Chapter Three
Darren
It’s our most reliably quiet night of the week, maybe because it falls between karaoke and trivia night, and isn’t close enough to benefit from any weekend excitement. The last customer left about fifteen minutes ago, and I’ve been prepared to lock up for the past ten. V hadn’t worked tonight, and I’d encouraged Zach to leave exactly as early as he’d hoped, and while there’d been enough business to leave me satisfied with the tips I’ll be taking home, there’d also been time to get most of the bar restocked and cleaned in between.
I glance at my phone, open to an article about the best wineries in Texas, and I swipe that away when I see that there are only five minutes left until we close.
Five minutes left.
Until we close.
Which is why I groan when one of the barn doors begins toopen.
I have a decent amount of leeway here, V trusting me to make decisions for Trailhead all the time. It wouldn’t be terrible for me to greet the new customers at the door, explain that we’re already shut down for the night, and politely send them on their way. I know I’ve been less professional about more important things, and as long as I don’t earn us a dozen scathing reviews, turning away last-minute business shouldn’t be a big deal.
Leaving my phone behind, I make my way across the sawdust-covered floor, frowning when the heavy door is being pulled open more slowly than usual. For a moment, I wonder whether it’s someone getting up the nerve to walk into a gay bar for the first time, nervous curiosity bringing them closer to something they’ve sought, but haven’t quite found. If that’s the case, I may invite them in after all, just so they can talk. Maybe they'll breathe a little easier by the time they go home again.
I’m an arrogant bartender with no shirt and abs for days, but that can only help, right?
Or not.
I think I freeze between one table and another when I finally see him. It’s the torn sleeve of his leather jacket that catches my eye first. Or it could be the grotesque gash in his leg. There’s also blood in the gray of his beard, so that’s probably what makes my heart skip its next beat. He’s staring at me—some god-awful mix of exhaustion and pain and frustration—but he’sthere, and I close the distance between us faster than I would’ve thought possible a minute ago.
“Holyshit, what happened to you?” I ask. It’s a stupid first question though, and I shake my head before I clock the dirty helmet in his hand and try again. “Did you crash in the parking lot?”
Jake takes a step forward, and I steady him there whether he needs it or not. “On the off-ramp.”
With one hand hovering near his injured body, I reach past him to lock the barn doors and keep any other surprises at bay, and my brain attempts to pull up a map of the entire L.A. area so I can figure out what the fuck Jake’s talking about. I narrow the nearby freeways to two, and then turn back to him.
“At best, that’s what—a mile and a half? Two miles? Is your bike still there? Did you walk all the way here? Is anyone else hurt?”
“You talk a lot.”
“Yeah,” I agree. “Do you need me to start all over again?”
“There was nobody else,” he sighs. “I walked. The bike is wrecked. And I need a ride home.”
I laugh at him. Actually laugh. It’s probably to convince myself that everything’s fine as much as anything, but I also can’t believe he thinks I’ll just put him in my car and drop him off like he’s not actively bleeding into his jeans. Even if I hadn’t been raised by a nurse, I don’t think there’s any way I’d be hurrying us out the door.
“You need a lot more than a ride, old man. We’re gonna get you cleaned up. Make sure you don’t need legitimate medical attention after fleeing the scene of an accident.”
Careful to stay at his side without crowding him, I move us toward the small hallway that leads to the bathrooms, keg room, employee room, and V’s office, and if he’s surprised by where we end up, he doesn’t say. I’ve got keys hooked to my belt loop and I use them to let us into the office, leaving the door open so Jake doesn’t feel the need to walk another couple of miles just to get away from me. He’s limping, probably only because he’s physically incapable of pretending otherwise, and I do him the favor of not calling it out.
V has a couple of chairs, but I ignore them and clear half the desk instead, nodding for Jake to sit there. He’s still clinging to his helmet, and when I tug it from his grip, he startles just enough to make me think he’d forgotten it was there, our eyes meeting when I study him for an extra second or two. Eventually, I move away to set the helmet on top of the filing cabinet and open the top drawer, a first aid kit kept there for occasions far less serious than this.
Jake raises an eyebrow. “Are we really about to play doctor?”
“Is that a thing for you?” I ask, winking just because I can. “I wasn’t planning to take it quite that far, but I learn something new about you every week, and I’m willing to run with this one.”
That gets a smile out of him, and I’m proud of myself for it, even if it only lasts about as long as I expect it to, slipping when I frown at the streaks of blood on his face. I don’t think he has any actual injuries there, especially since he’d been wearing his helmet, so I leave them alone for now. My next concern is whether he has any obvious damage to his torso, and I’m as gentle as I canbe when I reach for his jacket. Jake tenses anyway, and I back up so he can remove it himself.
“Even the medical professionals usually let me do this much on my own,” he mutters.
“That’s fine, too. I’m okay with watching.”
I say it too softly and forget to wink, and there’s no smile this time. The jacket is gone though, so I ask him to lift his shirt for me, and I press a palm to his skin as soon as I can. My other hand stays curved around his shoulder as I check for tenderness or swelling or severe bruising that won’t wait for later, and I say nothing about the rosary Jake has tattooed over his heart. At a glance, I can tell I’ll need to clean a scrape on his arm and get past the blood on his hands, but I’m in a hurry to look at his leg, and other than running the tips of my fingers over the wounds, I let him go.
He glares as well as he can when he’s this tired. “I suppose you want my jeans off, too.”