seeing red. | solo
WHO: sam evans (with mentions of others)
WHAT: he should have expected this. sam runs into an old, unfriendly face.
WHEN: 2/8; evening.
WHERE: the maggie
WARNINGS: mentions of alcoholism; and also violence.
In hindsight, Sam realized maybe, he should have expected this. Perhaps not subconsciously, but part of him was at least prepared for the talk. After all, it was all anyone in Castleport ever fucking did. And growing up the son of the town’s most infamous bar owner (and notorious drunk), he was used to it. The looks, the whispers, the same snarky comments from the people who’d mock his father but still find their asses on The Maggie’s bar stools on any given night.
And maybe, that was the reason he never got as angry as he could have, should have. Make no mistake; he was plenty angry at the overstepping and invasion of his family’s privacy. But these people would talk their shit while lining the tills though that was barely enough to keep his temper leashed.
Until that blog interfered. Once again, putting his family’s business on blast for all the town to see...and for what. What was the reason for bringing the attention to his father’s whereabouts? Sam wasn’t sure what irritated him more. That it happened or that if it hadn’t, he wouldn’t have even known the name of the facility where his father was currently drying out.
He’d discarded the paper with the information Quinn had given him, pushing it back towards her after their fight. And true to his word, he hadn’t mentioned his father to Stacy. He didn’t know if she’d gone to visit James, choosing instead to maintain his icy silence where their father was concerned. It wasn’t his money paying for this overpriced excursion and he wasn’t about to dig deeper.
That attitude had obviously not been extended to the rest of Castleport. The antics of some anonymous asshole had once again put a spotlight on his family and their issues. The mean-spirited, callousness of it all called to mind the weirdness from last year. The pranks inflicted on him and others he knew. It wasn't completely off to think it was connected, the anonymity and hyper focus just as irritating as being locked in a freezing shed, but Sam couldn't connect the dots.
Maybe the only thing it all had in common was his anger. It was harder to push aside now, though. The strain of it visible in the hunched line of broad shoulders and his jaw, clenched so tightly it gave him a headache. Hiding away wouldn't do. He couldn't do it; he had hours at the shop, clients to see and he was thankful the distance between Castleport and Portland was significant enough that he could work in relative peace, dodging looks and questions.
It lasted until he reached The Maggie.
The new bartender Natasha was a recent transplant to Castleport, from an even smaller town in upstate New York and Sam was glad to have her around. She was funny, good at her job, and Sam wouldn’t have to worry about replacing broken glasses. Really, all he needed to do was come in occasionally whenever office work was required.
It could have waited until the next morning, when the bar was empty and he didn’t have to make small talk with anyone outside of the AM cleaning crew. But Sam told himself it was just a quick check-up. He parked around back and entered through the back exit, ignoring the sounds of clinking glasses and the din of voices that came from the bar.
The office was spotless, everything in order, just the way his father had left it. At least there was some semblance of business as usual, the bar chugging along smoothly, even with the months-long absence of its owner. Marie, angel that she was, had even managed to take care of the liquor orders and the other business particulars, leaving Sam well and truly free for the evening.
He turned to leave, this time going down the hallway, past the bathrooms and into the bar. It was packed, just like he figured. It was karaoke night and he could already see Wade, their usual MC gabbing on the microphone and getting the crowd hype in between the list of singers.
Wild how even something like gossip wouldn’t stop people from coming in. Or maybe gossip was the reason, despite his very public opposition to it. He didn’t miss the furtive glances in his direction as he shouldered his way through the crowd to the bar. Sam barely acknowledged people with nothing more than a passing nod, unwilling to be drawn into a conversation that would no doubt bring up whatever that gossip rag had to spew. And he was nowhere near drunk enough for that.
Not that he wanted to drink. Sometimes, he thought about it, being so bombed out of his mind that thinking was made impossible. But the idea of it, the visions of cleaning up his father’s messes, and the glassy-eyed stare of nothingness stopped him from ever going too far. He couldn’t remember the last time he was wasted. Buzzed, maybe. But getting past any point beyond that terrified him. He was already dealing with enough shit as it were, no need to add a drinking problem to the list.
Thoughts swirling, he let them take a backseat when he approached the shiny bar top, greeting Natasha with a smile and nodding at Danny, the other evening bartender. He was a good guy, graduated two years behind Sam and coached little league baseball in his free time.
Sam shrugged out of his leather jacket and leaned on the bar top at the very end, blocking any drunk random from coming around and into the employee area. Olive eyes scanned the room, taking note of the mood. It seemed no worse than usual, but the night was fairly young and everyone wasn’t as deep into their cups just yet. He winced as the opening notes of some stale classic rock song filled the space, followed by a voice that could only be described as ‘godawful’ singing the words off-key and loud, seemingly spurred on by the raucous cheers that rose up.
Natasha dropped a beer in front of him with a sympathetic smile, and Sam figured his displeasure must have been evident if she was placating him with a pilsner peace offering. Long fingers gripped the tall glass, watching the white foam settle into the golden lager before he lifted it to his lips for a tiny sip.
One beer, and then he was out. The day’s exhaustion and bullshit drama had worn him out and Sam was tired of being ‘on’. He was ready for a quiet night of sweats and clearing out his streaming queue.
Twenty minutes and four singers later, he was still nursing his beer and surveying the action. As much as people eyed him, they seemed more interested in staring him down than actually approaching. And he wasn’t sure which annoyed him more. Being treated like some ticking time bomb, some sideshow spectacle to take it at a distance, as if his feelings were unimportant. Whatever. Soon as his beer was finished, he was leaving, anyway. He was still weighing the options of going out the back way or taking the less crowded route through the front door when the smell of sweat and cheap beer hit him suddenly.
He glanced up, nose wrinkling slightly at the sight before him. Rick ‘The Stick’ Nelson. Former hockey captain at Castleport High and forever a jackass. Sam had never liked the guy, not since their days in youth hockey, when Rick had swiped Sam on the ice, nearly fracturing Sam’s wrist with his stick and Sam returned the favor by smashing Rick into the Plexiglas.
Last he’d heard, Rick had been in some front office job with the Bruins, no doubt bought and paid for by his father, who owned several sports equipment stores in Maine. So it was a surprise to see him lingering around town, and hovering around Sam, no less.
“‘Sup, Samantha” Rick offered, thin lip curling into a cocky grin as if he’d delivered the best joke ever.
“Rick the Dick. Least that hasn’t changed. Nice to see you lost the mullet, though.” Sam shifted back slightly, needing to get away from the overwhelming smell of the other man’s cologne. “Why are you here? In my bar, and in my face.”
“Just passing through, checking out some possible recruits. Can’t believe this shithole’s still open. Gotta be tough to keep the place running when the owner’s drinking half the profits.” Rick’s grin slipped into a sneer, one Sam knew so well when it came to a particular tax bracket in a town like Castleport. Those types who always enjoyed reminding everyone else just how beneath them they really were.
Sam turned, elbows resting atop the bar to keep him from clenching his fists as outwardly, he attempted a look of bored indifference. “Shouldn’t you be moving along? There’s no jockstraps you gotta collect back in Boston? The Bruins must miss their best errand boy.”
Rick laughed, the sound of it chipped and hard like ice and it only stoked an ugly feeling in Sam. “Nice. You were always a funny guy. Guess you gotta be, balances out the fuck-up. But hey, I hear congrats are in order. The old man’s in rehab. What’s that, first time sober in a decade?” Sam felt the hand come down hard on his shoulder and the smell of Rick’s boozy breath hitting him hard as the other man leaned in. “Shit, Rock Harbor. Gotta draw a lot of shitty tattoos to make those payments.”
“Get your fuckin’ hand off me.” Sam didn’t bother turning to face him. He knew baiting when he heard it, knew it wouldn’t take much more for him to react, and he wasn’t sure if he was more annoyed at Rick or himself.
Nah, it was definitely at Rick.
He could see the look of concern that Natasha sent his way but he brushed it off with a minute shake of his head. He wasn’t going to drag anyone else into this shit. Rick was looking to be an asshole, and Sam didn’t want to play that game.
He jerked out of the other man’s hold, his elbow clipping Rick’s bottle of beer and Sam winced when it slipped and dropped to the floor, smashing in a mess of glass and beer.
“What the fuck, man!” Rick sputtered, loudly, drawing the attention of a few people sitting around. “It was just a joke, no need to smash my drink.”
“That was all you,” Sam replied simply. He was in no mood for the show Rick was clearly gearing up for, especially as more people seemed to be paying attention. “You talked your shit and now your drink’s gone. Time to call it a night.”
That didn’t sit well with Rick. His face, as ruddy as his rust-colored hair, contorted with anger and he glanced around at the growing audience before replying, raising his voice dramatically. “That’s how you treat a paying customer? Shit, everyone in here knows you need the money. Your daddy’s rehab bill ain’t gonna pay itself.”
There was an audible gasp at that, and Sam exhaled, slowly. The ugly feeling rose, churning hotly in his gut and he could feel the twitch in his fingers. It grew watching Rick, who now that he’d gotten some attention, decided to kick it up a notch. He pulled out his wallet and tossed some bills in Sam’s face, the crowd’s reaction louder as the bills fluttered to the floor.
“Better pick those up, Evans. That’s at least three therapy sessions for your drunk ass father. Better yet…” More money followed, landing right on the others but not before clipping Sam in the collar and his fingers flexed before curling tightly. The nails dug into the flesh of his palms and his peridot eyes were hard and flat as Rick fixed him with that stupid fucking sneer. “That’s for you. Just in case. ‘Cause it’s obvious fuck-up runs in the family.”
Sam didn’t even know when he reached for the other man. But it was only when he felt that first punch connect with Rick’s cheek, and heard the exclamations did he realize what he’d done.
It didn’t stop him, though.
Something inside him snapped, the throb in his knuckles jolting him into the moment, focused and steeped in a hot fury that shook his hands but they were steady when he delivered another blow. It was so satisfying, seeing the blood, Rick’s lip already swelling before he managed to even hit Sam back.
Sam barely registered the right hook to his eye, ignoring the pain of it and busied himself with busting Rick’s nose. The crunch of cartilage and Rick’s pained groans as Sam delivered another blow was the only sounds he could register, ignoring the way the music stopped and how people clamored out of their way, the noise of voices and shouts fading while he pummeled Rick, not even bothering to dodge the other man’s wild defensive swings. He didn’t feel anything, only that angry, ugly heat burning in his belly, letting his blows land hard and fast.
Rick was on the ground when the bouncers finally managed to make it through the crowd to see what the commotion was about. Sam stood over him, chest heaving. He licked his lips, tasting the blood and the sting of an already swelling cut on his bottom lip and that only made him angrier. He watched the bouncers help Rick to his feet, cursing and swaying and Sam stepped forward,ready to bust him up again but was met with a hand to his shoulder from Kevin, one of the bouncers.
He looked around, at the various reactions from the crowd. Stunned, impressed. Disgusted.
Fuck them.
Fuck this.
“Get him outta here,” he told Kevin, who simply nodded and led the way while Rick shouted back at Sam, the words inaudible over the chatter of the crowd.
Adrenaline pumped through him, his hands shaking with it as he grabbed his jacket from the bar top, not even bothering to look back at the bartenders as he stepped over the small pile of bills on the floor and moved toward the back door, finding it easier to get through the crowd with nearly everyone giving him a wide berth.
He made it to his truck out back, and slid inside, the tremble in his hands still going strong, and the cold had done nothing to ease the hot anger roiling inside him. His gaze fell to his knuckles. Stinging and slightly bloody. Barely able to grip the steering wheel. Sam didn’t know how long he sat there, waiting for the shivery feeling to leave him before he finally pulled away and drove towards home.
