Chapter 2

MACKENZIE

"H ey, what happened to that pallet out back?" Dylan looks uncharacteristically perturbed, a veil of annoyance falling over his face.

"What pallet?" I ask, seemingly uninterested as I shuffle dirty glasses into a drink tray.

"The one that was supposed to be delivered this morning," he replies, an impatient breath leaving him. His hand comes up to swipe at his forehead as he begins to second guess himself. "I'm sure Corey said it was coming today."

This is possibly the most agitated I've ever seen him, and I can't deny that it amuses me. I know which pallet he's referring to, of course. I just like watching him sweat it.

It's my third week working here at the tavern and I'm liking it so far. There's always something to be done and I'm not one to shy away from hard work. After what feels like months of standing still, not knowing what the hell I'm doing with my life, keeping busy is good for me.

Not that I'm any closer to knowing what the hell I'm doing with my life. I have a feeling the jury will be out on that one for a while to come.

Tormenting Dylan has become the highlight of my day. He strolls into every shift beaming with positive energy and a sunshiny-ness that is honestly nauseating. So, I've taken it upon myself to knock him down a few pegs when the opportunity arises. I don't even have to try. Pessimism is second nature to me.

"Oh, that pallet!" I say, my tone one of mock aloofness. I watch as his eyebrows shoot up in panic and let out a laugh. "Relax. I've unpacked it already."

"You unpacked it," he deadpans. "An entire pallet of alcoholic beverages. Yourself. Before lunch."

"Yeah. It's my job, isn't it? The fridges were empty. I stocked them. The rest is in the cool room." Balancing the tray of glasses, I push past him to get to the sink.

He glances at the fridge behind the bar, then turns, following my movements. "Wow, that's impressive. Corey's gonna have to pick up his game. Great job, Kenz!"

He holds up a hand for a high five.

"It's Mackenzie." I correct him as I roll my eyes and slap my palm to his.

And holy Jesus. How the hell are his hands so soft?

"You should probably go for your lunch break while it's quiet," he suggests, sparing a quick glance at the Garmin sports watch wrapped around his left wrist.

"Sure," I reply as I watch him return to the office at the back.

"You get off on torturing that poor guy, don't you?" A voice draws my attention away from the hallway Dylan has disappeared into and I look up to see Jade, one of our regulars, perched upon a bar stool to my right. She grins as she readjusts her aviator sunglasses atop her dark waves.

I don't know a lot about Jade. Only that she comes into the tavern almost daily, sometimes arriving with Dylan, sometimes leaving with him when his shift ends. If I had to guess, I'd say she was a few years older than him, somewhere in her late twenties.

I huff out a laugh and shrug. "Gotta pass the time here somehow."

"You're evil," she snickers. "I like it."

"So how do you know Dylan so well?" I ask her.

"Oh, we go way back." She doesn't look up from the cocktail menu she flips back and forth in her hand.

Her answer is vague, and I don't know why it doesn't satisfy me, but I feel the need to pry further. "Are you his girlfriend or something?"

"Ha! No. Nothing like that. He's not exactly my type."

I don't like the sense of relief that washes over me at hearing this, but it's quickly replaced by confusion. A chiselled jawline, chestnut eyes, and golden skin stretched over sculpted muscle? I fail to see how Dylan couldn't be anyone's type.

Not that he's my type.

I don't have a type.

"Don't get me wrong. He's cute and all," she says, as if

she's read my mind. "But I have a girlfriend."

"I see." That explains it, I guess. "Cool. Well, can I get you anything before I head out to lunch?"

"No, thanks. I was just hoping to catch up with Dylan."

"Sure." I nod, realising she never really answered my question about their connection. "You want me to go get him for you? He's in the office."

The ‘office' is a glorified storage room out the back with barely enough room to house a desk cluttered with invoices and receipts.

Jade's mouth opens in answer, but her words are rudely cut off by a deep, agitated voice travelling from the other end of the bar. "Hey! Hello?! What do I have to do to get some service around here?"

I turn around slowly, adrenaline beginning to course through my veins as I come face to face with an intimidatingly angry, muscular man in his thirties dressed in a fluorescent tradesman's uniform.

He glares at me with mean, dark eyes, but I don't react. I won't allow him to see how much his presence bothers me.

Instead, I reply calmly and confidently. "Excuse me?"

"Oh no, excuse me!" he mocks. It takes everything in my power not to flinch as he slams his hands down on the bar, his jaw jutting out in aggressive annoyance. "I'd hate to interrupt your little gossip sesh down there."

I sense Dylan behind me before I see him in my peripheral, taking long strides down the hall to meet me behind the bar. He comes to a stop next to me, his hands finding their way to his hips as his nostrils flare warily.

"Is there a problem, mate?" He directs his question at the guy, his tone firm but professional.

He has patience. Something I'm lacking.

"I've been waiting here five minutes for your bar wench to quit gasbagging with her friend down there." The man's brow pulls together in frustration, the vein is his neck now clearly visible as it protrudes out from underneath the stubble on his chin. "What does it take to get a fucking drink around here?"

I should be bothered more by his use of explicit language, but it's the term ‘bar wench' that has weirdly aroused a whole new level of anger from within me. Who does this guy think he is?

Dylan tenses beside me, a sign that he's clearly feeling threatened, but I won't allow this guy to walk over me. I raise an eyebrow, a bitter smirk twisting my lips.

"Oh no. A whole five minutes?" I say in mock surprise. "I don't think so, buddy. You literally just walked in."

"No. I don't think so," he replies. His eyes narrow to dark slits as he leans in across the bar. "Bitch."

Dylan steps in front of me protectively. He holds both hands up in defence, but his professionalism remains. "Excuse me, sir. We don't tolerate abusive language here. I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

"Or what?" the guy retaliates, a spray of saliva raining down on both of us.

I don't have time for arrogant pricks today. And this one is getting on my last nerve.

If there's one thing I can't tolerate, it's a man who thinks he can use his physical size and the sheer fact that he's male to belittle and overpower. I've seen my fair share of egotistical jerks, been abused into submission by one in particular for far too long. If this one thinks he can get the better of me, he's sorely mistaken.

Not today, asshole.

I reach in front of Dylan and grip the water dispenser, pulling it out and aiming it at the man's head. I squeeze the tap and the valve releases, shooting a steady stream of good old H2O into his face.

"Mackenzie!" Dylan shouts in surprise, his eyes wide as he fumbles with the tap in my hand.

"What did you do that for?" the man shouts. His hands fly up to his face, attempting to redirect the flow of water.

"Oh, I'm sorry sir," I say politely, calmly returning the dispenser to its hook. "Your face was going a little red there. Thought you could use some cooling off."

"Mackenzie," Dylan says again, this time through gritted teeth.

"What? He deserved it," I mutter under my breath.

Dylan's stern expression tells me I'm going to be reprimanded for my little stunt. His jaw is clenched, his lips clamped together in a thin line. Despite not regretting my actions, I begin to worry that I've crossed a line. I really need this job and I hope I haven't jeopardised it.

I wait for him to scold me, but then his expression slackens, and he gives a small shrug. He turns back to the burly man in front of us. "She ain't wrong."

The guy staggers back, swiping at droplets of water that cling to his short beard. "You just lost a customer," he grumbles.

As he walks away, I swear I hear the words "stupid, crazy bitch" on his breath.

Jade's laughter pulls my attention to the other end of the bar. "Oh, I like this one!" she says to Dylan, a finger pointed in my direction.

Dylan palms his face, shaking his head. "Mackenzie, there are rules and protocol we have to follow in situations like this. Remember your training?"

"Whatever." I shrug, shaking off the seriousness in his tone. "That guy was a dick and he deserved worse."

Dylan nods but he doesn't share the same amusement as us. "You're right. He was a dick. But that situation could have gone a whole lot differently had he been dangerous. What if he'd had a weapon?"

My face drops, my eyes softening with guilt. I'd never considered the fact that Dylan has had firsthand experience with criminals with weapons in this very bar. That, like me, maybe he harbors some post traumatic anxiety after what he'd experienced the day Henley was attacked. He knows what it's like to witness the wrath of a ‘dangerous' man.

But so do I.

It's the last thing I need advice on. I've been there. I've already lived through that nightmare, and he knows it.

"I just don't want to see anything happen to you," he says quietly with such sincerity that it makes me uncomfortable.

That's another thing about me. I tend to shy away from serious conversation and open displays of emotion, covering my unease with bad jokes and sarcasm. Which is exactly what I'm about to do now.

"Right," I say confidently. "Okay. Next time I'll just let you handle it."

"Thank you," he says, seemingly satisfied, resting his hands on his hips again.

"Because, you know," I continue in a matter-of-fact tone. "Dangerous guys respond really well to just simply being asked to leave. Maybe you could offer to walk them home and tuck them into their beds too."

Dylan rolls his eyes and sighs as Jade snorts out another chuckle.

"Sorry," she blurts out, then quickly cups her hands around her mouth. She's trying to hide her laughter but the way her eyes crinkle at the corners gives her away.

"Don't you encourage her, Jade." Dylan points a finger at Jade, the beginnings of a grin threatening to ruin his composure.

"Oh, come on!" she cries, throwing her hands up in the air. "The guy was a total wanker and she got him to leave. The girl is badass. I like her."

"Thank you, Jade," I say self-assuredly. "Now if you'll both excuse me, this badass is overdue a lunch break."

"Yeah," Jade agrees. "She needs a lunch break. And I need a Jack and coke. What does a girl have to do to get a fucking drink around here?" She slams a heavy hand down on the bar attempting to imitate our disgruntled former customer.

A laugh bursts from me as Dylan turns to Jade. "Oh, come on! That's not funny. I'm going to make you wait now. In fact, I'm cutting you off!" He waves a dismissive hand as he turns his back to her.

"I just got here!" Jade cries, her eyes widening as her jaw drops in surprise.

"Well, you should have thought about that before you opened your smart mouth," he retaliates before moving down the corridor back to the office.

"Looks like I'm not the only one around here that enjoys torturing him then," I say with a conspiratorial smirk, pouring a shot of Jack Daniels into a scotch glass.

"Yeah, you're right." Jade brushes her dark hair over her shoulder. "It's a pretty fun way to pass the time."

"Told you." I wink, topping her glass with Coke and sliding it across the bar. "I'll catch up with you later, I guess."

She offers me a nod before taking a sip of her beverage while I head to the storage room to grab my backpack.

I wander down the esplanade, relishing the afternoon sun on my face and the way the ocean breeze gently whips my hair. After the events of recent years, it's the little things that make my heart happy. The unmistakable sensation of white sand slipping through my toes. The sound of a seagull cawing, the crashing of the waves.

Things that can't turn on me, abandon me, crush my heart to dust.

These are the things I can let in.

The pier has become my usual lunch time stomping ground. Or more precisely, the patch of grass in front of the large gum tree. I let my backpack fall to the ground, then sit, setting my back against its smooth bark. I pull my sketch book out and rest it on my knees while I dig around for the set of pencils at the bottom of the bag. Then I survey my surroundings, searching for my muse.

What to draw today, I wonder. The sailboat on the horizon, the surfer girl that waxes her board on the shore. Or maybe the pelican that digs for leftovers in the trash can a few metres to my left. None of these subjects really capture my attention. At least not long enough to spend the required effort needed to put them on paper.

But then I see her. A woman on a park bench, her gaze lost on the ocean in the distance, her wiry long waves curling behind her in the soft breeze. There's an emptiness within her eyes, yet they portray more emotion than I've ever seen. She looks lost. Or lonely. Or both, and my chest aches with sympathy for her.

I drag my pencil along the paper, sketching the lines of her face, unsure if I really have the capability to capture the aching in her expression. To truly do justice to this woman's portrait. I continue anyway, mindlessly detailing the curve of her jaw, the fullness of her lips and the turmoil in her light blue irises.

It's not quiet on the pier today, and I'm glad for that. I don't do well with the quiet. The calm.

It's when things are quiet that the doubts creep in. When I begin to wonder whether this path I've taken is the right one for me.

You'd think it would be easy for me to pack up and start a new life. Especially when the one I've left behind was less than ideal. I mean, as if having a mentally preoccupied father and a physically absent mother wasn't enough, the abusive, drug-dealing boyfriend that constantly pulled me into his web of deceit took the cake.

But of course, leaving behind the girl I used to be comes with a new set of challenges. I've only ever been Mackenzie Riley.

The girl with the alcoholic father.

The girl with no friends.

Ethan Davis's punching bag.

Two questions keep me awake at night, when anxiety creeps in like an oxygen thief, emptying my lungs of air. The first one is, who the hell am I if I'm no longer the girl I've been my whole life? The second, do I really belong here?

I'm desperate to break free from the girl I used to be, but I still feel her there. She exists below the surface. Unsure, fragile, and absolutely terrified she's going to blow this second chance she's been given.

And I know that Cliff Haven isn't the worst place I could have landed. I mean, its small. Like, tiny. There's only one supermarket in town and the nearest shopping mall is a half hour drive away. Things are so backward here I'm surprised they aren't still using dial up internet.

And because it's so incredibly tiny, everyone knows everyone else's business. Which would be fine if my business wasn't the business that the town was preoccupied with.

Sometimes I pray for a natural disaster, a flood, or some giant event to rock Cliff Haven. Nothing that would threaten anyone's lives. Just something big enough to override the magnitude of a lost girl from out of town being kidnapped by her boyfriend and bringing with her the evil that resulted in one of their own being hospitalised for life-threatening stab wounds.

But it isn't all bad. I have my half-sister. This one person that connects me to my new beginning. And I love Kristen. I really do. I'm grateful that fate brought us together.

I glance back up to the woman on the park bench. I've got her main features pencilled in on the page and I've begun to shade in the definition of her eyes, nose, and jaw when she stands, folding her arms around herself and walks away.

I watch her leave, wondering where she could be going and who would be waiting for her when she got there. And how the hell I'm going to finish the finer details of this drawing now that she's gone.

"Hey, girl." I'm pulled from my thoughts in an instant as Harper clicks on the brakes of the pram beside me and drops down onto the grass in a crossed-leg position. "Wow, that's amazing," she adds, pointing to the A4 sized sketch book in my lap.

"Oh, it's nothing," I say modestly, covering the graphite drawing of the woman I've just been sketching.

"Seriously!" She reaches forward and snatches the book from my lap and begins flipping through it.

"Hey!" I fling out an arm in an attempt to retrieve it, but she has a firm grip on it, and I'd rather let her have it than rip its pages. Instead, I run a hand through my long hair and try not to seem uncomfortable as she surveys my work.

"These are so good," she says, her eyes lighting up as she studies each page. "You could sell them, you know?"

"I don't want to." I shake my head at her suggestion. "I draw for my own enjoyment, not others."

Sketching gets me out of my head. It's always been the one thing that helps me relax. Putting prices and deadlines on doing the things you love only turns them into chores.

"Suit yourself," she resigns, placing the book back in my lap.

Harper and I became fast friends in my first week of working at the tavern, although I'd seen her around many times before that. She'd served me at the Haven café almost daily, which is situated across the road from Steve's Tavern.

For three consecutive days, we walked out of our workplaces for lunch at the same time, which somehow lead to us bonding over our hatred of men.

Since then, we've shared our lunchbreaks almost every day with Harper even joining me sometimes on her days off, and vice versa, though I wasn't expecting to see her today. She'd told me she was so tired she wouldn't leave the house unless absolutely necessary.

"What brings you to the pier today? Is baby Noah having a bad day?" I ask, tucking my sketch book and pencils into my backpack.

"Baby Noah is having a fantastic day," Harper says with an exhausted sigh that lets me know that her day is less awesome than Noah's. "In fact. Baby Noah has been calling all the shots. I've tried absolutely everything to calm him down but this whole teething thing is a bitch."

I wince. "I can imagine."

Except I can't. I've really never given two thoughts as to what it must be like to be a mother. Especially not a single mother like Harper here. But for all the struggle she tells me she experiences I have to give the woman credit. She hasn't up and left her child yet and that's a whole lot more than I can say for my own mother.

I peer into the pram. Noah is peacefully sleeping, his cherubic face and long eyelashes so angelic they make a liar out of his mother. "He looks pretty freaking cute to me."

Harper stares me down with her ‘I'm not impressed' face. "Of course, he does now !" She blows out a long and dramatic breath. "I'm just thankful he's finally asleep. All I need is five minutes of quiet."

"Have you heard from Ryan?" I dare ask.

She sighs again, disappointment brewing in her eyes. "No. And frankly, I'm not holding my breath."

"He's an asshole," I tell her.

I only met Ryan once, when he came into the Haven café a few months ago, but I instantly disliked him. I guess I've got "asshole radar" because a week later he was gone, leaving Harper in the lurch and six-month-old Noah without a father.

Hence, our bonding over our hatred of men.

"Yeah," she mutters. "I guess the lesson here is not to get knocked up at nineteen."

I shake my head. "You're doing an amazing job, Harps. Noah is awesome, and that's because of you."

"Yeah," she agrees, a slow smile warming her expression. "Awesome and completely devious."

This makes me laugh, but I truly meant what I said. I have so much respect for Harper.

When she'd become pregnant, she worried that bringing a child into the world might not be the best idea for someone in her circumstance. Although she and Ryan had been in a committed relationship for years, she was concerned about the toll having a baby at a young age might take on them, not to mention the financial difficulties they may face.

It was Ryan who convinced her that keeping the baby was the right choice. That they could do anything in this world if they did it together.

And it was Ryan who left her when the pressure became too much.

I see the way that Harper loves Noah, like he's the best thing in her world. I admire her courage to raise him on her own.

"Seriously though, I could really use a night off," she says, mindlessly picking at a blade of grass in front of her.

"Yeah. I know how you feel," I reply automatically.

"No, you don't," she laughs, throwing the tiny pieces of grass at me.

"No, I don't." I agree. "I just mean, Henley and Kristen. I feel like I'm crowding their space. They're getting married and they're so in love. You should see them after dinner. They sit on the couch so loved up and all cutesy and then there's me on the other side of the room in the single armchair, scrolling through my phone pretending I can't hear their kissy sounds."

"Oh, wow. Okay, you win. Sounds like you need a man of your own," she says, nudging me in the ribs with her elbow.

"Hell, no. You know that's the last thing I need."

Hear hear, sister," she raises her hand as if holding an imaginary wine glass and I mirror the action as we mime a cheers.

I'm not looking for a man. Been there, done that.

It only ends in heartache. Or in my case, a few broken ribs, and a trip to court to have my beloved contained to a prison cell.