands run along the surface of the bar top. He knew every scratch and groove in its lacquered surface. Most of them had been put there while he was standing sentinel behind the bar. He knew where the aluminum baseball bat was kept—the same one he had chased more than a few assholes out with. He also knew that the light switch hidden behind the microwave needed to be toggled a few times before the light would stay on. There was a loose board by the cash register that wobbled if you stood on one side of it.

This was his home. His blood had soaked into the foundation of the place. As ugly and beaten down as it was, it was his.

He picked at the gauge in the bar. There was a certain comfort in knowing that no matter what happened, The Sunspot would stay the same.

“I’m going upstairs to grab some stuff,” Willow said from the doorway.

Kurt waved her off. Grant had asked them not to come back to work until everything with the Vega Cabal calmed down. It wasn’t hard—neither of the them missed the shabby little apartment above the bar.

He wandered to the stage, hopping up onto the raised platform and crossing to the small dressing room. His guitar was leaning up against the wall. Seeing the old instrument calmed his heart. This was the longest he had ever been parted from the thing. Grabbing it by the neck he ran his fingers along the strings and listened to them hum. It was slightly out of tune. He set to tuning it by ear, enjoying the way the hollow instrument vibrated against his chest.

In a lot of ways this guitar was a reminder of everything he hated. His mother’s cruel words, his father’s apathy, and the constant feeling of failure. Unable to conceive naturally, his parents had gone against fate to produce a cursed child. By fate or by his own inability to thrive, he would never know.

This instrument should cause him pain. He should smash it into a million pieces and never look back. How many times had he lifted the thing above his head to destroy it only to falter in the end? They were inexplicably tied. If Kurt was part of The Sunspot, then this guitar was part of him. Past, present, and future intertwined in the burnished wood and metal strings.

He carried it out from behind the stage and set it on the bar. It would come back with him to the Weaver Estate. For some reason, thinking about his guitar sitting in Grant’s home made him smile. It would look out of place with all the nice furniture.

Just like Kurt.

How could something that didn’t belong fit in so perfectly? As strange as their relationship was, it seemed to work. The soft domestic moments Kurt had never imagined himself having managed to become the highlight of his day.

The door chimed and he looked up expecting to see Willow.

It wasn’t his sister.

A short man was framed by the early afternoon sunlight. He was wearing a gold polo shirt tucked into a pair of Chinos. His leather moccasins looked completely out of place but not nearly as much as the ugly fedora on his head.

Luther Elliott smiled. Twin dimples appeared in his cherubic cheeks.

“It’s been a while, Kurt.”

His light brown eyes sparkled under the brim of his ugly hat as he looked up at Kurt. The picture of affability. That was the thing about Luther. He could lure anyone in with his sincere looking smile that was anything but. A mask that ran skin deep, there was evil behind the twinkle in his eye and cruelty hidden in the wells of his dimples.

The hairs on the back of Kurt’s neck prickled. “Not nearly long enough. What are you doing here?”

His fake smile never faltered. “I’m here to get my nephew. Remember? You called me.”

Kurt clenched his jaw. Was going back in time and punching your past self in the face a thing? He would like to do that.

“Look, I’m…sorry about that.” The words stuck in his throat, and he forced them out. “Things are different now—” he began.

“No,” Luther snapped. His smile dropped so quickly that Kurt felt like he was looking at two different people. Instead of a pleasant curl, his lips were drawn into a feral sneer.

“Things are not different. Noah is mine. He is an Elliott, and he will be returning to The Mesa with me. Where is he?”

His fingers tightened into fists. “Even if I knew, I wouldn’t tell you,” he lied.

Luther’s right eye twitched. “Tell me where he is.”

Kurt scoffed. “That ugly hat of yours keep you from hearing? I told you, I don’t know. Now get out of my way.”

He took one step closer to Luther when two hands grabbed him. Kurt’s elbow rocked back and connected with a Mesa goon’s nose. The man flailed back and spluttered on his own blood and tears.

“You came in here with ten fingers, touch me again and you’ll leave with nine,” he snapped.

Kurt’s heart was racing. His anger rose like a shield to hide his fear. When had the goon even come behind him? He didn’t notice. His spatial awareness had gone down and that was bad. Feeling panicky, he backed up against the bar to keep his peripherals open.