Chapter Two

There is so much blood, a deep crimson like an inky stain that won’t fade. My hands scrub together under the water, but it’s no use. They’re stuck like that. Forever.

When my eyes open, that same creeping feeling sinks in. It’s hard to describe, things just feel…off. They have for months now. I’m beginning to think this apartment is haunted or something.

My eyes bounce around the room, coming up empty as I look for anything even slightly out of place that could be the cause of this strange sensation. I never feel it at night before bed, only when I wake up in the morning.

Running my hands through my light-blonde hair, I let out a soft exhale before tossing the covers away from me and walking like a zombie to the bathroom. I begin washing my face for the day when my eyes in the mirror catch my attention. They seem to catch everyone’s attention, and almost never for the good of it.

I heard it all growing up. Freak, monster. I was even called devil spawn by some old bag who clutched her pearls when she got a good look at me. People are fucking great.

I know it’s uncommon, but heterochromia is not so rare that people don’t know about it. My left eye is brown, and my right eye is blue. That’s the small genetic condition that made my already dumpster-fire childhood just a little bit worse.

Genetic. Sure would love to thank Mom for passing it along. Kinda hard to get in touch with the land of the dead, though. I grew up hearing how it was a miracle I survived. That at first glance, I seemed halfway dead. I’ve felt all the way dead for years now, though.

I do my best to mask it. Nothing sends people running faster than someone with obvious mental health struggles. At least that’s what I’ve learned. And don’t get me wrong, I’m twenty-eight now. I’m not exactly looking for the perfect family to adopt me, but I wouldn’t be opposed to a small group of close friends that would care if I was kidnapped in the middle of the night.

I do have Gabby, though. We met when we were seven back in Chicago at the foster home we were both placed at. Gabby was only there for barely eight weeks before she was adopted by a nice family and moved out to Seattle. I wasn’t as lucky.

About six months ago, I dumped my asshole boyfriend, but since the house was in his name, I had nowhere to go, and Chicago really had nothing but bad memories. So, Gabby and her rich husband moved me out here. I refused for weeks before she literally showed up, knocked on my car window, and forced me onto the plane with her.

I know that I should have my shit together more than I do at twenty-eight, and trust me, I’m trying. It just seems like no matter how hard I try, the universe says, “hold my beer” and kicks me back down. But this time is going to be different, it has to be.

Gabby and Christian tried to get me to stay with them when I came here, but that’s where I drew the line. Gabby always thinks she knows best, and while I appreciate it, they just had baby Alison last month. There was no way I was going to intrude on the little growing family.

I did, however, accept the job Gabby hooked me up with at a bar called Hooked Sinker. Not really sure if the owner was playing with the whole nautical vibes Seattle has going for it or if he’s talking about hooking the local drunks and sinking them to their lowest lows. Either way, that seems to be what happens around here.

Our clientele wasn’t the most pleasant at first, but now that I’ve been here a bit, everyone seems to have in some way accepted me, and it oddly feels…comfortable. I don’t know. It’s just a rundown bar, but the owner, Mark, is always throwing extra shifts on me, and if I’m a few minutes late, he doesn’t give me more than a stern look before getting back to what he was doing. I’m not gonna work here forever, but for now, I’ll sock away the money until I can get the ground under my feet.

Despite the exorbitant housing prices in Seattle, I was able to get this cute little one-bedroom apartment. It’s very minimalist, and I didn’t have much to add to it, but it’s mine. In my name, paid with my money. It feels good, like a step in the right direction for once.

I wish I didn’t have to get up so early after closing last night, but Mark fired two of our day shift bartenders that he caught stealing, and I really would love to buy a new car, so I’ll take the money.

After I finish my morning routine, I throw on a clean black T-shirt and a pair of jeans before grabbing my purse and heading out the door. I was lucky enough to snag an apartment that actually has parking while still being relatively close to downtown, but because there is literally no parking lot at the bar, I walk.

Pulling out my headphones from my purse, I slip them on before opening up my playlist. Billie Holiday comes on, crooning softly in my ear as I make my way down the street. I’m not sure why I’ve always liked older music. I think it has to do with the family I was briefly placed with when I was six, the Harrisons. They were a nice older couple in their sixties who never had kids of their own. Mrs. Harrison would sing Billie Holiday and Frank Sinatra until her voice was hoarse, and Mr. Harrison would smile lovingly as he watched her the whole time.

Unfortunately, when I was eight, they got into a car accident on their way to pick me up from school, and both died immediately. Then I bounced around a bit before I landed at my last house.

Somehow, throughout all the bad times, a song from those days with the Harrisons seems to make everything a little brighter, a little softer, and I try to lean into it with everything I have.

When I get to the bar, I step in through the back, waving hello to Mark, who is pulling down chairs from on top of the tables, as I throw my purse and headphones into the office.

“Thanks for coming in, Blake,” Mark says as he finishes the last table.

I nod as I move to the register to clock in.

“No worries. I appreciate the extra shifts.”

“Well, you can have them all since you’re about the only person I trust in this place,” he says gruffly.

I raise an eyebrow at him as I shake my head.

“What poor life decisions did you make to land you in a position like this? Me, your only trusted ally? Yikes.”

A throaty laugh escapes him as he scrubs at his silver beard.

“Tell me about it.”

I grin at him before I start the opening process. The nice thing about closing last night and then working the next morning is that I know the closer did all the closing tasks, and I’m ready to start my shift. Only fourteen hours to go.