Don't Know If I Bleed

Jackson and I used to spend our afternoons swapping war stories told to us by our fathers. We’d skip school and share cigarettes, giggling like school children at the thought of Gemma catching us and raising hell. When dinnertime rolled around, he’d walk me home and charm my mother, making up all sorts of lies about studying diligently in the school library for an upcoming chemistry exam. Neither of us had ever taken chemistry.

Anecdotes like those made my decision to leave infinitely more difficult. It’d taken me exactly one hour and seventeen seconds to make up my mind and an additional twenty-four minutes to convince myself it was the right — and only — choice.

As I became increasingly disillusioned and detached from my surroundings, I became more aware that there was nothing left for me in Charming. However, what little I’d accomplished with my life post-graduation left me with no money. My options were limited, so I separated myself from the only thing I could: the club.

There were a few days of peace and quiet. I hadn’t thought about Stockton, I didn’t have any nightmares about the what-ifs. Instead of swapping war stories over a pack of Marlboros, I spent my afternoons looking for a legitimate source of income.

I’d met Jacqueline while I was still in high school. The only Crow Eater who ever bothered to learn my name, she spent long shifts behind the bar, spending her days and nights slinging drinks for men who never fully appreciated her. I never understood why. She never said how old she was, but time and age had been nothing but kind to her. She knew her place, had a smile for everyone and took some of the younger whores under her wing and made sure they never stepped out of bounds.

After realizing becoming someone’s Old Lady wasn’t in the cards for her, she abandoned the club and took over a bar on the main drag of Charming. She didn’t have to ask why I was suddenly looking for a job, just asked if I could start waiting tables the following evening and if I owned any low-cut tops. She couldn’t afford to pay me well, but her patrons were known for leaving substantial tips for anyone who caught their eye.

Just like any bar, the air was thick with cigar smoke and profanities and the sound of glasses clanking never ceased. Thoughts of Stockton would creep up on me if I didn’t keep busy; I made sure to earn my tips. Halfway through my shift, I stupidly began thinking life away from the club wouldn’t be so difficult.

You could feel it the second he walked through the door, all brooding confidence and determination. He sat at a table in the far corner. Jacqueline shot me a look of pure sympathy.

“What are you doing here, Jackson?”

His stare was hard. “Lookin’ for you.”

“Congratulations, you’ve found me. Are you going to order something or are you just here to be a pain in my ass?”

I shouldn’t have been shocked that he had the gall to chuckle. After all, nothing about Jackson Teller was polite. “Now, now, I’m no businessman but I’m pretty sure that’s no way to treat a paying customer.”

Behind me, someone was playing Black Sabbath on the jukebox. “Either tell me what you want or fuck off.”

“I’ll take a cold one.”

“Of course,” I replied, “I’ll just need to see some identification.”

Jackson looked stunned. “Excuse me?”

“Last I checked, you have to be twenty-one years of age to consume alcohol in this country. You don’t want to get me in trouble with my boss, do you?”

Ignoring my slight, Jax stuck a cigarette between his lips. “What’re you doin’ here anyway?”

“I’m working.”

“You left,” was his response. He didn’t bother blowing the smoke out of my direction.

I shook my head, trying not to laugh incredulously. “I’m not doing this now.”

He didn’t seem daunted by what I’d said. He didn’t move after I’d left to check on the other patrons and he remained at the table while I was on my fifteen. Jacqueline declared last call at two and started ushering everyone out around three; Jackson was there for all of it, just watching.

When it was time to leave, I pulled my jacket off the coat rack by the entrance and started the walk back to my shithole of an apartment. I wasn’t at all surprised when Jax fell in step beside me.

“You should really be more careful. You never know what could happen to a young lady walking home from work in the middle of the night.”

I hummed in agreement. “Mm, but I know what happens to young ladies who have to go to Stockton to pick up their piss-drunk friends in the middle of the night: they almost get raped.”

Jackson stopped dead in his tracks. “What’d you just say?”

I turned on my heel. “I said, ‘they almost get raped.’” The expression on his face was unreadable. I neared closer, no concern whatsoever for his well-being. “Oh, is that news to you? Were you content thinking some piece of shit just wanted to have a friendly conversation and I overreacted?”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked, his voice at a near-inaudible volume.

My eyes widened at his stupidity. “Because I can’t trust you, Jackson. I thought that would’ve been obvious to you.”

He ran his tongue over his lips as he stared at the ground. There was nothing but tense silence. “You have a good night, Jo.”

And then, just like when he’d fallen in love, he was gone.