The Bonded
Copyright 2012 © John Falin
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
Chapter 1
Nothing like a smooth glass of scotch to numb the senses. Frederick has always offered top-shelf drinking for the sophisticated palate, but I prefer the local hole in the wall. There’s something about the anonymity as lifetime abusers wearily stroll in and out, looking for their particular brand of coping mechanism. We don’t ask personal questions, hell, I don’t even know the bartender’s name and he’s wearing a nametag. This is one of the few places where I can publicly hide from a lifetime of secret stares and hushed whispers.
“Want another drink?” the bartender asks.
I recover quickly from the haze of thought and reply with a mumbled, “Yeah.”
“You know that it’s dark outside and not much lighter in here. Why are ya wearing sunglasses?” he retorts.
“I’ve got pink eye.” I decide that is the best response as it always wraps up a potential conversation concerning my “demonic eyes” rather quickly and neatly. They’re nearly translucent with only a hint of green, and that’s enough to warrant my sunglasses, but throw in snow-white hair and I quickly become a conversation piece.
Unyielding name-calling always ensured my self-esteem was in check, and the transition from elementary school to high school in the ‘80s was a welcome reprieve as heavy metal and MTV were born. I inwardly smile, thinking of the wild hair, makeup, and kids doing their best to appear androgynous, which certainly lessened the amount of attention I received. I just purchased some leather at the local thrift store and did my best to fit in with the headbangers… good times. I had tried dying my hair, but nothing ever took. It was refreshing that white hair wasn’t an issue in that crowd, but no one peered into my eyes and looked away unscathed. So I just choose to wear my Maui Jims when in company.
“Put it on a tab?” he asks.
I nod yes and I’m warm with appreciation as the bartender slides me another glass to keep the fire burning. The liquid gold reflecting and absorbing the yellow lights brings to mind how many towns or cities have the same lights, the same bar, and the same people. I lift it to my nose and take in the musty smell of aged oak and subtle spices. I know this place; I’ve known it so many places. No metal doors allowed, only solid wood laboriously etched from a carpenter’s hands with the old iron hinges that creek and crackle from age. The booths are for those who want to enjoy a private evening with friends without the bothersome openness of the bench tables. They are dark and damp, not to mention rigidly uncomfortable, yet they hold a certain old-world charm that demands I appreciate their maturity and purpose. The bars are constructed from the same material, but have that black vinyl pad on top to alleviate any potential elbow suffering from those who take their drinking seriously. I put my lips to the glass, feel the edge of scotch tickle my senses, and my mind thanks me for the welcome respite.
I hear the door resist a push open with rusty cries, but it eventually surrenders as the icy wind sneaks through and stings my cheeks. The bartender’s eyes move, so I follow them to the door and watch as three strangers stroll in. There was no dusting off snow, no thankful sigh for the warmth; they just entered as if there was no door or shift in environment. As is statistically typical in a bar, two men and one lady. The guys are obviously identical twins in their early twenties with deep-black hair so dark it hints blue, but their eyes catch me, nearly the same eerie lack of color as mine, except blue. I’ve seen blue eyes, even eyes like Siberian huskies, but these are like ice injected with one single shot of blue.
I watch as they memorize the room and process the data. I know that look as I’ve spent enough time in the urban cities at night and I religiously watch Animal Planet; it’s the look of a predator. I feel the shift in my body temperature as a warning shot of adrenaline races through my pounding heart and I close my eyes to silence its beat.
Breathe, Adriel, breathe
.
My eyes blurrily open to greet her. The woman is a dangerous mix of lasciviousness with hidden aggression and delicacy. She is just an inch or two taller than the guys at five-foot eight and has the athletic tone that doesn’t scream gym teacher, but doesn’t categorize her as Hollywood bulimic, either. Her face is feminine and sharp with thin lips that are somehow tight and delicate. She must be related to the brothers as her hair has a similar pigment, but is long and fine. Our eyes eventually meet, steel blue. Her focus is beautifully frightening as her eyes stare so hard that I can feel the heat through my MJs. It’s a natural understanding that eye contact becomes awkward by suggesting hostility and dominance if maintained too long. Well, apparently, she didn’t get the e-mail because I feel very awkward, but for some reason I can’t tear myself from her gaze. My throbbing heart reappears and as if she heard its heavy beat, she slightly tilts her head, ensuring the sound is clear while keeping that lock on my eyes. The throb shifts gears into a thump as she lifts her gaze and sets her sights on my other insecurity… my hair. At this point I decide it’s best that I acquiesce to the alpha female and hope that my submission will release me from her attentiveness.
Good job, Adriel. Just ignore her and everything will be fine… riiight
.
In an effort to Houdini this intense situation, I tell the bartender, “Hey, buddy, I’m going to need another scotch.”
The bartender pauses and replies, “How are ya gettin’ home this evenin’?”
Great. A conscientious bartender. Who would have thunk? I don’t want to explain that my metabolism is so revved up that I burn alcohol like he burns his cigarettes. I feel the soothing effects for fifteen or twenty minutes, but they drift away and become a faint echo of tranquility. I can literally drink all night and be stone sober by the time I get to my Jeep in the parking garage. No one ever believes this, of course, so I just nod my head and tell a little white lie, “I’m taking a cab home.” That seems to satisfy his conscience as he checks a good deed off the list and pours another one for me.
“We’ll take a couple of drafts and a bourbon for the lady.” I hear the request very clearly due to an unwelcome invasion of my personal space.
What’s with these people? I’m sitting on the stool and meet his eyes with mine. I’m six-foot two and for every thin inch I have on him in height, he has width. He’s burly and powerful, and I cringe, knowing that he loves wearing that T-shirt a size too small, ensuring everyone is fully aware of his exuding masculinity. I have to admit, I
occasionally
wear them as well, but I just have an automatic dislike for this guy. His scent reminds me of spelunking in the caves of Virginia. It’s a distinct smell of darkness mingled with an ancient, untouched danger, so I politely lift myself from the stool and move to the next one as I take that warning under advisement.
“Scared I’m going to hurt you?” he asks.
“I was just giving you some room,” I state matter-of-factly.
“I figured you were a pretty boy by the look of your dyed hair. Now I’m sure of it.”
I’ve always had problems controlling my temper. I’ve never been the one to pick fights nor enjoy discord in my relationships. Yet, there are moments when I could completely drown in a maelstrom of passion. There is a pressure deep in my gut, sometimes so small that I can simply choose to ignore it, but there are times when the pressure builds. Inside of that contained pressure exists the parts of me I keep hidden and buried deep; it’s a murderous bloodlust growing and stretching and pounding its way to the surface. I feel my eyes crinkle and my lips snarl with every evil pulse. I sense the volcanic tension rise inside and breathe rhythmically to squelch its stress, but my mountain has weak spots. I pause and spit out a couple of words that I reserve for special occasions.
He immediately expands his chest and curls his nubby fingers into a tight fist to intimidate me. I stand to give him the full effect of my height when I hear the whisper of a soft command in his ear. She snakes her arm over his shoulder and writhes her fingers through his long hair with sedating effectiveness. I catch myself longing to be him at that moment. He moves his massive shoulders up and down and trunk of a neck from side to side, causing a few pops and cranks to hemorrhage the tension.
“I’ll see you later, Meat,” he states intensely as he turns to meet his friend who is anxiously waiting at the booth.
While looking at my sunglasses, she tells the bartender she will pay for the drinks. The moment is broken when he asks, “Do you and your friends have ID?”
I can’t help it. I let a small half-smile slip, and I think it diffused an otherwise intense situation. She says, “Of course,” and proceeds to pull out an ID while her trained eye remains on me. She asks, “Why do you find that humorous?”
I say, “I’ve been over twenty-one for nearly twenty years and get ID’d every time I order drinks. People say its good genetics and I should be grateful that I look like I’m in my twenties, but most of the time, it’s a pain in the ass.”
For some reason that statement really catches her attention, and I see a palpable question linger on her lips, but it’s reabsorbed quickly as she leans in with subtle caution. I feel the caged heat of her body radiate. I swear her temperature must be over 103 degrees. She breathes, “Be careful; my friends can be ruthless. It would be best to tread carefully and leave quietly.”
I have to admit, the threat is lost on heated thoughts. I take in a deep breath and a mask of expensive perfume is hiding something deeper. I had once visited Japan and had the opportunity to study jiu-jitsu with some of the great masters who specialized in swordplay. The katana, as they call it, was remarkably delicate and slightly feminine compared to the heavier barbaric swords of Europe. Yet it was created over long periods of time as layer after layer of steel was sternly caressed and formed into a weapon of utter lethality. Those katanas were capable of slicing through bone, metal, even their European counterpart with agile grace. That is her scent that she holds close and privately.
As if she senses my thoughts, she asks, “Why don’t you take off those silly glasses and let me see who you really are?”
Why not? Surely, she would understand. She seems unashamed, almost daring someone to gawk at her. So I lift my hands to slide them off and her friend appears seething with naked aggression. He squints his eyes, focuses on me, and says to her, “Don’t play with the food, Percy. We’ll see him later and you can get to know him… on a more personal level, then. I’ve got your favorite bourbon and we have business to discuss.”
Apparently, long farewells aren’t her thing as she gives me one last glance, turns, and walks away. Twin number one is impatiently waiting while fondling his beer and I silently laugh, knowing that I’ve already decided to name them Hanz and Franz for the sake of simplicity.
