Part of a Crew

Chapter 1

My name is Dylan Crinole. If you must know, I am a girl-the name might throw you off. I am twenty-seven years old, and live in Boston.

        I was walking into the neighborhood pub, John McRory's, just like every other day. I just got off work at the harbor. I work there as a security guard, but I am not your average rent-a-cop. I am an established fighter, and almost made it into the military. Unfortunately, I got into a fight with a guy in training, and almost killed him. I was kicked out after that. I took martial-arts classes all through school, and was one of the best in my class.
Anyway, the pub is where everyone in this part of town used to go. It was the old hangout for cops and mob guys alike. This place was like a second home to my father. He was always here, and I was raised here. My mother died when I was little, so my father raised me to the best of his ability. Now, this place is just a bar. When I walked in, the bartender waved hello to me, and I sat down at my usual stool. I have changed out of my work clothes, and into my casual clothes-cargo pants and a button up flannel shirt, so I am at home. My brown, almost black hair is tied back into a low tail. I have an apartment above the place, on the second floor. It was a real nuisance last year when a new guy bought the place. A bunch of problems with my lease and everything. It has blown over, but was a big bother for a while.
        Recently, I have noticed a new group of people who are constantly at the bar.  I have been coming here my while life and know all the regulars, so new people always stick out.
One of the new guys, a man who I can't remember his name, grew up here too, but by the time I had been old enough to actually be friends with people, he was older and had left. Four other people are always there with him. Two girls, two guys. One of the guys is black, slightly tall, and a bit geeky. His clothes don't give it away, for he is always wearing modern, popular clothes, but he has a tell. The other guy is around average height, with light brown hair to his shoulders. He is strong, by the way he carries himself. He reminds me of the guys in the military that I used to know. He must have been in the military, that much I know. His face is one that must attract girls, or so I think. I have never been one to have an interest in guys, but I remember girls in my high school swooning over guys like him. The women are just about as different as the guys are. One of them, who appears to be European, is always dressed in modern, classy clothes. She is slightly tall, with wavy brown hair, and a tan face. The other girl however, is pale, with blonde hair. She is almost always dressed in all black.
        As I sit there, the bartender slides me a beer-still cold, still in the bottle. I feel a presence beside me. Then the voice belonging to the long haired guy says, "Well hey there." From one of the guys next to me-who must know my reputation-mutters, "Oh, now you've done it." Without turning, I lift the bottle to my lips, but before taking a sip, I warn, "Don't even try it. I will beat the crap out of you if you do." Then I take a sip of the beer. I always drink nonalcoholic, because I don't like numbing my senses. From behind me, I hear one of the new people, the black guy, say, "Ooooooh, you just got showed up." Then the long haired guy, who is the one trying to hit on me, tells him, "Shut up." Then, to me, he says, "I'd like to see you try.", in a way that suggests a joke. I nod, then turn and punch him in the side of the face.
        It takes him by surprise.  He takes a step back after my fist connects with his face. I didn't punch as hard as I could have, but it was a solid hit. The group at the table jumps up. The guys at the bar all turn. The bartender starts to walk out, then decides against it.  I hop up, and stand  across from him. I tell him, "I warned you. Don't mess with me." He looks up. A slight bruise starts to appear on his cheek where I hit him, and anger boils in his eyes. The older guy says, "Now, Eliot, calm down." Apparently the guy I punched is named Eliot. The European woman puts a hand on his arm, in a compassionate way. Neither seem to calm him.  He gets into a basic fighting stance, and so do I. 
He seems a bit taken aback when I do this, and I smirk. I don't like taking the first move, so I wait, poised to block or strike. He rushes at me. When he strikes, a medium strength open-palmed strike to my stomach, I am ready, and block it. His face gives away his surprise. By the force of the blow, and the way his arm came around, and even the way his arm muscles are tensed, I can tell he is holding back. He doesn't want to hurt me too much. I return with a couple quick jabs at his head, shoulders, and stomach. He blocks all of them, except for one, which he deflects. By now,I know he has had training. Maybe even better training then me. 
        He comes in with an elbow directed at the side of my face, and I duck to avoid it. While I am low, I make a quick jab at his waist. He blocks it by knocking it out of the way. He takes advantage of my ducking position-where I am also unbalanced, and uses his leg to sweep me off my feet. I tumble, landing sprawling on my back. I do a kip-up, and return to my fighting stance. I study his eyes. The anger has almost entirely left them, while they are now filled with surprise and a bit of amazement. He stops, and puts his hands down. The man named Eliot holds out his right hand, inviting for a hand shake. I am still wary, but I lower my hands as well, and grasp his hand.
        I shake his hand, using the firm grip that I learned from my father. That was one of his many lessons he drilled into me. He always said, "Dylan, you must have a good handshake, if you don't have anything else. Use a strong, firm grip. That shows you are a strong, firm person." I have carried that with me my whole life. Eliot's handshake is just as strong and firm. My initial assumption of him is right; he is strong.  He introduces himself, "Hello. I'm Eliot."
        "Yeah. I heard. I'm Dylan Crinole."
        "Spencer. Eliot Spencer. I guess we got off on the wrong foot."
        "Ya think?"
        He smirks at this. He returns with, "You got some skills. Were you taught?"
        "Yeah. I have been in martial-arts classes my whole life. I was always one of the best. I am prone to fighting. A blessing and a curse."
        "Hm. I can tell you were-or are-good. How is it a blessing and a curse?"
        "Long story." I walk back over to the bar, and sit down on my stool again. I take a sip of my beer, and put it down. He joins me there, and asks what I got. I tell him, "O'Doul's. No alcohol for me."
        "Why not? You have had problems in the past?"
        "Nah, just like to keep a clear head. Learned that in the army."
        "Oh, you were in the army?"
        "Yeah. Got kicked out, though."
        He orders a beer, then asks, "Why?"
        "Got into a fight. The whole blessing-and-a-curse thing."
        "So tell me about it."
        "Well first, let me guess. You were in the Army too?"
        "Yeah. How'd you know?"
        "The way you fought at first.  When you thought I was just a girl who took a swing, you started out fighting in the tradition method taught by the Army instructors. Once you realized that I was a good fighter, you switched to other forms of fighting." He seems surprised that I was able to pick that out about him. He replies, "Yes, you're right. I was in the Army."
        "I thought so."
        "So, you were telling me about how you got kicked out of the Army?"
        "Oh, yeah. Well, I was stationed at Ft. Devens, and...." As I am talking, I see the older, dark haired man come over towards us. He taps Eliot on the shoulder, and says, "We have to go."
        "What, like, now?"
        "Yeah, now. Let's go."
        The man walks off, and Eliot turns to me. He says, "Sorry, have to go. Maybe I'll see you around."
        He turns, and walks out the door. I shrug, and finish my beer. When I finish, I put the bottle down on the counter with a five dollar bill underneath it, and walk out the door. Once outside, I sniff the cold, brisk, late fall air. I walk up the steps, then enter in the main doors of the building. I take the stairs up to the third floor, which is really the second from ground level, but if you count the pub as a level, then it's the third floor. My room is the second one on the left. The elevator on the opposite side of the hallway from the stairs. My apartment is 2B. I pull out my keys, and unlock my door. As I do it, I hear loud voices coming from the room across the hall, 2A. I try to listen, but can't make out the words. I walk inside my apartment and flick on the lights. "Ah. Home sweet home." I mutter.
        I own a simple, two story apartment. On the first floor there is a kitchen, a spot I use as an office, an open dining area next to the door, and a living room. In the corner, a spiral staircase leads up to the second floor, which houses a bedroom and a bathroom. I plop down on my couch, not really having anything to do. My watch-a standard issue army watch that I have kept-reads the time as 7:06. I usually stay downstairs longer, so I don't know what to do. I decide to make myself an early dinner. A normal dinner time for me is later, more like 7:30 to 8.