CHAPTER TWO

Byron

I clench my fist to try to stop the bleeding. It isn't bad this time, but it's going to make work harder this week. I push past our customers and head for the bathroom. A few regulars slap me on the back and say hello.

"Working too hard?" One asks as he lifts his glass to me.

"Always," I answer, pushing open the bathroom door and moving directly to the sink.

I run my hand beneath the faucet and watch as the cold water rinses away the drying blood. Soon the water is warm and I add some soap from the automatic soap dispenser on the counter. Looking up at the mirror, I can see the lines at the corner of my eyes and the dark circles that show just how tired I am. I haven't slept in months. The best I can do is a few hours here and there, but the insomnia seems to be getting worse.

I pull a paper towel from the wall and open the door as I press it to my palm to make sure the bleeding has stopped. The blonde that Malcom was talking about is sitting on a chair near the bar looking around and I know I'm the target of those seeking eyes. Maybe tonight I'll give in. It's been so long and I'm desperate to get some sleep. Sex used to help with that, didn't it? I can't really remember. Most of my recent memories I've pushed to the darkest and furthest corners of my mind.

"Hey Byron," she says sweetly as I take my place behind the bar.

"Hi." I don't remember her name.

"I was hoping you could help me choose a beer tonight." She stands up and moves to the bar in front of me. So much about her is trying too hard. Her hair is too perfect, it barely moves when she leans forward and I can already imagine how stiff it might be in my hands. Her dark red lips have been caked with some sort of lipstick or whatever it is girls are wearing these days and I can't for the life of me figure out how she thinks those eyelashes are fooling anyone.

Unwelcomed, a memory pushes itself to the front of my thoughts. I can see her laughing, blinking at me with eyelashes springing free from the edge of lids. I'd told her I hated fake lashes, but she'd wanted to wear them to my brother's wedding. They didn't even make it the entire car ride before she'd given up and pulled them off, laughing as she told me I was right to think they were terrible. I'm frozen with the intrusive sound of her beautiful laugh flittering from that faraway place in my mind where I tried to lock it up.

I close my eyes and turn from the blonde in front of me. How long would these memories hurt me? The pain from my hand injury finally breaks through the spiraling thoughts and I notice the paper towel I still have clenched in my fist is damp with blood. It gives me an excuse to get out of here and away from the too-bright lights above the menu that have suddenly made me feel like an old dinner beneath a heat lamp.

"I think you'd like Ales Yes," I tell her. "It's our latest brew and it tastes like apples and goes down easy. Malcom can pour you a glass." I smile as I point to him. He sees the paper towel in my hand and nods his head, moving in my direction to help manage this end of the bar so I can go tend to the wound I stupidly inflicted on myself.

I keep my eyes down as I head to my office. I'm not in the mood to chat with anyone and on a night like this when we are packed, it would be impossible to avoid all the conversations I don't want to have. I'm so busy looking at my hand that I don't see her until it's too late.

"Jesus," she says when our bodies collide. "I'm sorry."

"My fault," I say, steadying her with my uninjured hand. When I look up, I see it's the girl from next door again. She bends down to retrieve the book she'd been reading from the floor.

"I wasn't looking either. I always have my head in a book." Her words slip out quickly and her cheeks flush red with embarrassment or anger, I'm not really sure.

I let her go, trying to ignore the softness of her skin beneath my palm. My nerves are shattered and I blame it on the exhaustion that set in a few days ago and hasn't eased up one bit.

"It's still bleeding?" she asks as she takes my injured hand into hers without permission. I don't pull it away because I'm stuck on the messy way her hair is twisted up into a bun on her head and the baby hairs around her face are carelessly left free. Nothing about it is "perfect," and yet somehow it still is.

"It's fine," I finally manage and pull my hand from hers.

"It's not," she answers back just as curtly. "You need stitches, but a few butterfly Band-Aids would work in a pinch. Where's your first aid kit?"

"In my office. I'll take care of it." I don't want her help—or any help from anyone for that matter.

"Sure," she says shrugging one shoulder, "you've totally got in under control." She crosses her arms over her chest, careful not to crush the cover of the book she's holding. "Are you always this stubborn?"

"It's just a small cut. Go enjoy your beer with Malcom. Since you're also being stubborn, you might as well relax because you're now officially stuck here for the next hour or so." I lift my chin in the direction of the large group of men that have just flooded the front area of the brewery. "You'll never get your car out."

"Then it looks like I have nothing but time to help you with your hand."

"Whatever," I concede.

She follows me to my office. I click on the lights and they flicker for a minute before lighting up the small desk stacked with paperwork. I pull open the top drawer and grab the white case that has first-aid inside. If she thinks it's weird that I keep them so close, she says nothing.

She sorts through it and pulls out a few things. When she takes my hand in hers, I swear I feel her touch race up my arm. She's intensely studying the cut now that she's removed the bathroom paper towel. A strand of hair falls into her face and it makes me notice her skin is bare. She doesn't have on any make-up and she smells like sugar even though I know she's been working hard all day next door. I watched her pull up this morning and make a million trips back and forth to and from her car.

Her delicate finger slips over another small scar on my palm. She uses an antiseptic wipe to clean away the blood and fuzz from the paper towel. She unwraps three butterfly Band-Aids and then uses her fingers to hold the wound closed as she tapes them together with the bandages. Lastly, she uses a roll of gauze to wrap around my hand and cover the injury.

"You need to keep it dry. I don't know how possible that is for you, but it's an open wound and it can get infected." She lets my hand go and I nod my head.

"Thank you." It's a better job than I would have done. "How'd you learn how to do that?"

"I'm a nurse—was a nurse," she answers. Quickly she turns away from me and heads back out towards the bar. It's abrupt, but I can't say that I blame her after the way I've been treating her.

Part of me wants to call her back and apologize, but it's best if I let her leave irritated with me instead. The further away she is from me, the easier it will be to pretend I don't find her so intriguing.

I close my eyes and stay in the quiet of my office for a few minutes. The pain in my hand is a dull ache now and I pull open the top drawer of my desk and put away the bandages. I dig around for my bottle of Motrin and then swallow two pills without any water. I could easily walk out to the counter and pour myself a small glass of something to help wash them down, and in the past that would have happened as if it were muscle memory. Lately, I keep myself away from the taps, if my insomnia is bad, bellying up to the bar will make it a disaster. Some things you just can't wash away with all the beer in the world. Trust me—I've tried.