Page 9 of Salvaged Heart
Sunrise Bistro was busier than expected, and it took several minutes before the flustered hostess could spare a moment to help us. Beckham ordered, rattling off a list of food that would feed a small army, before finishing with a, “That all sound good to you?” It was exactly what I would have ordered, except in a much smaller quantity. He shooed away my offer to pay, which was good considering my card would have been declined.
“It’s probably going to take thirty minutes or so, boys. There’s some open seating out back where you can wait, or youcould always sit at the…” The next word had been bar, but it got stuck in her throat as her eyes widened with recognition. “Oh, my mistake - bar’s full.”
It wasn’t.
She hurried away, whispering to a server as she went. Both threw long, judgmental looks my way as they hustled into the kitchen. I would have bet my life savings–all three dollars and fifty cents of it–that she was placing our order as a rush.
“That was odd,” Beckham whispered, moving past me to head outside to the patio. His palm grazed the small of my back, sending electricity straight up my spine.
“Not really.” I shrugged. “Unfortunately, you’re rolling with someone who made quite the reputation for themselves back in the day. They are probably locking up the liquor cabinet as we speak.” I tried to sound unaffected, but I was kidding myself if I said it hadn’t hurt. I didn’t know her from Adam, but she had obviously heard all about me.
As predicted,thirty minutes was more like ten, and the hostess let us out the side gate to avoid parading me back through the busy entrance to the restaurant. Heaven forbid someone saw the town pariah exiting such a fine establishment. It would probably run them out of business. Too bad the street out front was just as busy, and I received several scoffs anyway.
Beckham shifted subtly, as if trying to position himself between me and their judgmental stares. “I’m sorry you have to deal with that.”
There was no point in getting into it, so I waved him off and went to clamber back into Laurel’s car. Beckham passed thegiant bag of food to me, and I leaned down, settling it between my feet before placing a tray of coffee onto my lap.
He hadn’t reversed more than an inch when a palm slammed down on the car’s hood, causing us both to jump in our seats. Hot coffee sloshed down the side of the take-out cup and into my lap, burning through my thin athletic shorts.
“You got a lot of nerve showing your face after that shit you pulled last night, boy.” The burly, trucker-looking owner of the hand, still placed firmly on the car’s hood, said, like he was running lines in a cheesy western. He gripped the bonnet as if he could somehow prevent Beckham from backing out further and leaned in, practically spitting through the closed window an inch from my face. “I thought I made it clear what would happen if I saw you again.” He let go, and the car rose slightly from the absence of his weight. “Fucking fag.” He hissed finally, tossing his full cup of coffee at my side of the car and marching off.
I squeezed my eyes shut to avoid seeing the look of disgust that was sure to be all over Beckham’s face. I probably looked like a toddler having a meltdown to him, but the crushing feeling in my chest was making it hard to breathe, and there was a very good chance I would puke all over our breakfast if I so much as attempted to move. A moment later, his palm landed on my knee, its searing warmth more intense than the coffee currently running down the inside of my thigh. It was then I realized how violently I was shaking. My whole body quaked under his palm, and I shook my head, desperate to stave off the overwhelming surge of panic clawing at me.
“I’m okay, just give…give me a moment.” My eyes were still screwed shut, but I felt the weight of his gaze on the side of my face.
One more minute.
One more minute, and then I would have the courage to meet it.
“Anders.”
The sound of my name was little more than a breath.
“Anders, look at me.”
I shook my head again. “I’m fine. Just… can we please get out of here.”
He gently squeezed my knee before removing his hand and backing the rest of the way out of the space, leaving my skin feeling ice cold in its absence.
6
ANDERS
To give Beckham credit, he whipped the car out of there like we were fleeing a bank robbery gone wrong. The angled parking space forced us to proceed with the traffic flow going in the opposite direction of how we needed to be heading. After a few right turns, followed by two left turns, we were finally pointing back down the peninsula on our way to safety. While Beckham was busy putting distance between Sunrise Bistro and us, I managed to peel open my eyes. They burned with the effort of holding back tears, and all it took was for him to glance over once for one to escape. Of course, it had to be on the left side of my face. It slid down my cheek in a hot, salty blob.
“Fuck, Anders.”
He took an unexpected right onto a tree-lined empty street and skidded to a halt, throwing the car into park.
“I said I’d be okay in a minute. Please don’t make a big deal about this.”
I was a grown-ass, twenty-six-year-old man, for God’s sake. I had been called every name under the sun in my pathetic life. More often than not, by people who held a lot more stock in mylife than some random hillbilly stranger and usually way more creative insults than fag. That particular barb had been thrown at me so often that it might as well have been my middle name.
That shit didn’t bother me.
It couldn’t bother me.
If I was going to beat my addiction, I needed to have a thicker skin than this. Otherwise, I might as well throw in the towel right now.
