Page 23 of Patching Over

Rayleigh

“Brew, thank you so much for getting this, it’s a lifesaver,” I say, looking at the floor machine he bought when the mop broke in half.

“Not a problem, Rayleigh. Seems to be working well,” he replies, looking at the bar floor. “Fucking thing is probably cleaner than it’s ever been.” He laughs at my expression, which is probably one of dismay.

“That’s kind of scary, Brew,” I halfheartedly scold.

“Think about it, the mop was going into a clean bucket but then picking up all the shit fuckers spill and drop. Even rinsing it out, it’s never really clean, is it? But that thing there, you can take the brush thingy off, pop it into some hot soapy water, and then put it on the charging unit and it cleans and disinfects it, so even if it gets stained, it’s still clean.”

“When you say it that way, it makes sense. Can I get you to order some white vinegar?” I ask. “Since it’s not taking as long to do the floor now, I want to start working on a deep clean of the tables and chairs, then the bar.”

“Fuck, Rayleigh, you’re gonna turn this biker dive bar into a place where the town hipsters are gonna wanna party,” he teases.

I shudder thinking of the overly made-up women I’ve seen in town with their men, all dressed in funky yet stylish clothes coming into the place I’ve grown comfortable being in. Despite all the men in leather, which should terrify me based on the horror stories my mother would tell me, I feel at ease in their presence. I’m typically not downstairs when the bar actually opens, but I’ve started helping restock the bar cooler and the men from the club tend to come and go as they please if they need to speak with Brew. “Yeah, no thanks, Brew. But honestly, with the way I grew up, I’m used to a clean environment since I was punished if the house wasn’t completely spotless, so I don’t mind making everything shine, I promise. Y’all are paying me to do it, so that’s what I’m going to do.” He has no idea I learned to clean at an early age to avoid my father’s belt across my back.

Internally, I shudder, and my heartbeat accelerates when I realize I stood up to the tall, broody biker. Instead of reacting like I’m used to, he throws his head back and laughs long and hard, until his face is red and he’s clutching his stomach.

“Oh, I think you and Pres are gonna do just fine.”

“Whatever,” I grumble, unsure exactly what he means. “Okay, I’m done here, going across the street to take care of the shop. Want me to grab lunch from the diner while I’m out?” That’s become our customary routine over the past several weeks, so I don’t know why I even ask at this point. Habit, I guess. It seems almost impossible to me that I’ve now been on my own for almost a month. The club won’t let me pay for rent or any of the utilities, including the internet or cable, stating they cover it with the bar’s expenses, so other than the food and stuff I’ve done for the kittens, I’ve amassed a nice nest egg of cash.

He hands me two twenties and replies, “Grab me the special then get what you want. Keep the change.”

“I’m not keeping the change, Brew, that’s not right!” I exclaim, finally deciding enough is enough. He does this every single day and it’s bothered me since the beginning which is why the so-called ‘change’ heandPhantom tell me to keep is in an envelope I keep separate from my pay in the lockbox I bought when Cassie took me shopping.

“If I stopped what I was doing and walked over there, I’d tip the waitress. What’s the difference? You’re ordering it then bringing it to me, which is the same thing she’d do. Keep the fucking change.”

“Fine, fine. I will,” I dryly retort, screwing my face up at him. He once again laughs instead of backhanding me, which is unusual compared to what I’m accustomed to.

That was then, this is now,I remind myself, this mantra seems to be on an endless loop in my mind these days, as I take the money then quickly put my cleaning supplies away. Once I’ve washed then disinfected my hands in the bathroom, I head over to the tattoo shop.

“You’ve never considered getting yourself tatted?” Phantom asks as I restock the inventory after cleaning the bathrooms. They tend to keep their stations clean themselves since they have a specific sanitizing routine, but I take care of wiping down the reception area, dusting shelves, organizing the portfolios on the tables, cleaning the bathrooms, taking out the trash, straightening up their breakroom, and restocking inventory when shipments arrive.

“Not really. I mean, I know I can handle pain.” I stop when I see his face darken at the mention of my abuse. Being able to freely talk about it has been a lifesaver in so many ways. I’ve also started journaling, which was Cassie’s suggestion after I gave her a brief overview of my life.

“Sorry, Phantom, I forget sometimes,” I admit , immediately going to a dark place in my head.

He gently lifts my chin with his fingers so I’m looking directly at him. “Don’t lower your head, sweetheart. My anger is at the circumstances behind the reasons why you can handle pain, not at you. None of us, no matter if we yell or throw things, willevertake it out on you or any woman, you understand me?”

His words resonant in my soul and I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that every man in the club, even the ones I’ve not met yet, will keep me safe. “I understand. As far as getting a tattoo, I’m not sure what I’d get, to be honest.”

I watch as he grabs a sketchpad and pencil and quickly starts drawing. Before I know it, he’s turning the page toward me. “You’re finally free from the confinement of pain and abuse, Rayleigh. There are a lot of symbols which epitomize freedom, but this is what I see for you.”

With shaky hands, I take the pad and stare at what he’s drawn. It’s a cage surrounded by butterflies and bubbles flying out of the open door. “It’s beautiful,” I murmur, my fingers tracing the design. “I can’t afford a tattoo right now, Phantom,” I disclose, regretfully giving the sketchpad back. I know what he charges, having overheard him discussing prices on the phone one day when I was there cleaning. Despite my savings, I never want to put myself in the position where I can’t take care of myself and a tattoo by him would seriously deplete my funds. What I’d really like to do is tear that page out of his book, frame it, and hang it on my living room wall.

“It’s on the club, Rayleigh. Let me do this for you,” he pleads. “I want to do it in watercolors, on your shoulder, so everyone can see you’re free.”

“Are you sure?” I question. “I know y’all are always busy. The shop stays packed, when would you find the time to fit me in?”

“We can do it before the shop opens to the public if you’d like. The place is always clean and honestly, this will only take an hour or so.”

I think about all the stuff my parents said about people who had tattoos. They were losers, drains on society, thugs and scum. Getting one would be another way to flip off my past, that belief brings a blazing smile to my face. “Okay, let’s do it. Set it up.”

“How’s tomorrow work for you?” he asks, while looking at the scheduling log on the computer.

Shrugging my shoulder nonchalantly, I answer, “Sure, why not?”

“Then it’s a deal. Wear a sports bra or something that will expose your shoulders,” he requests in a pressing way.

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