Brontide

Chris snored lightly, buried under pillows and blankets and finally finding sleep after days of attempting to survive without it. He had fallen asleep almost instantly when he hit the bed, and he couldn't have been happier underneath that warm comforter. Of course, he could never be happy for two long. Out of nowhere, a pair of high heels clunked over into his room and ripped open the curtains without warning.

Sunlight flooded into the room, making Chris cringe. The massive, muscular, merciless killer almost began bawling like a baby when the comforter was ripped off him as well. He opened his eyes to find his little sister glaring in his face.

"Nightmare, nightmare," he groaned, "Nightmare, nightmare, nightmare. Why is my worst nightmare coming true?"

"Rise and shine," Marissa rolled her eyes, opening the door to Chris's closet. He watched in terror as she picked out a shirt and pants and threw them in his face. He glanced at the clock, rubbing his eyes.

"It's six AM," he whined, "How did you even get in here?"

"You hide the key under the mat. It's like you're asking to be robbed. Now put on the shirt, neither of us want to see you half-naked."

"Us?" Chris blinked, sitting up.

He spotted a man in the doorway, uncomfortably watching Marissa as she started organizing the messy room. Chris opened his mouth to say something, but no words came out. He just sat there in bed, pointing to the man like an idiot. He shrugged slightly, straightening out his gray business suit. He was somewhere in his late twenties or early thirties, with slicked back blonde hair and a handsome face. Chris had never seen him before, but judging by his size he could tell that the man was likely in the same career field as him.

"Marissa," his voice cracked, "There is a man in my room. Why is there a man in my room?"

"That's George," she walked up to him, taking hold of his hand. "Your newest partner. Him an I are kind of an item. You don't mind, do you?"

"Not at all," Chris muttered, pulling on the clothes quickly and getting out of bed. "But why is he in my house? While I'm half dressed?"

"Because I'm your wakeup call this morning, and he goes where I go."

George shifted awkwardly, avoiding eye contact. Chris picked up his phone and pretended to check it, running a hand through his hair in an attempt to straighten it out a little. Marissa strutted past him, endlessly ranting about how messy his house was. George suppressed a laugh as she left into the living room.

"She's a handful," he spoke in what sounded like a German accent, "You must be a very patient

"You must be deaf if you can handle dating that thing," Chris grinned.

"There was no refusing her," he shrugged, "She wouldn't let me, even if I wanted to."

Chris laughed, making his way to the bathroom to attempt and fix his appearance.

"She's like a wolf," Chris raised an eyebrow.

"More like a hyena," George said softly, quickly checking over his shoulder to make sure his girlfriend didn't hear him.

"This is the start of a beautiful partnership," Chris stuck out his hand, firmly shaking George's.

"My apologies for the rude entrance," George cleared his throat, "When Marissa told me that she was going to introduce us, i thought you already knew. I was not aware that-"

"Don't sweat it," Chris interrupted, "I'll forget that it happened if you do."

"Chris, this place is filthy!" Marissa shrieked from the other room. The boys both exchanged amused looks and she hurried back into the bedroom to criticize it some more. She was always in a hurry.

.::.

"So, I had a good time last night," Rae said softly, watching from a barstool as Chris chopped up lemons for the drinks they would be serving soon.

"I'm glad," he muttered.

"And you finally learned to use chopsticks," she continued.

"I did. So next time I go to China, remind me to thank you," he smiled at her.

"Do you think we would ever do it again?" she asked.

"Maybe, if you want to."

"You know," she spoke slowly, "I used to have this boyfriend who took me out for Chinese because he had this weird chopstick fetish. Don't ask me where I met him."

"I won't," Chris smirked, trying to imagine what a chopstick fetish even was.

"Anyway, it was weird. You know how it is, right? Like, freaky things people in bed?"

Chris looked up at her quizzically, but she seemed a hundred percent serious. He shrugged slightly, which seemed to disappoint her.

"So what about you? Any crazy girlfriend stories?" she asked, bouncing her knee.

Chris thought for a moment, wondering why she would care. He didn't care much for women anymore, especially after a girl he had once fallen head over heels for years ago.

He was only a kid then, seventeen years old. One of the maids in his family's estate had a daughter a year younger than he was, named Chelsea. Occasionally, Chelsea would come by with her mother and sit in the hall, humming songs to herself. She looked like a porcelain doll, with fair skin, rosy cheeks, pink lips, and golden hair she would braid down her back. Chris had thought Chelsea was the most beautiful thing in the world.

His mother had been the one to notice him staring. She had recognized the look right away, and she was the one to convince Chris to talk to the girl. As much as his father was opposed to it, he knew there was no arguing with his wife.

Chris began to talk to Chelsea every time she came by, and became obsessed with her lighthearted personality and their friendly conversations. A year later, they were best friends. Chris patiently listened to her go on and on about the boys she liked, hurting the young boy more and more with every word. Suddenly, things took a turn for the worst.

Chelsea became sad, and began to starve herself for a boy who she really liked. She began to wear makeup for the boy, an would cover up every little thing about her face that Chris loved. She Would let her hair down more often. She would cry to him about how this boy had been mean to her, and that she felt hideous.

More than anything, Chris just wanted to tell her she was beautiful, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. Not long later, Chelsea was found hanging by her scarf in her room one night. No suicide note, no message as to why.

After that, Chris became angry and irresponsible. He spent most of his early twenties picking up women twice his age, getting a motel room and leaving before the sun came up. When he finally came to his senses at 22 years old, he gave up on women entirely, deciding they weren't worth his time. Besides, any woman involved in his line of work would be in danger. He had learned that from his father the hard way.

He wished he could tell Rae all of it, but he was far too proud to admit it.

"None worth sharing," he said monotonously.

"But there are some, right?" Rae bit her lip.

"What are you trying to say?" Chris snapped, nearly chopping his finger off instead of the lemon.

"I, uh," Rae seemed startled by his reaction, "I was just curious."

"You're lying. What's on your mind?" Chris leaned on the bartop, glaring at her.

"Nothing. You just keep doing this thing where you're all nice and fun and then as soon as we get close you just turn away," Rae snapped right back at him.

Alex watched from the back, eyes wide with curiousity and what looked almost like hope. Hope for him to have a chance.

"So what, you assume I've never had a girlfriend before?" Chris raised his voice.

"It was a fair question!" Rae raised her voice over his.

"Why, because I didn't kiss you goodnight? Is that what it is?" He was practically yelling at her now.

"Yeah, maybe it was!" Rae didn't even bother to hold back her angry yelling.

Annoyed and frustrated, Chris leaned over the bar, reaching over and pulling Rae close to him by the back of her neck. He planted a rough, long kiss on her lips, catching her by surprise.

"Goodnight!" he yelled, letting go of her and stabbing the knife in his hand deep into the cutting board rather than Rae's heart. "Goodnight Rachel Warrick! Have a lovely evening!"

With his point made, he stormed out the back door, leaving Rae and Alex speechless in the bar. He didn't worry about his job; He had left many times before. If anything, he felt he needed o be drinking beers rather than serving them.