Two and a Half Years Later
Looks like it’s gonna be another busy night for drinks.
I eye the rowdy crowd of rich college kids sitting across the room—yelling, drinking, and slamming their fists against the table like cavemen who’ve just learned to make fire. The leader of the group raises his glass and calls out a cheer to their last week of freedom before fall semester starts. A pang of jealousy hits me as I watch them celebrate, each one wearing a shit-eating grin. The girls sitting with them giggle as their boyfriends kiss their hands and wrap their arms around them.
That should be me. The college experience I should be having.
Instead, I’ve been spending most of my days alone in the library, keeping to myself, and reading any textbook I can get my hands on.
When I’m not reading, I’m working. College costs money—money I unfortunately don’t have. Lately, the tips I make at Duke’s have been my only saving grace. For the past several weeks, I’ve been making just enough to save for rent. Living on my own hasn’t gotten any easier despite the almost two years that have passed since I was officially emancipated.
“Hey, Ayla, you feel like working tonight or what?”
Duke’s voice snaps me out of my thoughts, and I glance over at him. The short, stocky man owns the place and works behind the bar himself most nights. It’s a grungy, cramped little dive on the west side of the city, but it’s close enough to the University of Halston to attract a youngish crowd and bring in enough money to stay in business.
“Yeah, sure. I guess.” I shrug one shoulder, and he rolls his eyes.
I’ve been working here for almost a year and a half now, and Duke knows I’m not a fucking slacker. He’s also seen the moments where I zone out grow fewer and farther between. When I first started here, I was a much bigger mess emotionally than I am now. I’m lucky as hell that he was patient with me those first few months.
Stepping past Duke, I make my way down to the far end of the bar, where several people are leaning over the dark wood with impatient looks on their faces. It’s nearing the end of happy hour, so everyone wants to get their last cheap drink while they can.
I get to work pouring beers and mixing cocktails, careful not to spill anything with my one steady hand.
A pair of mildly handsome college guys sidle up to the bar, laughing as they carry on a conversation in overly loud voices. The green-eyed frat boy on the right turns to me, barely glancing at me as he opens his mouth to order—but then he pauses.
His eyebrows shoot up as his gaze lingers on the stump of my right arm, which has been severed and healed just below the elbow.
“Holy fuck,” he mutters. Then he nudges his friend, drawing that guy’s attention to my arm with a jerk of his chin.
The other man’s eyes widen in shock as his lips purse in a silent whistle. Jesus. It’s like they’ve never seen someone like me before.
My blood burns as both men’s attention lingers over my stump, and the skin around the amputation site itches. The three bullets that pierced my body years ago nearly killed me, and the one that hit my shoulder caused enough internal damage that the doctors had to remove part of the limb.
After spending several weeks in the hospital, I left with a piece of myself missing. More than one piece, really, although the arm is the only one people can see.
The other missing parts of myself are internal, emotional, impossible to even put into words. But they’re gone just as surely as my arm is, and I feel their absence just as deeply.
“Damn. That’s fucking crazy.” The second guy leans closer, resting his elbows on the bar to get a better look at my truncated limb.
My jaw clenches. The hardest part of losing my forearm and hand has been dealing with the constant stares. I should be used to it by now, but the sting never seems to completely fade.
“What happened to your arm?” The green-eyed man asks.
So fucking rude.
“None of your damn business,” I snap, the heat in my veins flaring hotter. I’m tempted to pour the cocktail I just mixed in his lap, but I need this job. And as understanding as Duke has been about my lingering trauma, he’d definitely draw the line at me hurling drinks at customers.
Fuck you, asshole.
I rein in my anger, resisting the urge to shift my stance to hide my right arm behind my body. I’m not gonna fucking hide. That’s why I rarely wear my prosthesis, despite the fact that I have one. I’m not interested in pretending I’m not an amputee, or in acting like nothing changed the night I got shot.
Because everything changed.
“Sorry.” The guy holds his hands up in the universal gesture of harmlessness, but his gaze flicks down to my arm again. “Pretty sweet tattoo though. Did it hurt?”
“Yes.”
My answer is short and clipped. If I was trying to avoid stares and invasive questions, maybe it wasn’t a good idea to get a full sleeve tattoo on my injured arm. But I didn’t get it for these assholes, and I didn’t get it for anyone else.
I got the ink done for me.
As a way of reclaiming my broken body.
Of making it mine again.
And I’m not lying. It did hurt like a motherfucker. The nerves are all messed up in my arm, so some patches of skin are weirdly numb, but in other parts, it felt like the tattoo artist was carving into my flesh with a razor blade.
“Well, it’s really beautiful. Beautiful tattoo for a beautiful girl.” The frat boy’s friend gives me a self-satisfied, confident smile, as if he’s expecting me to fall all over him with gratitude for the fucking compliment. As if the circus freak should be glad he’s blessed her with his approval.
I don’t need this guy to tell me I’m beautiful. It’s not that I think my dark brown hair, blue eyes, and gentle curves are particularly stunning, but I like how I look. At least, I used to.
My stomach clenches, and I curse my body as my arm begins to throb.
It’s not real, Ayla. It’s all in your head.
Phantom pain always seems to strike just when I think I’ve gotten over it. The therapist I can’t afford anymore was always quick to remind me that it’s triggered by stress.
“What do you want to drink?” I ask, my voice blunt and hard.
“I’ll take a beer. Whatever you’ve got that’s hoppy.” He shrugs as he leans back a little, the look in his eyes clearly saying your loss.
Yeah. Somehow, I’ll live.
His buddy orders a beer too, and they watch as I pour their drinks one-handed, like it’s the most fascinating thing they’ve ever seen. As if I’m a dog that’s learned how to walk on its hind legs instead of a human fucking woman who’s learned how to function with a disability like so many other people in the world have.
I slide their beers across to them and grab the money the man with green eyes drops on the bar, already turning away as he says, “Keep the change.”
No shit. I was fucking planning on it, dickface.
I keep my back turned until I’m sure the two men have moved away from the bar, then I turn around and take the next person’s order. I fall into a routine of mixing and pouring, sometimes switching places with Duke, until about an hour before midnight when a familiar face leans over the bar.
“Hey, sweetheart. Can I get my usual?” Greg Pruitt smiles at me, resting one elbow casually on the polished wood as his reddish-blond hair glints in the light.
I suppress the urge to scowl. This guy is basically harmless, although he’s persistent as fuck. He’s a regular at Duke’s and has been since before I started here, although Duke mentioned to me once that he seems to come more often now than he used to. I think he’s in his early thirties, which puts him at more than a decade older than me, but our age difference doesn’t seem to put him off at all.
“Yeah, sure.”
I mix him a dirty martini, wishing his usual was a beer or something so I could just pour it and get him out of my face. He takes advantage of every second it takes me to make his drink, chatting me up as if he thinks one day all this banter will pay off and I’ll drop my panties for him right here behind the bar.
“We landed a big contract at work today,” he tells me as he takes the drink, raising it in a silent cheer. “The one I was telling you about. You must be my lucky charm.”
Honestly, I don’t remember him telling me about any contract. I can’t even remember what he does for a living. Something middle-management, I think. Not the kind of thing you should be bragging about to a girl you’re trying to pick up in a bar.
I open my mouth to reply, but the sound of a glass shattering nearby makes me jump.
My heart lurches in my chest, slamming hard and fast against my ribs like a panicked animal. I stumble back a step and nearly trip on a box left on the floor behind the bar.
One of the drunk frat boys glances around with a sheepish expression, and Duke curses as he goes to clean it up.
Shit, Ayla. It’s okay. It’s just glass.
Greg is staring at me with furrowed brows, and I feel like my entire body has been dumped in a vat of ice water. I crouch down behind the bar, pretending to be dealing with the fucking box. But instead, I close my eyes for a brief second, trying to slow my breath as it falls in hurried waves of anxiety.
Even now, sudden loud noises still send me over the edge. I’m much better than I was when I first left the hospital, much better than when I started working at Duke’s, but I’m not sure it’s something I’ll ever get over entirely.
When my heart returns to a more normal rhythm, I break down the box and take it into the alley out back, thankful for the small reprieve from Greg.
The city is an abandoned wasteland by the time I get off work. It’s well past two in the morning by the time Duke and I close shop. I didn’t anticipate it taking so long to clean up, but I should’ve known the bar would close late with several patrons too drunk to make it home.
“Thanks for your help tonight,” the gruff man says, slipping me my extra tips for the week.
“No problem.” I nod.
We part ways as I head down a shortcut toward my apartment, which is a few miles away. I’m tempted to take a cab home, but I know tomorrow I’ll regret spending the money if I do. Right now, my tips are my lifeline. I haven’t worked a temp job in weeks, so my supplemental income has been low. Between an empty fridge and a heater that never works, I can’t afford to be throwing money around unless I want to dip into my meager savings.
The walk home is eerily quiet as I take a familiar turn through another dark alley. This part of Halston isn’t as densely populated as other areas of the city, and it feels even more deserted this late at night.
I pull my jacket tighter around myself and pick up my pace, the sleeve on the right side dangling off my truncated arm.
Maybe I should’ve fucking taken a cab. I usually take the bus home, but the route was suspended this week because of construction. It’s too fucking far to be walking this late at night though.
As if called up by my paranoia, a faint sound reaches my ears. My footsteps stutter slightly as I glance around, goose bumps prickling over my skin.
Shit.
A man is walking up behind me at a fast clip, a loose hoodie pulled up over his head, obscuring his face. He’s not tall, but he’s got a solid frame, and his steps are purposeful as he approaches me.
My stomach clenches with fear, and I pick up my own pace, stepping off the curb to cross the street as I dig into my pocket for my keys. But before I can grab them, a heavy hand falls on my arm, yanking me back.
The man spins me to face him, shoving his hood off his head as he brandishes a knife at me. He’s bald, with patchy tufts of hair on either side of his head and the cracked teeth of a meth addict.
“Gimme your fuckin’ wallet, bitch.”
He waves the knife at me, taking a step closer as I step back. My feet trip over each other a little, and he slashes toward me in warning, the tip of the knife almost grazing my cheek.
I jerk back, then hold myself perfectly still, my heart throbbing painfully in my chest. If I make another sudden movement, I’ll pay for it with my blood.
“Okay. Okay, hold on.”
I’ve heard that in situations like these, you’re supposed to throw your wallet away instead of handing it over. The mugger will choose the money over you, giving you a few precious seconds to flee as he scrambles after it.
My stomach clenches as I think of the one irreplaceable item in my wallet, the thing that means more to me than any of my cards or cash combined.
“Hurry up! Now!”
“Okay. All right.”
I raise my arms, letting him see my open hand and my stump. Letting him know I’m not a threat. My body tenses as I reach slowly for my wallet, my legs preparing to run.
But as my fingertips brush my back pocket, a new noise catches my attention. Before I have a chance to process what I heard, three figures step out of the shadows behind me, making me jump. They take my mugger by surprise too, and he doesn’t even have a chance to react before they’re on top of him.
One man steps forward and grabs his wrist, easily sidestepping the wild slash of the knife before tightening his grip and twisting. The meth-head screams, and the knife clatters to the ground, where one of the other men kicks it away.
I stare in stupefied shock as the man who disarmed my attacker throws him down and begins kicking him in the stomach. Each brutal kick is met with a cry, and my breath catches as a spray of blood spills from the man’s mouth and onto black concrete.
The meth-head must not be able to feel everything they’re doing, or drugs must be charging up his system despite the brutal attack, because he tries to fight back. He flails and swings, scrambling to his feet as he punches and kicks.
But he doesn’t stand a fucking chance.
The three men finally stop their assault, but not before the tallest one delivers one final blow to the man’s face. The meth-head crumples to the ground, and the sound of his skull hitting the concrete turns my stomach. He doesn’t move again.
Oh god, did they just kill him?
One of the dark, mysterious men grabs the unconscious mugger, lifting him by his shirt before dragging him out of sight. Within seconds, another of the three shadows vanishes down the alley, leaving just one man alone with me.
He stands with his back to me, and I watch with wide eyes as his broad shoulders rise and fall, his breath visible on the air in the chilly fall night. He lingers at the mouth of the alley, as if he can’t quite bring himself to leave—to follow his two friends. As if he’s waiting for me to say something.
My voice fails me as I open my mouth, words thick on my tongue. What the hell do I say?
Thank you? Who are you?
But when the shadowed man finally turns to leave, stepping toward the alley to follow his friends, it’s only a single word that falls from my lips.
“Wait!”
He hesitates, glancing back at me over his shoulder. It’s brief, so brief I barely catch a glimpse of his features. But in the dim light of the streetlamps overhead, I see a flash of brown and blue.
Those eyes.
I know those eyes.
I could never, ever forget those eyes. I stared into their churning depths two and a half years ago as my lifeblood poured from my body.
It’s the man from the club.
But in the split second I realize that, he turns away from me and stalks into the alley, swallowed up by the shadows again.
