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s a n g u e

[Portuguese]: Blood.

- part i -

WITHIN THE NEXT hour, a number of guests had switched places; some coming, and others leaving. Portions of desserts had been consumed to their finish, and now, it was a just matter of time before the rest followed suit.

It had been a good day.

Still, not many might have agreed, seeing as I was currently gripping the edge of the restroom counter with vice-like malice, my other hand deftly popping a pill into my mouth.

Breathe. At this point, the single word was practically infused into my blood vessels.

Breathe, Cass.

Still trying to stop the trembling of my fingers by increasing pressure—hence turning my knuckles white—I finally opened my eyes and stared into the reflection in front of me.

My dark circles had started to scream at me beneath the veil of concealer, truth threatening to notoriously sprout from pretence. I hated the sense of moisture pricking my waterline, threatening to spill over. I hated that my teeth were close to chattering, and that it would take some time for the damn Xanax to take effect.

I hated that it still got like this.

Counting down more seconds, all the while feeling my breathing gradually slow, and limbs regain stamina, I found it in me to let go of the marble top.

It's over.

My ponytail was thankfully still in shape, so I didn't have to do anything to my hair. All I bothered with was smoothening out the uniform I was wearing, before taking a few more moments hovering over the sink to see whether or not I would throw up. Thankfully, the minutes passed and nothing happened. And so I ended up pulling away, afterwards, heading outside.

But I couldn't have opened the doors at a time more wrong.

My ears immediately picked up a crash, and then a loud yelp—it sounded more like a high pitched shriek—followed by a shower of rather delicate curses.

I swiftly shut the door close, and my lips parted upon taking in the situation.

Oh, shit.

One of the cocktail servers—a petite lady—was currently kneeling on the floor, her countenance in shambles, as she freaked out over the litter of shattered glass.

"Dammit. I'm so sorry!" I instinctively got down, and didn't even think about it when I started to pick up the fragments of cocktail glasses. "I'm so sorry."

Her irritated blue eyes immediately met mine, and I was relieved to see the fire in them gradually flicker once she looked at me.

"It's—it's okay," she whispered, before her shoulders further slumped. "Oh, fuck. No, it's not. But I...I should have been more careful, too. I was walking too close to the restroom door."

I could feel the agitation radiating off her in waves.

"Laney's going to kill me," she muttered in defeat. My fingers were still gathering the broken shards before putting them on the tray, my mind numb to the stings while I regarded her. And maybe it was how small her voice sounded, or the tired glossiness of her baby blue irises. But there was a certain innocence in her I could practically smell. Not to mention, she looked relatively young.

"I-I could go with you to your boss, and tell her it was my fault," I proposed, meaning every word. "I'd hate to get you in trouble."

She looked at me, slow surprise gracing her features. "Oh, n-no...no, that's not necessary. I can handle it." She bit her lip, as though mulling over a thought. "The most she'll do is—"

"Take it out of your paycheck," I finished for her, and she gave a hesitant nod. I couldn't shake off just how much she reminded me of a porcelain doll. One dangerously about to break.

The situation didn't sit well with me in the slightest, and it was during times like these, I was grateful for an employer like Shawn. He wasn't all tender spices, or sweet concern—quite frankly, he was rather salty pain in my freaking ass. But still, I just knew that if the roles were reversed, and I were in her shoes right now, I wouldn't have a reason to be half as scared.

"What the hell, Liv?"

At the sound of the masculine voice, we both turned to find another server standing above us. He looked a little older, donned in a uniform with the same branding hers had.

And he had a full frown stretched across his face.

"It was an accident," she tried to explain, and her bottom lip quivered. "I'm sorry, it's—I just—" Her words began falling over one another, and she stopped, afterwards letting out a slow, resonated breath. "I can't do anything right."

I observed the man's attractively hard features soften slightly, before he leaned down to place a hand on her shoulder.

The girl sniffled, and I actually saw moisture start to pool in her eyes. The shift made them look even glassier than they already were; like the surface of the ocean when the sun sent its harshest rays. And if I wasn't more silently terrified of her tears, I might have actually reached out to touch her. The blonde streaks in her light brown hair stood out against her skin, her tired eyes. And she just looked so—so forlorn—that I was tempted to tell her everything would be okay. Whatever it was. Because it became evident glass might not be the only thing that got broken here.

Still, her crying would just be a lot.

The guy's voice was soft when he spoke next. "It's okay. Hey—" He gently halted her frantic movements. "It's okay. And now, please stop picking glass shards with your fucking hands." I was a little taken aback when he turned to me. "The both of you, actually."

I wasn't one to necessarily do as I was told, but I found myself obedient, watching as took the situation into his own hands. Literally.

He carried the tray nearly full of broken pieces, and at once, he was back up to his full height.

"I'll be back with help to clean up the rest of the glass," he said to no one in particular, before turning to me again. "Thanks for all your help, but please don't touch them anymore." He paused, and then his look shifted over to the brown haired girl, and her thoroughly frustrated pout. I could feel the low static between them, like a subtle hum of electricity. It didn't scream at you. Still, it wasn't one you would dare to miss either. "Let's go. I'll clean you up."

And they proceeded to leave. But out of the blue, the young woman turned around, her attention back to me.

"Thank you." She cracked a tiny smile, although her eyes still looked like she was in pain. "What's your name?"

I blinked, a little surprised.

"It's no problem." It was a good percentage my fault, anyways. "And the name's Cass." I faltered, but then decided to just choose courtesy and ask all the same. "You?"

"Olivia."

With a few more courteous smiles—rather awkward, on my part—she was going away, small frame at the heels of the man who came to our aid.

I could bet on my little finger that something was going on there. But as usual, it was one of the come and go situations. Circumstance's chance at a little peer into the lives of other people—of strangers. And because you would most likely never even see them again, you would never know.

I was about to go back into the restroom, but idiotically moved my hand in the process, my fingers subconsciously curling into a fist.

Instinctively, my eyes shut close, and I let out a harsh breath. Shit.

It felt as though a fairly large, broken piece of glass was already shallowly tucked in the skin of my palm. And now, I had graciously deepened the cut, lodging it even further in.

I was just about to take a look, but the feather light sensation of a hand curling around my wrist, snapped my lids open much faster.

I instantly recoiled, and forcefully withdrew my hand from the foreign grasp—so fast it would undoubtedly shock whoever the person was. But I didn't care.

You didn't just—you didn't just touch people.

But the startled gaze I met, ended up not being so unfamiliar. And not so strange. Slate colored eyes were staring at me in the splitting vision of concern, and a thick but well trimmed brow arched in nothing but confusion.

"Cassidy?" He called my name. And then, a pause. "Are you okay?"

Still slightly ticked off, I found it in me to slowly nod.

"Yeah," I said, although, the sound of my voice was a little breathy—disconnected. "I'm fine. What are you doing back here?"

Brian shook his head. "That's not important." I observed his eyes glance down at my hand again. "You're hurt."

"What?"

My senses gradually communicated better, and quite foolishly, the object of his concentration dawned on me.

Oh. My hand.

"Come with me," he spoke up, the statement causing my lips to part a little in bewilderment. "Come, and I can help you with the cut...well, cuts."

In situations like these, I couldn't help but just halt for a few seconds. Because situations like these hardly made any sense.

"Um, no," I declined. "No, this is nothing...I'm used to these kinds of things, so I can take care of it." To be frank, he was still staring at me as though I was speaking a foreign language. Granted, he looked impeccably intelligent. But was he dumb? I progressively realized I had to spell out the obvious for him.

"Besides, I don't think your girlfriend would be all too comfortable with that idea."

Really. Come on, men.

His look didn't waver; he didn't bat an eyelid, really.

"Cassidy," he started, speech far from rushed. It felt as though I was a two year old kid he was telling the sky was blue for the first time. "You're bleeding."

And maybe it was the way he said it; like it was the most glaring thing in the world, and that I should notice. More accurately put in my head: that I should get out of my ass and stop being stupid.

But it was just blood.

I honestly didn't see what the fuss was about. Nearly everyone must have made this stupid mistake, at least once in their lives.

Still, as I finally allowed myself look at my hand, I realized my scale had to be proudly listed among the most stupid, to earn this treacherous degree.

Oh, man.

Blood was actually dripping—dripping down my fingers, and unto the marble tiled floor. I was already creating a small crimson puddle on the shiny surface, only a few scattered spots indicating prior movement.

And each fast paced drop only made the puddle grow bigger.

To my sheer joy, that wasn't even the worst part. I realized little, sharp pieces of glass were lodged in my fingers, sparsely digging into bits of my skin. And the one in the center of my palm only won the golden trophy by a landslide.

A moron. That's what I am.

How was I barely even feeling this, when I had hurt myself this bad?

"You're only losing more blood," he said to me, much to my knowledge. "Just let me help. I have a kit I could use." And before I could argue some more, his single word overlapped my own.

"Please."

I didn't care to seal my lips, because I just couldn't help but ask. This was all strange to me. Too foreign. And maybe it was because of him.

"Why are you doing all of this, Brian?"

He stopped short for a moment. Like a skilled panther abruptly called out on the stealthiness of it's color. But then, he finally gave me a response.

"I owe you." How awfully confident, and intentional he was about things still made me uneasy, I realized. Even down to the detail of the way he spoke—what he said. "At least, I feel I do."

If confusion was a mask, I was wearing it full on. I hadn't ever done anything for him. We didn't even actually know each other. We hadn't even met that many times. Just the first; that night, and then—

Oh. His sister.

"I don't exactly need payback for—"

"Dammit, woman. Just let me help you out, okay? Take it for the scones or anything else," he cut me off. But I still couldn't find the frustration glossing over his words, evident in his features. Everything remained rock solid there. Convicted, and thoroughly convincing. "You're recreating the Nile river in here."

At that, my focus shifted downwards again, and I realized—

He was right. I was making a mess in here.

And so, with eyes silently asking my permission, he pulled a handkerchief out of his chest pocket, and slowly—tentatively, grabbed my hand. He was careful enough not to hold anything the wrong way, so it didn't hurt more.

It hurt, I repeated in my head, chanting the words like a mantra. Things like these are supposed to hurt. Let it.

He tactfully wrapped the silky material around my blood stained skin, and he scraped nothing. Not even unintentionally.

And I realized my instinctive urge to pull back was nowhere to be found. At least, not right now.

Mind boggling as it still was to me, I found myself gently being led somewhere I didn't know—well somewhere with a first aid kit—by Brian Willis. And it nearly creeped the hell out of me.

Nearly, because somehow, it didn't.

We decided to take the staff exit so as not to attract undue attention, but all of that seemed pointless, as the loitering, and lingering stares found us anyway.

I was practically Edward Cullen at that point.

Still, I shoved their thoughts out of my head, presuming words out the window. Because they didn't belong there.

And adding to things, our little stroll didn't end up being hitch free after all, as somewhere along the line, I felt the light pressure from his hold on my injured hand accidentally tighten.

I winced, and hissed under my breath.

Apparently, my little jerk drew his attention, and he shot me an apologetic look once he realized his mistake.

"Sorry."

I was just about to brush him off on the issue, but it was then I observed something strange—coy maybe, swirling in his pupils. It looked as uncharacteristic as sand dunes stuck in the middle of an oasis.

"I thought you were used to these kinds of things."

Admittedly, I was mildly caught off guard. Still though, and true to my nature, I scoffed, taking in the nerve he actually had to toss the subtle jab at me.

But as the next words left my mouth, I realized I didn't properly think it through. And like lead, they ended up settling heavier on my tongue than intended.

"Just because I'm used to it, doesn't mean it doesn't sting."