Page 64 of Play the Last Track
“See you soon.” I hang up the phone, and my hand drops to my side. “Fuck.Fuck.”
“What is it?” Flynn’s hands cup my cheeks, and he bends a little, trying to catch my eye.
I shake my head and close my eyes. A vision of Grant, drunk and angry and stomping around my bar, fills my head. “This is all my fault. I should’ve just answered his fucking phone calls.”
“Is this about Grant?” Flynn asks, and I open my eyes to find his green ones waiting.
“He’s at the bar, drunk out of his mind and demanding to see me.”
“No.”
I sigh as I sag in his hold a little. “Flynn, I have to. He’s putting my staff at risk. The least I can do is go over there and back them up.”
“Call the police. They will be there faster than us, and I’m sure they’re great at backing up staff,” he says, his thumbs gently stroking my cheeks.
We stand by the table in silence, only breaking when the waiter appears with two molten chocolate cakes in hand. He looks between us, confused, and I just shake my head at Flynn.
“Sorry, can we get these two to go? There’s been an emergency. I’ll need the check and the car brought round if I can,” Flynn says, not looking away from my face.
“Of course, sir.” The waiter disappears, and I collapse into Flynn’s chest. His arms encircle me, and he rubs my back gently.
“I think I might go to the bathroom before we go. Then, we can go home, and I’ll get my car to head over there.” I sigh, pulling away from his chest and wrapping my arms around my stomach. I feel sick.
“Like hell,” Flynn grumbles, stepping into my space again. “There is no way I’m letting you go to the bar alone, knowing that douchebag is there waiting, drunk and probably aggressive.”
“But—”
“No, Katie. We either both go, or you come home with me and call the police.” He steps into my space again, gently kissing me on the lips. “Go to the bathroom. I will meet you at the front.”
I watch him take his jacket from the back of the booth and head for the front of the restaurant, where he meets the waiter, waiting with our dessert, now in a bag, and the bill.
I turn the other way, taking a right down one of the corridors off the kitchen, and head for the bathroom. Flynn was right—they are fancy. As I wash up, I look at myself in the mirror. You can’t see the bruise anymore. Months have passed since it finally cleared up, and I was able to stop piling on concealer just to get through the day. I still see it, though. The yellow and purple bruising he left the last time I saw him. The split lip, the blood trickling down my chin.
I didn’t even cry when he did it. I was just in shock. I remember the way it felt so distinctly that when I reach up to brush the space just below my left eye, I flinch as if expecting it to still hurt like it did the days directly afterward.
I take a deep breath, holding it in while I count for seven seconds before releasing it. Tears sting the back of my eyes, but I refuse to cry. Grant lost the right to my tears the day I walked awayfrom him for the last time, the day he decided slapping me across the face was a good idea.
***
Flynn pulls into the parking lot of the bar twenty minutes after we leave the restaurant. His hand rested on my knee the entire time, and as I wait for him to come around the truck and open my door, a shiver rushes through me. I started working at this bar when I was eighteen. I looked forward to earning my own money, even if it was my parents paying my wages, and I couldn’t wait to finally give the ideas I’d gotten from years of watching them run the place a go.
Not once in the last eight years since starting here as an employee have I ever wanted to run the opposite way. Not once have I been scared of the daily challenges that await me inside those doors, not once have I ever been nervous to stand toe to toe with a drunk man and tell him he has to leave. Usually, I enjoy it.
But almost a year ago, I walked away from the man waiting inside and vowed that I would never speak to—let alone see—him ever again. After we broke up, I saw a counselor for a few weeks. I never admitted it to anyone, but I knew it was probably for the best. I didn’t go into the details of my relationship, nor did I tell her about the slap, but we just talked, and she gave me some breathing techniques to help with the anxiety that came along with the change.
Then, I went to Italy.
After Italy, everything seemed to go back to normal. I felt better, stronger. I just wanted to move on and get back to my life. Ofcourse, the whole falling into bed with Flynn, then hearing how much of a playboy he was, put a little damper on the trip, but if I’m truly honest with myself, the months of playful banter, the little love-hate friendship we formed, healed me a little. I’ve felt like the girl I was in college, before Grant. Headstrong, opinionated, free.
The car door opens, and Flynn holds out a hand to me. I take it and step out of the truck. He doesn’t let go of me as we make our way to the front door. Again, he steps in front, leading us both inside.
The place is almost empty. The kitchen staff are standing in front of the bar, Justin and Maria behind it. Doug and a few other locals stand off the side, speaking quietly amongst themselves. There’s glass all over the floor and a cracked plate, the food that was obviously on it when it dropped, lying nearby.
Jesus Christ.
I look around, spotting a man sitting in a booth across from the bar. He stares at me, his eyes glazed over, and he sways even though sitting down. His tie is half undone, his hair is a mess, and his shirt, from what I can see, is covered in beer.
Grant.
