Page 57 of The Fallen
CHAPTER 4
Gil spent the following week fishing and preparing for his excursion. After what had happened with Bryn almost taking a swim, Gil had wanted to leave him behind when he went out on the water. Bryn wasn’t having it. After being cooped up in the jail all those years, the fresh air and the magnificent rocky coast were a balm to his heart. This area reminded him so much of home that it awakened a longing he hadn’t experienced in many, many years. When Gil had spoken of sailing away, he’d entertained a wild fantasy of crossing the Atlantic, showing Gil all his old haunts.
It had been so frustrating not to be able to share that silly dream. It had been even more frustrating hanging helpless from that dobber Grady’s arm. If Bryn’d had his full magic, he’d have ripped him in half.
Today was Friday, though.
Bryn had watched Gil shower and dress in a clean shirt and dark jeans. He’d told his uncle he was heading to the Drunken Scallop for a few beers. He knew in his heart it was a bad idea, but Bryn couldn’t resist following. He just… wanted to do something for the man, something more than he could do as a cat.
Just buy him a drink, maybe. Somehow, he wanted to make Gil see that he wasn’t a callow idiot with no choice but to take every shovelful of shite that came his way… that he wasn’t alone.
Bryn opted for a simple ensemble, jeans and a black sweater over a tartan flannel shirt. He raked his black hair back as he stepped into the Drunken Scallop and let his eyes adjust to the low light. It was a small room with a bar at the back and booths on the side, a single pool table, and some outdoor seating that was completely ignored. It smelled, predictably, of stale beer, and a college football game played on the TV in the corner.
He located Gil in a booth by himself, his big shoulders curled forward and his head hanging down, just the way he’d sat in the prison cafeteria, and probably before that too. Bryn took a few steps in that direction, but then he stopped. What exactly had he planned to say? “Hey there. I’m yer cat. How about we get rat-arsed?”
Bryn had never struggled to get the attention of men, and with Gil’s shaggy auburn hair, gray eyes, and the whiskers coming in thick and as red as fire, Gil was very much the type of man Bryn had most enjoyed in those glorious days before he’d ever set eyes on monks or a church. When the people were godless and free and mingled easily with his kind….
Somehow, using his charms and wiles felt wrong. Hell, Gil didn’t need any more troubles piled on him. Instead, Bryn went to the bar and perched on a stool.
“Get you something?” asked the old man behind the bar.
“A beer and a shot.” Bryn quickly perused the scant line of bottles behind the man. “The Macallan.”
“Sure thing.”
The bartender set the drinks in front of Bryn, and Bryn set a folded leaf that looked remarkably like a twenty-dollar bill on the bar. Bryn downed shot, savoring the trail of warmth it blazedfrom his mouth to the pit of his belly, picked up the beer, and spun in his stool to take in the room.
The Scallop boasted a crowd of about twelve, all men save a stout lass playing darts, most of them on the downhill side of fifty. They were fisherman, locals no doubt, and next to them, Gil seemed as bright and colorful as a forest fire. Bryn looked over at him; their eyes locked and held for one, two, three heartbeats…. Bryn smiled. Gil looked away.
Bryn sighed. He looked around the room again. A few of the old-timers talked in the corner by the window; the rest were watching the game. His attention wandered back to Gil. Their eyes met again. Gil looked away.
“Doing all right here?” the bartender asked.
“You know what… let me get another two shots,” Bryn said. He put another folded bill on the bar, downed the rest of his beer, and muffled a belch in his sleeve. When the bartender set the two shots down, Bryn picked them up and made his way to Gil’s booth. It was a strange thing to know someone so very well and have to pretend you didn’t.
Bryn held up the shots. “Join you?”
Gil looked over his shoulder at the door, then back at Bryn.
“Are you expecting someone?” Bryn asked. He tried to ignore the flare of jealousy that thought ignited.
“No, it’s just…. I mean, sure. Have a seat. I’m not trying to be rude.”
Bryn put one of the shots in front of Gil and slid into the booth opposite him.
“Thanks,” Gil said. He lifted the shot and Bryn lifted his. “Uh, what are we drinking to?”
“How about new friends?” Bryn winked.
With a nod, Gil clinked the rim of his glass against Bryn’s and downed the amber liquid it held. The whiskey brought a rosy glow to his cheeks,
“It’s a little late in the season for tourists,” Gil said when the silence had stretched between them too long.
Bryn shrugged. “You just never know where you’re going to end up, and all you can do is make the best of it.”
“I suppose you can try,” Gil said, scrutinizing Bryn. “We haven’t met, have we? You seem….”
“I just have one of those faces. So you’re a local, then?”
