First Chapter: Stargazer
For me, hitting rock bottom happened when, in a moment of irrational panic, I reached out to a dealer I knew back in college, who I hadn’t spoken to in almost ten years, trying to score some oxycodone. Or something comparable. Just my luck, he’d found Jesus and, rather than hook me up, he’d staged a long-distance intervention (of sorts) in the form of another college buddy, Griff Shipley.
“Been too long,” I said, pulling my old football teammate into a one-armed man-hug. After college, when I’d entered the Marine Corps, Griff headed back to Vermont to run his family farm.
“Randy Dick.” He slapped my back then pulled away with a big grin.
“Ha. Ha,” I deadpanned. Back in college, my friends had shortened Randall Dickson II, a name I hated, into Randy Dick. For…well-deserved reasons. Griff would laugh if he knew how long it’d been since my dick felt anything close to randy. More than a year, at least. “I go by R.D. now.”
“Glad you came, R.D.,” he answered.
Like he’d given me a choice. “You get your ass to Vermont in the next twenty-four hours, or I will fly to California to get you. It’s almost October. We’re picking apples. Do not make me leave the farm right now.”
Probably leaving his pretty new wife, Audrey, and infant son were more of an issue than the apples, but whatever.
“Look at you.” I took in Griff, in his red and black flannel shirt, worn jeans––from actual hard work rather than chemical distressing—and full beard. “Farmer turned chemist turned purveyor of adult beverages.” I surveyed his new venture, Speakeasy Tap Room. On the outside, a big, unassuming, old brick building. Inside, an open floorplan with rough-hewn floorboards, rustic wooden beams, and antique lamps hanging overhead. At the back, a wall lined with huge leaded glass windows overlooked a river. Off to the left, a glassed area showcased the brewery operation. At the center, an impressive oval-shaped bar. Staff moved around with purpose. The place busy for late afternoon on a Thursday. “Made something of yourself, that’s for sure.”
Griff’s response? “Once a farmer, always a farmer.”
My old friend was much more than a farmer. A quick internet search showed, to his credit, cultivation of various organic fruit trees, mostly apples, production of award-winning hard cider, distributed nationally, and participation in the creation of a non-alcoholic beer that was quickly gaining popularity.
“I only own a piece of this place. After you’re settled in, Audrey and I will have you over. Show you around the farm.”
“I’d like that.”
“You checked in at the motor lodge?”
Three Bears Motor Lodge wasn’t like any I’d been to before, more like tiny one-room cabins. But, yeah, I was checked in, so I nodded. “Retro.” That place hadn’t been updated since the fifties.
“I put the word out, looking for a short-term room or apartment to rent.”
“No worries. Don’t plan on being here too long.” One month, maybe two, to get my shit together and strengthen up before heading back to base and, Lord willing, getting the medical clearance I needed to transition back to active duty.
He studied me. “How you doing?”
Not great. “I’m fine.”
A lie. Griff didn’t call me on it.
“One of the guys who works local law enforcement, Benito Rossi, is former DEA. He catches you doing anything illegal, he won’t hesitate to arrest you. And there’s not a damn thing I can do about it.”
“I won’t get caught.” My attempt at a joke fell flat.
Griff glared at me. “Wrong answer, asshole.”
“Kidding.” I held up both hands in surrender. “Too soon?”
He gave my left shoulder a shove.
“I screwed up.” Both of us a little over six feet tall, my eyes met his. “The doc wouldn’t renew my prescription. I panicked.”
“When was the accident? Over a year ago, right?”
On leave, stateside, to attend my mother’s funeral. Took the motorcycle out for a quick ride, and BAM! Some high-strung motherfucker in a BMW, on his cellphone, ran a red light and changed my life forever. Concussion. Open femur fracture. Shattered ankle. Shoulder dislocation. Humerus fracture. Right hand and wrist fractures with nerve damage. “Yeah.”
“You’re still having pain bad enough that the over-the-counter stuff doesn’t work?”
I shrugged. “Some days are worse than others.” Mentally and physically. “I left my cane in the SUV.” Hated to use it. Hated that it made me look weak.
“You okay to stand without it?”
“Yes.”
“I can put a stool—”
“No.”
“But—”
“No,” I snapped.
“Okay then.” Griff gestured to a wood-top table and chairs beside him. “Let’s sit.” While we did, he asked, “You going to be okay standing for hours at a time? It’s fall foliage season, and we just got added to one of the Vermont Brewers Association beer trails. Your shifts will be busy.”
“I can handle it.” I would make myself handle it. Standing behind a bar was nothing compared to the physical fitness and combat fitness tests I’d have to pass to get back to the job I loved. “Downloaded two bartending manuals.” Had margaritas, mojitos, and Manhattans, whisky sours, white Russians, and Moscow mules and dozens of other drinks swirling around in my head.
“Speakeasy does a lot of business on tap. Vermont IPAs and artisanal ciders. I figure you can work the taps, pour wine, and back up the other bartender on duty if needed. More than likely, she’ll wind up being your backup.”
She?
“You going to be okay working behind the bar? Audrey mentioned,” he shifted in his seat, “maybe it’s not a good idea for,” he cleared his throat, “someone who…you know, might have a,” he met my eyes, “drug problem, to be working with alcohol. I could set you up as a bouncer. At the door. Or Audrey and our friend, Zara, own The Busy Bean, a coffee shop down the street. You could—”
“You know about my father.” A mean, abusive alcoholic. “I don’t drink. Have no desire to drink. Will never drink. For any reason. Ever.” Wouldn’t risk turning into a man like him. I may have panicked about running out of medication. But not once did I ever consider substituting alcohol as a form of pain management.
Something Griff saw in my expression must have convinced him, because he said, “Okay, then. Let me show you around.”
After learning about the keg delivery system, growlers and flights—a small, rectangular tray with openings to accommodate four small glasses for their cider and beer tasting menus—Griff demonstrated holding an ice-cold mug at a precise forty-five-degree angle for a perfect pour. “Now you try.”
I positioned the mug so the beer hit the side, limiting the foamy head. I may not consume alcoholic beverages, but I’d spent enough time in bars over the years to observe how it was done.
Griff handed me a laminated price list then gave me a crash course in how to use the cash register. “Anything else, Lily can fill you in.”
“Lily can what?” a female voice asked.
We both turned.
“Perfect timing,” Griff said. “Lily Reynolds, I’d like you to meet a buddy of mine, R.D. He’ll be working with you until he’s ready to return to active duty in the Marine Corps.”
At the vision of lovely before me, I was struck mute. Mid-twenties. Petite, the top of her head not reaching my shoulder, even in her wedge heels. Her smile: sweet with a tease of sassy, showing off straight, white teeth with a dimple on each cheek. Her skin: smooth. Lightly tanned. Flawless. Her hair: straight. Thin. White-blonde, skimming her shoulders. A loose French braid across the upper part of her forehead kept it from falling into her face. Her eyes: an unusual pale blue-green. Unique. Hypnotizing. A tiny diamond stud sparkled from her right nostril. Large silver hoops hung from her ears.
Although Griff hadn’t gotten around to it yet, from what I could tell, the staff dress code consisted of a black T-shirt with Speakeasy across the chest on top and some form of denim on the bottom. This woman, Lily, had on the shortest denim skirt in the place. Damn. And her shirt? Fit like it’d shrunk in the wash, hugging what appeared to be a decent rack, for her size, and a flat abdomen. She had hers cut at the neck and down the chest into a deep V. Around the short sleeves and the bottom hem, the material had been sliced into vertical, maybe three-inch strips, with colorful chunky beads and—what the hell?—bells threaded onto the strips and tied off.
This woman liked attention.
She sure as hell had mine.
As if in slow motion, her hand came up and settled on my chest, the touch making my dick stir in my pants. Hallelujah. Welcome back, big guy. Although now’s not a good time.
Her lips moved, snapping me out of my stupor in time to hear her say, “Sparkling personality, big guy.” She gave me a sweet smile and a wink before turning to Griff. “Does he speak?”
Before I could respond, she continued on her way behind the bar, tossing over her shoulder, “Doesn’t matter. I can talk enough for the both of us. As long as he keeps me in clean glasses and stays out of my way, we’ll get along just fine.”
My eyes glued to her ass, I asked Griff, “Who the hell was that?”
Griff laughed. “Dude. I remember you having a lot more skill with the ladies. Especially the pretty ones. Not that it matters. She’s into artsy losers. You, my friend, are not her type. Which is part of the reason you’ll be working all her shifts.”
A guy wearing the Speakeasy uniform yelled, “You have got to be shitting me.” He stood a couple of inches taller than Lily, his stocky chest puffed out, his long, dark hair blowing behind him as he stormed in our direction. “Why does the new guy get all of Lily’s shifts?”
Griff raised an eyebrow and stared the guy down, stopping him in his tracks, calmly explaining, “Because he won’t be out back smoking when Lily leaves. He will make sure she gets to her van safely.”
“One time,” the guy said, crossing his arms over his chest defensively.
“One time is all it takes,” Griff responded.
“What—”
The guy cut me off. “I told her to wait for me. I was only outside for a few minutes.” He looked down. “Didn’t realize she’d finish up so quick.”
“I know, Kurt,” Griff said. “I’m not blaming you. Get back to work.”
The guy looked me over, his facial expression similar to someone inspecting dog shit on the bottom of their shoe. Then he spun around and stomped away.
“What—” I tried again.
This time Griff cut me off. “Come,” he said, holding his hand out toward a hallway leading to the kitchen. “Let’s talk in the office.”
I followed him to a small, nondescript office containing an old wooden desk and two chairs. While Griff moved to take the fancy black one on wheels, behind the desk, I lowered onto the wooden chair in front of it, thankful it had armrests I could lean on to ease myself down. I fought to contain a sigh of relief at finally taking the weight off my throbbing leg.
“Lily is my most popular bartender,” Griff said. “Among our staff, because she shows up on time as scheduled, she works hard from start to finish, and her shifts routinely rake in the most tips, which they all share. Be prepared for some backlash from my latest scheduling decision.”
I’d come for some new scenery and to change up my destructive routine, to get out of my head and rejoin the living. Not to make friends. “I can take it.”
“She’s a favorite among our customers because she is nice to everyone. She’s friendly, chatty, and flirty. Some men take that to mean—”
“That she’s interested,” I finished for him.
Griff let out a breath. “Yeah.”
Even though I had a pretty good idea already, I asked, “What happened?”
“Last week, after close, two drunk guys approached Lily in the parking lot.”
My body went cold. “What happened?”
Griff’s smile caught me by surprise. “According to one of our regulars, who happened to be outside waiting for a ride, she gave one a bloody nose, and the other is probably still trying to dig out his balls.”
“Small thing like her?”
“Don’t underestimate, Lily. She will surprise you every time.”
“She got lucky.”
“Maybe,” he conceded. “I didn’t find out until three days later.” He shook his head in frustration. “Said she didn’t want to make a big deal about it. When I think what could have happened…”
“I’ll keep an eye on her.”
“I know you will.” After a brief hesitation, he added, “From what I hear, Kurt has a thing for her. He’s been talking shit about her boyfriend. Which may be why she snuck out on him the other night. He might give you some trouble.”
“Nothing I can’t handle.”
“The boyfriend, Dorian, who is deserving of all the shit Kurt talks about him, came in with his waste-of-life friends twice in the past two weeks, skipping out on the bills, leaving them for Lily to take care of. I don’t like it. Aside from the fact it’s an asshole move, it sets a bad precedent.”
“I’ll ask one of the waitresses to point him out next time he comes in. He will not leave without paying the bill again.”
Griff smiled. “Glad you’re here, buddy.” He reached into a drawer and slid some paperwork across the desk. “Fill these out, and we’re good to go.”
That done, we returned to the bar area. Lily stood on a stepstool, leaning over a big whiteboard. “What’s she doing?” I asked Griff.
“Writing down her motivational quote of the day. That’s her thing. People love it. They come in looking for it.”
Apparently finished, she picked up the whiteboard, gave it a final read, then set it behind the bar for all to see:
Positive thoughts.
Positive Prayers.
Positive intentions.
Positive life.
What a load of bullshit. As if reading that, even saying the words out loud, could make it so. To make her message even more personally offensive, she’d used brightly colored fluorescent markers and decorated the borders with hearts and flowers.
Fuck. Me.
Seemed I agreed to spend the next few weeks with a perpetually happy, annoyingly positive optimist who’d probably never had a hard day in her life. The constantly cranky, struggling-to-get-through-each-day pessimist in me started to question my decision to come to Vermont.