Echo's POV
Sweating.
There's so much sweat that I can feel the material of my shirt sticking to my back. It's like my shirt is swallowing me whole, stitching itself into my skin as if it owns me.
The tears on my face are just as worst as they stream down my cheeks. I got work in three hours and I can't manage to sleep. Not when I feel like the walls of my room are caving in on me, not when I can't stand the material of my clothes, or the hair on my head sticking to my forehead.
I can't stand it all and I can't bring in a full breath of air for shit. The oxygen in here is depleting, it feels so thin, so fragile, like I'm only a few breaths away from sucking the life out of it.
Why can't I have one good night? Why do they have to be filled with so much struggle? I can't just fall asleep like a normal person, no, I must have the pain that I carry around carelessly throughout the day hit me all at once when the sun goes down. When all I'm left with is me, my thoughts, and I. And it's then that I began to feel it come crashing.
I began to think of something to calm me down. I've never been good at it—defusing the situation. I either fall asleep with eyes full of tears, or I never sleep at all. There is never an in-between. There's no better outcome. There never has been for over five years. I'm just horrible at this crap.
You're not horrible. You just need to realize how great you can be.
Brandon's voice swarms my head. The softness of his words, even after I had just finished dumping a bunch of shit on him for really no reason at all.
He was so patient with me. Something I can't say for many I've met over the years. Besides Hailey, of course. She was the most patient person I've ever met. There wasn't a moment when she couldn't sit down and listen to my problems. Even her silence was enough.
Brandon is coming in a close second.
I find myself with a frown on my face as I think of our interaction yesterday. How did he not get up and walk out on me? Better question, why didn't he get up and walk out on me? He doesn't know me, and he certainly didn't have to take a blow to the chest. If he said something about what happened in the bathroom, I could've gotten fired. Especially with how angry Greg was with me when I got back from the bathroom.
I roll off to my side and sigh, staring at the faint sight of my wall across the room.
***
"You look like absolute shit, kid," Greg mutters as I tie my apron around my waist. "Did you get any sleep at all?"
No, my eyes became dry from the hours I spent staring at nothing. My mouth as well, considering I couldn't bring myself to get a glass of water that would only take only a few steps into the kitchen to get. Those few steps felt like life or death. For some reason I find myself strung on small decisions that would be so simple to others but take an immense amount of effort for me. Why? Who the hell knows?
I smile bitterly. "You're lucky I came into work today."
He chuckles. "Oh, am I? You do know I own this place, right? I can just hire someone else."
I grabbed a rag and the spray bottle full of soap. "Yeah... but then who else would make you want to rip your hair out—" I gasp, like forgetting something, "Oh wait, what hair?" I point to the shiny bald spot at the top of Greg's head, and he whacks a rag my way. I dodge it, smiling.
"Get outta here, girl. Go set them tables before I send you walkin' through the door."
***
My curls are a blessing and a curse sometimes. I love being mixed, don't get me wrong, but when I'm baking in a bar filled with men who reek of cigarettes and booze, I feel like the scent lives on each strand of hair, hiding in my coils. I need to shower.
Taking a bathroom break, I also take a breather, looking in the mirror to fix my hair.
I undo and redo my ponytail and tighten it at the top of my head, then pull out two front curls so that they dangle over my face. I can't help but notice the dark circle surrounding my eyes, paired with eyebags. I shut them, shaking my head.
"Cute." The voice comes from behind, startlingly.
I jump and turn towards him. Brandon.
Gripping my heart, I let out a sigh of relief. "Do you always just creep around and follow girls into the woman's bathroom like a fucking weirdo? Should I be worried?"
He points and I follow his finger to the urinals lined up at the opposite wall. "This..." He coughs. "This is the men's bathroom, actually." Sniffles.
"Oh," I grind my teeth and let out a long breath. "Nice to know." I quickly walk past him and back into the bar after bumping into a man walking into the bathroom that I had mistaken to be the women's. I mutter sorry and keep it moving.
Brandon follows me, I can hear his presence shortly behind. "What you up to?"
I go behind the bar and spot Greg doing tables, he sees me back at the bar and nods in confirmation. I bring my attention back to Brandon who sits at one of the stools where several other guys sit, drinking or waiting for drinks.
"I'm working, isn't that obvious enough?" I take down an order and turn around to make it.
"No, I know. I was just wondering if you normally hang out in the men's bathroom."
I glance at him, rolling my eyes at the wide grin on his face. "Funny. Actually, hilarious, can you see how much I'm laughing?" I stop to point at my straight face and get back to the drink.
He chuckles. I wish it was quieter in here so I can hear his laugh better. Not for any reason, just because it sounds so... whatever.
I keep glancing at him as he watches me work, making me hyperaware of how I look, walk, and talk. Why is he staring so much?
I stop in front of him after a few orders are done and lean my arms on the bar table. "What do you want?" I scan the rest of the bar, the tables, and the booths in the back. "Where's your buddies? They're not with you today?"
His smile fades, he shakes his head and sighs. "They're not my buddies, stop saying that shit. And I'm here because I wanna see how you're holding up. We didn't exactly leave off with you feeling all dandy, did we?"
He's not wrong, yesterday was hell, especially for a random guy to witness. What stumps me is why he feels the need to check up on me. Maybe it's because of his job.
"Well, I'm halfway through this lovely Friday shift and I've already planned several murders and committed them... in my head." I joke humorlessly. Brandon's eyebrows rise and I scoff. "Kidding, I'm kidding. I'm not a murderer. The only person I want to kill is myself," I huff out a laugh.
Brandon frowns. "That's not funny, Echo."
"Really? I found it hilarious."
The orders continue and Brandon's eyes never leave my figure as I dart around like a chicken with its head cut off. Nervously itching my arms from the weight for his gaze and the pressure of getting drinks out promptly. I'm not nearly as fast as my dad was, but I learned a thing or two watching him over the years.
After a few drinks are passed out, a disgustingly raspy voice is directed my way, "Hey, sexy." I twist to look at the grimy-looking old man, who's a hundred percent someone's grandpa, staring at my ass. "You got some nice buns on you, don't cha'?"
I wince in disgust and turn around to face him. "Excuse me?"
He only chuckles, chugging a shot down then slams it on the bar. "Get me another one, will you, hot stuff?"
My dad would never let these men say a word to me while I was here. Although he was a shitty father in many aspects, he never let anyone else—but him—be shitty to me. Including the creeps who wouldn't even dare look in my direction while he was here.
But he's gone now. Anger fills my blood.
I grab the shot glass he set down and slam it down harder, making him jump. I lower my head right next to his and stare him in his eyes.
"Make one more of your sick comments and I'll shove this glass so far down your throat you'll wish you didn't open your sorry mouth at all."
We're stuck staring each other down, catching the attention of a few others around us. His phone facing upward lights up and a screensaver of him, two young girls, and a slightly older girl, who I'd assume is his daughter, pops up. "Do I make myself clear? Or should that loving-looking woman need to know what a pedo her daddy is hearing he's hitting on young girls?"
He looks around, embarrassed, and shakes his head frantically.
Standing up he digs in his pocket for his wallet and pulls out a hundred-dollar bill, throwing it on the table while muttering, "Can never have a little fun these days," before leaving the bar.
I grin and snatch up the hundred, turning to wave it at Brandon who's wide-eyed. That guy paid three times more than his drink. My tip to shut my mouth, I suppose.
"You really did that guy in," Brandon chuckles as I walk towards him. The place is starting to die down, coming close to closing time.
"They always run off when their family is mentioned."
Brandon nods. "I wanted to bud in as soon as I heard him say what he did to you... but you held your own pretty well."
I shrug, wiping down the bar counter, "Always have, always will."
He reaches out and grabs my wrist so that I stop moving, which I haven't done in several hours. My feet are killing me.
The feeling of his fingers putting pressure on my forearm makes a tingle run up my arm. I haven't been touched by another in ages. The tension it creates in me is foreign and I seem to yearn for it.
I stare at Brandon as he stands up and smiles at me sideways. A smile that's hard to look away from. It makes my heart race. I look down and I hear him laugh softly.
"Hey, uh, I was wondering—"
He pauses and I look back up to see him staring down at a message he got on his phone. An expression washes over his face and I tilt my head, unable to figure it out as he replaces it quickly. "Look, I need to get going, but um..." He clicks his tongue and then reaches for my apron pocket, pulling out my notepad and pen. Bending over, I watch him write down a phone number, then rip the paper out, fold it, and take my hand in his. Skin like butter on mine, he places the piece of paper into my palm, over the crescent-shaped wounds, and closes my fingers over it. "My number, if you ever feel the need to talk to someone again, talk to me. Okay? I'll always be there."
I tighten my hand around the paper and recline my hand. "I don't want a friend."
Walking towards the exit backward, he shrugs. "Fine, then we're not friends. Just don't be a stranger. Talk to you soon?"
I roll my eyes, the smile on my face stretching wide. Not ear to ear, but nearly.
He stops walking, "I mean it Echo, call me!" He shouts through the dozens of chatting voices before disappearing through the front door.
Looking at the paper crumpled in my hand I shove it into my jean pocket—
"Well, well, well, would you look at this? Is Echo Johnson smiling? Genuinely?"
I try to drop my smile, but I can't. It's stuck.
"Who's that boy? Did he just say to call him? What's his name? Should I be actin' like a concerned uncle or a best friend?"
I nudge his large shoulder. "Neither!"
He nods. "Fine, I'll be your boss then. Forget aboutthe dreamy boy and get to work so we get outta here."
*****
[Authors Notes]
Hi guysss what'd you think about this update? Do you think echo's gonna call him? How long to you think this "not friends" title will last?
Like Brandon said don't be a stranger, make sure to vote and comments to show me you're enjoying reading!
Love ya,
Kayla