Chapter 1: Octavia - Pack of Mine

I fucking hate my job sometimes.

Every night is the same as the last – I take care of a bunch of drunks who have nothing better to do on a Tuesday night. They tell me the same pathetic, boring stories about their kids in school or bitch about their wives to each other. They openly throw around misogynistic comments in front of me and don’t give a damn that I’m a woman listening to it. It makes my life hell for the next five hours and I go home smelling like piss, lime juice and cheap beer.

The bar is… alright. Imagine a dive bar designed for hip young people, but took a fall from grace and now caters to depressed forty-year-old men. We play a lot of dad rock and have a billiards table that’s a little wobbly, but I’ve never seen any of the patrons pick up a pool cue. We sell a lot of beer and a couple of cheap whiskeys, but no one touches the “top shelf” stuff – it’s mostly for show.

I’ve gotten pretty good at pretending to give a fuck about their stories, though. I put on my best pretty girl smile, bat my eyelashes, push my tits out and say, “Can I get you another, honey?” UGH!

None of them can see past the act and they all think I’m flirting with them. Men are a bunch of idiots. All of them.

Working here hasn’t made me appreciate the quirks and habits of the opposite sex very much. If anything, it’s practically turned me lesbian.

If you asked me if I looked like I work at a mediocre dive bar, I’d say yes. I’m usually wearing some kind of cut-up black tank top or a low-cut T-shirt that shows off my cleavage (for the tips, duh). I pair that with black shorts and fishnets underneath just like I did in high school, or baggy cargo pants if it’s a little colder outside.

I only wear black.

My long, matching black hair is usually tied back in a ponytail with an elastic band I keep in the cup holder of my car. I’m allowing my hair to hang loose down my back tonight, though. Some of the customers request that I wear pigtails, but I just scoff at them and call them creeps.

But when I’m not at work, I like to say that Adam Sandler is my fashion inspiration. My idea of comfy clothes is just an oversized T-shirt that I probably stole from an ex-boyfriend and a pair of panties.

The air is hot in the bar again, the poor A/C unit can’t keep up with all the sweaty middle-aged men in here.

Just as I’m about to pull my hair up into its signature ponytail because of the heat, I spot one of my regulars stumbling in, already drunk as usual. He likes to pre-game at a few different bars on this block before ending his night in this shithole.

I usually have to cut him off and my boss, Jeremiah, has to drag him back outside. I'm not even sure how he gets home half the time, but we can’t afford to turn him away. This bar sucks most nights, but I make decent money when the customers are fucked up, so I keep pouring pint after pint until they collapse or get kicked out.

“Hi Daryl, how’s your night going tonight?” I put on that salesy bimbo smile and gesture at him to sit on one of the rusty leather barstools in front of me.

The chair squeaks under the pressure of his overweight ass settling into it.

“Oh, it’s going, but you know, I’m the happiest to end up here with you before I get home,” he smirks as he slurs through his words.

Most of the men who come into my bar are old, fat and unhappily married. Daryl is like their spirit animal.

His beer belly sticks out so far that you’d think he was nine months pregnant and Coors Light is the father. He has thinning grey hair that’s always pushed to the side like a failed combover. The scent of dollar-store cologne and BO lingers wherever he sits, even after he leaves.

I pour him a beer and smile, then swiftly slide his pint over to him and he makes a gross half-burp, half-coughing noise before taking a giant swig. I gulp down my disgust and go back to wiping down the counters, continuing on with my shift.

As the night goes on, I make small talk with my customers, refilling their pints and running their cards. On slow nights like this, I try to make the time pass faster by doing some of the closing duties while we’re still open – shining the glasses, changing the ice out, etc.

I still have a few hours until the end of my shift, but my feet are already aching from standing for so long. I whip out a pack of Marlboros from my back pocket and ask Jeremiah to step out back to take a quick break.

When I get outside, the fresh air hits me in the face and fills my nostrils with a scent of dewy grass and a little bit of campfire smoke. The smell is so nostalgic, just like it was as a kid.

I used to go camping all the time, but now I don’t think it’s safe for a grown-ass woman to sleep in the woods by herself. One day I’ll live out there, sure, but with cameras, security systems, and hopefully a tall, strong man to protect me. Maybe two, if I get lucky.

I dig in my pocket for a lighter, but I grab a couple random dollar bills from tips tonight, a tampon I took out of my purse earlier and a tube of chapstick before I finally find it.

My chest pulls in a long drag and I feel the burn go all into every crevice of my lungs. As I exhale, I watch the light wind pull my smoke with it and I squat down to give my feet a goddamn break.

I could stay here for hours and listen to the light chatter coming from inside the bar. I like looking across the back parking lot, dimly lit by a shitty street light and a couple of neon signs that flicker all night, and letting my mind wander.

After plopping down for a while and just letting the thoughts pass, I feel a chill creep up my bones. There’s this sense of eeriness in Silver Lake that brings me peace. The trees, the light fog that sets in late at night, the silence.

It’s almost perfect.

I toss my cigarette butt on the ground and when I make my way back inside, I’m struck by a handsome new face.

There’s a young man at my bar, pretty uncommon for this part of town. His dark brown hair is wet even though it rained about an hour ago and it hangs over his eyebrows. He scratches his slightly older-than-five-o’clock shadow scruff and looks around the bar, almost confused.

Conversation quiets down and everyone’s chair squeaks as they turn in his direction.

He’s wearing a black button-down that shows off his chest tattoos and dark grey slacks that hug his built thighs and… something else that’s large. His outfit is so unfitting for this place, making him stick out even worse than he already is.

“Welcome in, can I get you something to drink?”

He attempts to shake his hair out of his face and walks slowly to the bar. He’s tall, maybe around 6’4. I can see his shirt sticking to his biceps underneath and dark ink creeps out onto his forearms as well.

Jesus, am I dreaming?

I look around the bar and I’m not the only one gawking at him. He looks like a Vogue model that walked right off set. My heart skips a beat a little – he’s sexy in a way my book boyfriends are. I’ve never seen a man like him in Silver Lake.

Despite his obvious alluring appearance, his energy still scares me and just about everyone else in here.

His ass plops into a chair towards the far left side, water squishing out from under him as he sits down and says, “Beer.”

I find it nearly impossible to keep that bubbly smile on my face as I approach him. It’s so tense in here that I could chop up the air into a garnish for his drink.

“Well, what’s your name for the tab?” I hesitantly ask.

“I’m nobody.”

It’s so quiet that the ’70s rock that plays in the background sounds like a concert.

I make a quick prayer to God to please make someone say something to break the silence.

“Okay, one tap beer coming right up for Mr. Nobody,” I murmur under my breath with an eye roll.

One of my regulars on the right end of the bar coughs and continues his conversation with another patron quietly. I swear I shake my head with relief in real life, but I might’ve just imagined it.

I place a pint in front of him, but he doesn’t reach for it. He stares at the glass almost as if he’s inspecting it for dirt.

This guy’s a fucking freak.

“Leave it open or close it out?”

I attempt to hide how uncomfortable I am as he refuses to look up at me.

After a brief moment of stillness, he reaches into his pocket, slipping out a sopping wet $20 bill.

“Keep the change.” His voice is deep and so straightforward that it shakes my bones a little.

I hesitantly grab the bill and pull the towel out of my belt loop to dry it off before shoving it in the cash register.

Should I be scared right now?

The awkward energy continues while I try to make small talk with my other customers and avoid him at all costs. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see him sipping his drink while keeping his head low and mumbling nonsense to himself.

Whatever. Hopefully he leaves soon.

I can almost smell the clean sheets I threw in the dryer this morning and a hot dinner waiting for me at home. Just another hour or two.

Daryl is slumped over the bar top. He’s hardly able to mutter out the words to ask me for a refill. His eyes are halfway closed and there’s drool coming out of the sides of his mouth.

As I’m about to turn around to tell Jeremiah that he needs to kick him out, his arm swings over the bar and he attempts to fill his pint himself from the tap. I look at him with wide eyes, as this is extremely out of character.

“Daryl, what the fuck!” I try to grab the glass out of his hand, but it slips, spilling backwash and beer all over my top before shattering into a hundred pieces on the floor in front of me.

Perfect.

I take the towel out of my belt loop again and attempt to dry off, but it’s useless. I’m basically using a piece of toilet paper to clean up a pond.

While my attention is locked onto the mess, I hear a raging yell. I look up to see Mr. Nobody shaking off his fist and Daryl with a bloody eyebrow face down on my bar top.

“What the fuck? Get the fuck out of here!”

I scream at the tall stranger, throwing my hands in the air, but he hardly bats an eye. Jeremiah emerges from the back room to see what all the commotion is about.

The other customers have backed away from their seats and this Mr. Nobody creeps his way towards me menacingly.

With each footstep, I swear time slows.

My heart races and I feel a 25lb dumbbell sitting in my stomach.

He grips both hands on the bar, leans forward and peers down at me. I can fully see his height at this distance – his presence looms over me like a predator about to go in for the kill.

It’s intimidating, but dare I say attractive?

He stares intensely, his eyes are so dark they’re practically pitch black. He chuckles, wet hair dangling over his forehead.

A novel for your next quiet moment.

Find something to read on Lokepub.

“I can do whatever the fuck I feel like. You think a little girl like you is gonna stop me?” He grins as he speaks, a little chaos peeking through his smile. “Have you ever stopped anyone before?”

My heart is about to pound out of my chest.

The aura coming off this man is overwhelming. His lips are turned upward while he hovers over me and his pupils pierce my soul. Why am I a little wet?

He pushes back from the bar, rubs his swollen knuckles lightly and says, “Yeah. That’s what I fucking thought.”

I watch him slowly walk out the exit, the bell hanging over the door ringing as he turns and heads down the street.

What the fuck just happened?

Shaking my head and coming back to reality, I look around the bar and grab the towel Jeremiah handed me to clean myself up, and motion for him to drag Daryl out to the street. He probably won’t even remember how he got punched in the morning.

Jeremiah disappointedly shakes his head and sighs, “Get out of here, Octavia. I can close up tonight.”

Music to my fucking ears.

I head to the back and grab my coat, quickly shoving my cash tips into my backpack and snatching my car keys from the hook. I need a shower beer, a foot massage and something to eat.

* * *

On the drive home, my mind wanders as I watch the street lights flicker and the empty roads slip by in the moonlight. I pass by a billboard promoting Silver Lake High School covered in more blonde hair and blue-eyed rich kids wearing that stupid fucking uniform and I roll my eyes. Pretentious dicks.

The full moon is so bright tonight, it lights up the trees on the side of the road enough that the branches’ shadows dance on the asphalt. The street signs whizz by and I roll down my window to let some fresh air in, cold air biting my face and my hair going wild.

I live and yearn for this feeling – freedom.

Just a girl, her thoughts, and a good playlist in the car.

Unfortunately, some of those thoughts include the strange man in my bar tonight. The evil in his eyes, the energy surrounding him – it was intoxicating, like a drug I’ve never taken and a high I want to chase again.

As I pull into the parking spot, I look up at my shitty apartment building in front of me. The A/C barely works, so most people have window units. The paint on the exterior walls is peeling off and the foundation is cracking.

Damn, I need to move.

The stairs creak as I make my way up to the third floor. I can hear the wind blowing lightly down the rows of doors. It’s a little chilly tonight, which makes my beer-soaked top even more miserable to be in – my nipples could practically cut glass right now.

The key slides into the lock and I open the door to my apartment. All of the lights are off, it’s like a creepy cave and I love it.

I hear a rustling sound coming from my bedroom and peek my head in to see a figure tossing and turning in the sheets.

My boyfriend, Connor, said he was going to have dinner waiting for me when I got home from work tonight, but I guess he forgot.

He always forgets.

Remember when I said men are a bunch of idiots? I meant it.

I don’t even know why I keep him around anymore. I mean, the sex is good sometimes, but I’m let down more often than I’m excited. If I’m lucky, I get to finish. But more often than not, I end up grabbing my vibrator from my nightstand after he rolls off of me, then I go to town. I like to close my eyes and let my mind go deep in some wild fantasy that I’m too scared to actually pursue.

I nudge him with my knee.

“Connor, wake up! You were supposed to make me dinner, what happened?”

I’m already having a bad night, I don’t need this shit right now.

He mumbles something unintelligible and I shake him around with my hands to wake him up more. It doesn’t seem to be working.

Ugh.

“What! What? Who are you? Oh, hi babe,” he mutters out. “I was having a really weird dream, you kinda freaked me out.”

“I’ll go make myself something to eat.”

I start to get up and turn towards the kitchen, but he grabs my arm and yanks me towards the bed.

“Why do you smell like someone pissed on you?” His eyes are barely open and he sniffs the air. “You smell nasty.”

“You know, I don’t need your shit right now.” My words bite him back. “You said you were gonna make me dinner, you always say you’re gonna do shit and then you don’t do it. I had a rough fucking night at work and I really wanted to come home to a hot meal and a nice shower, but I guess that’s too fucking much to ask for, is it?”

I’m pissed and rightfully so. I jump up from the bed and shove his arm off of me. I’m so over tonight.

He jolts up quickly to follow.

“Oh, you don’t need MY shit? What about all of the shit I put up with, huh?! I’m always dealing with your stuff all over the place because you’re a fucking slob!”

I can hear him putting on a pair of boxers and his footsteps heading to the kitchen.

“Oh fuck you!” I scream at him.

I’m sure the neighbors can hear us now, but I don’t give a shit. “I work all fucking night and I ask you to do ONE fucking thing for me, and you can’t even do that?!”

He storms into the kitchen and rips the back of my shirt to turn me around to face him.

“Say fuck you to my face, Octavia. Say it to my face!”

His clutch on my shirt shifts to the front and he pulls me closer to him.

“Let me go,” I demand, sternly.

He draws me inches from his face and his eyes turn black like that stranger’s from the bar.

“Say it to my fucking face.”

I look him dead in the eyes, take a deep inhale and yell, “FUCK! YOU! CONNOR!”

My voice shakes the walls, I don’t think I’ve ever yelled so loudly before. The feeling of fully releasing my wrath onto him is euphoric.

Before I have time to react, I see his hand swing from behind his head and come down to my cheek, making a loud smack sound.

My head rips to the side and the sting immediately burns all the way down to the bones in my skull.

Did he just fucking hit me?

“Shut up, you stupid bitch.” He looks down at me with disgust, like I’m a piece of hair in his food.

I put my hand up to my cheek, still radiating with shock.

He just fucking hit me.

I push past him and storm around the house, grabbing everything of his I can see and bundling it up in my arms. I can hear him talking to me, but I can’t register a word he’s saying. My ears are ringing, my heart is pounding, and I feel like I’m about to explode like a grenade.

With my arms full of his clothes, I open the front door and throw it into the outdoor hallway.

“GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY HOUSE!”

I point to the door and scream. I see red. I can’t even think straight, words are just spilling out of my mouth before I can stop and think about them. My body is a lifeless machine powered by pure adrenaline.

He pushes me out of his way, grabs his car keys from the kitchen island and walks out the door in his boxers.

“You’ll be calling me tomorrow and begging me to come back. You’re a desperate, pathetic bitch, you know that?” He slams the door shut and his words hit me like a truck.

I hear a faint “SHUT THE FUCK UP” through my ceiling and a couple of thumps from my neighbor hitting the wall a few times.

My cheek still stings. I’ve never been hit before.

I’ve read stories of girls who get beat up by their boyfriends, husbands, or so-called lovers and of course I feel sympathy. You never think it could happen to you.

I look at my cheek in the mirror. It’s flaming red and burns at my touch. I can see where each one of his fingers was, a perfect handprint on my face. Mascara is streaming from my eyes, I look like a fucked up raccoon.

My face disgusts me and I push away from the mirror, unable to digest my appearance any longer.

I run my fingers under my eyes, attempting to wipe some of the black makeup off. The fridge calls my name and I grab the half-empty bottle of tequila and start chugging.

My eyes cross as I watch the bubbles travel from the mouth of the bottle and feel the burn down my throat.

I slam the bottle down on the kitchen counter, grab my house keys and bounce out the door.

I need to go for a walk.