Deserved

1.

All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

2013 Copyright. All Rights Reserved by the Author.

Cover artwork designed by Cat_evans. All rights to this image are reserved by the artist.

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DOMINIC'S STORY.....

I loved the way the light came in, just as the sun went down, signalling the start of another night. Another shift filled with chatter, clinking glasses and music, to block out my inner noise.

Tonight, uncharacteristically for this time of year, was devoid of any light.

My sombre mood was mirrored by surprisingly brutal weather. Rain hammered the wooden porch hugging the 'South of Heaven Inn', and I sighed, because now I had a pooch that needed walking, but sure as hell wouldn't venture out in torrential rain. Larry was a pussy, and I couldn't help but chuckle, watching him sulk in his dogeared, faded blue bed by the French doors. He passed me a withered look. Brother had the hump with me, funny how dogs do that. Like you're able to turn off the rain with the flick of a switch. But I liked the rain.

The rain steadied my splintered nerves.

Like some holy ablution washing away the sins of the day.

Or maybe not.

Sometimes it hit me like a sucker punch to the gut. Steeling myself against the bar, I took a deep breath, knowing this feeling all too well. Clay Arterson and Randy Miller, two metal heads and avid Harley worshippers sipped from tankards in a booth by the saloon style doors. The fire in the hearth raged in oranges and yellows, bathing the usual gaggle of Nam veterans surrounding it, in a halo of light. A scattering of single individuals, many of them truckers and contractors, took up residence on the throng of bar stools ribboning along the expansive red wood counter.

I watched 'Devil's Tongue,' roll in, drenched to the bone, their lead singer Dex squeezing out his shoulder length jet black hair and stamping his muddied feet on the coarse coir door mat. Over by the staging area, a troop of latex wearing Tongue groupies chattered amongst themselves, making eyes at Dex and the infamous womaniser of the group, Vin, the bass player. At that moment, Hunter Fabray strutted in, and I say strutted because he purposefully walked with a swagger that Western heroes like Eastwood and Wayne would be envious of. In his Pantera tee and black jeans, muddy river hair and cursory nod to the groupies, he was never short of a little female attention. He'd been visiting a brewery down in Rock Creek, and I hoped he'd secured a deal for some of their dark mead.

He gave me a thumbs up sign, and then hung out his tongue like a salivating dog, wiggling his eyebrows towards where the groupies languished on the stage. I rolled my eyes, shrugging, as if to say;

'They're all yours brother.'

But he headed on over, rolling the sleeves of his open shirt up over the elbow, and he slapped me on the back.

'Another day another dollar, huh boss. It's brutal out there man. My hair look okay?'

'Your hair looks homo, as per usual.' I jested, 'Bieber called, he wants his hair back.'

'Fuck off.' Hunter retorted playfully, brown eyes twinkling.

'You were the only guy, in the Iraqi desert, more concerned over his hair than whether his legs were gonna get blown to fucking bits.' I chided.

'And I told you, it's coz those Middle Eastern chicks are hot.'

'So you'd prefer to have no legs so long as your hair stayed intact.'