《Adermoor Cove Part 1: The Rainbow Beret》


 Chapter One

    Brendan McCoy went to The Rainbow Beret faithfully every Friday. Friday was always payday at the factory where he worked, manufacturing water bottles. He made just enough to pay the bills and come to the Beret at the end of the week to have a couple of beers. He mostly went to see if he could find someone who wouldn¡¯t mind spending the evening with him - ultimately curbing the loneliness that came with being an aging bachelor.


    The Rainbow Beret was a small bar on the side of I-70; wooden walls, L-shaped, the exterior lined with neatly trimmed bushes. Outside a sign saying ¡°The Rainbow Beret¡± blinked in rainbow-colored letters. At the moment, the W and T weren¡¯t working and Phil, the owner of the bar hadn¡¯t taken the time to fix it; there was no telling when he would. Despite the name, the place looked just like any bar a person might stop for a drink after a long night. For convenience¡¯s sake, a hotel called The Mountaintop Inn was directly across the street.


    If anyone were to stay long enough, it wouldn¡¯t take long for them to realize the clientele at the bar were gay.


    Here it was a Friday night again, in the middle of September. Brendan sat at the bar with a bottle of Heineken in hand, watching the bartender. He handed Lenny Smidt a five dollar bill back in change. Lenny, like Brendan was a regular at the Beret. Lenny gave the bartender a gap-toothed smile that was both comical and nauseating in its lustfulness, and told the bartender to keep the change. The bartender offered Lenny a smile in return. To Brendan the smile looked too forced to be genuine.


    Brendan couldn¡¯t help but be curious. The bartender looked sorely out of place, his presence breaking up the easy, calm country-vibe of the place. A majority of the clientele was older. No graphic Ts or Skechers here.


    He¡¯s new, Brendan thought. Phil must have hired him real recently because he wasn¡¯t working here last week.


    The bartender hardly looked old enough to work at a bar. He had a wiry body, almost anemic looking. His hair was jet black and spiked into a mohawk, the bangs left slightly long. His left eyebrow was pierced with a silver hoop. Intense, dark blue eyes. Eyeshadow smeared all around like bruises, perhaps intentionally. Dressed all in black: A Led Zeppelin T and black jeans, and Converse. The bartender¡¯s arms were covered in matching tattoo sleeves of flames that went from wrists to shoulders.


    Strange. Very strange.


    Brendan was oddly turned on. He didn¡¯t usually like the goth twinks.


    ¡°Can I help you?¡±


    The bartender stood before Brendan, leaning casually against the counter, one hand placed on the oak countertop. Brendan noticed for the first time, (in the way people notice some things later rather than sooner,) that the bartender¡¯s fingernails glittered with black polish.


    ¡°I was just admiring your tattoos.¡± Brendan gestured at the bartender¡¯s arms with his beer.


    ¡°Oh.¡±


    ¡°I like ¡®em.¡±


    ¡°Thanks.¡± The bartender rubbed a hand nervously over his arm. He didn¡¯t seem to be aware he was doing it. Brendan thought he detected a drawl when the younger man spoke. Midwestern from the sound of it.


    ¡°When did you start working? I come in every Friday and I didn¡¯t see you here last time.¡±


    The bartender opened his mouth and then hesitated, as if unsure whether or not he should answer. He cocked his head to the right, his eyes shifting in the same direction, appearing distracted. After a moment he said, ¡°Tuesday. I started Tuesday.¡±


    Oddly taken with the young man, Brendan offered his hand. ¡°I¡¯m Brendan.¡±


    The bartender hesitated again. He frowned for a moment, then shook it. One pump, two pumps, three pumps. ¡°I¡¯m Lane. Lane Hardy.¡±


    ¡­


    To Lane Hardy, The Rainbow Beret was just another job at another bar. Within the last six months, he¡¯d had three different bartending jobs: a Mexican restaurant where he mostly served margaritas and shots of tequila, a bar called The Rap in Tennessee, and an Applebees in South Carolina.


    On his first official night in Colorado he¡¯d checked out The Pride and Swagger, a gay bar in Denver. He¡¯d found a hiring ad for the Beret push-pinned to a bulletin board, next to a poster promoting safe sex (PLEASE USE CONDOMS!!!). Lane went into the Beret after renting a room at the Mountaintop Inn and managed to sweet talk Phillip into giving him a job. He had not expected it to be so difficult: bar owners were always looking for bartenders.This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.


    Phillip was an older man who always wore stained polos, and the backs of his hands were pocked with liver spots. ¡°This is a fine establishment. I don¡¯t want a crackhead working in my bar,¡± he¡¯d said.


    Lane had to bite his tongue to keep from saying, I¡¯m pretty sure over half the clientele who come in here are crackheads. Instead he smiled like a used car saleman and went with the usual sales pitch: ¡°I¡¯m just a guy who needs a job, and you look like you need a bartender.¡±


    In the end, it worked; it always did. Phil hired him - with reluctance of course.


    And so it was Friday, Lane¡¯s third day at his latest job. Things were going smoothly. Lane wasn¡¯t ready to relax just yet. Something could still happen.


    ¡°How about another drink?¡± the old geezer at the counter said. He¡¯d already guzzled down two. He¡¯d spent those two beers watching Lane avidly. It didn¡¯t bother him much. It went with the job and the geezer had tipped him well.


    Lane busied himself with wiping down the table even though he¡¯d just done it a few moments ago; Phillip would bitch at Lane if he caught him just standing around. The bar was fairly lax tonight. A group of men clustered around the pool table. Others sat at tables, their faces illuminated by the dim lights hanging from the ceiling. Madonna¡¯s ¡°Like a Virgin¡± played on the jukebox. Lane glanced at the deer head mounted on the wall. Someone had put a condom on one of its antlers. Poor Bambi.


    The door to the bar opened and a new customer stepped in. The man was tall, maybe six-four or six-five. Somewhere between his late forties and early fifties. Broad shouldered, solidly built, big hands. Medium-brown hair shot through with grey. Dark eyes. He wore a red plaid shirt with the button open at the collar. Faded blue jeans and steel toed boots. He kind of looks like Charlie, Lane thought.


    Like a forbidden ghost whose presence was not wanted, Charlie appeared. Whether he was really there or not Lane was no longer sure; in the end Charlie¡¯s ghost always seemed real.


    ¡°They always look like me somehow, don¡¯t they?¡± the apparition said.


    Lane knew this to be true. Charlie liked to point out the truths Lane didn¡¯t want to acknowledge. He¡¯d told himself many times Charlie¡¯s appearances were just a manifestation of his psyche, unresolved guilt for what had happened at the cabin in Michigan. Whatever the apparition was, it wasn¡¯t the man Lane had known and loved and grieved.


    The man who had just entered took the stool next to the geezer. They nodded at each other. Glad for the distraction, Lane asked the newcomer what he would like.


    The man ordered a Heiniken in a gruff voice.


    ¡°Sure thing.¡± Lane took the offered five dollar bill and handed back a dollar fifty. He uncapped the beer with a bottle opener and set it down on the counter. Through the whole ordeal the man hadn''t taken his eyes off Lane. Lane did his best to pretend as if he didn''t notice but the man''s gaze was like a heavy weight that wouldn''t ease up.


    He doesn''t look like Charlie that much, Lane thought. Not really.


    ¡°No,¡± Charlie said. ¡°But if he''s not careful he could end up just like me. You should have a sign tied around your neck: ''If you see Lane Hardy coming your way, run in the other direction.¡¯¡±


    Lane shoved the intrusive thoughts from his mind and busied himself on tidying up again. Every now and then he glanced up at the clock; he wished he could make time go faster. It was 11:15, then 11:32, then 11:37. The group of men playing pool had left for the evening. If the last few nights were any indicator it would start to pick up again after midnight.


    When Lane could no longer ignore the man''s gaze, he went over to him. ¡°Can I help you?¡±


    ¡°I was just admiring your tattoos.¡±


    ¡°Oh.¡± It was all Lane could think of to say.


    ¡°I like ''em.¡±


    ¡°Thanks.¡± Lane''s arm began to itch. He scratched at it.


    ¡°When did you start working here?¡±


    There was Charlie again, like a pestering insect that just won''t leave you alone. ¡°He''s trying to come on to you. Unless you want another dead body lying around I suggest you find some way to get rid of him.¡±


    ¡°Tuesday,¡± Lane said quickly, his mind running faster than his mouth. ¡°Phil hired me Tuesday.¡±


    The man gave him an odd look. Lane expected him to drop the conversation but instead he held out his hand. ¡°Well I''m Brendan.


    Lane looked down at his hand and wondered if he should shake it. He had the sense if he did Brendan''s fate would be permanently sealed. And yet the man''s hand looked as inviting and friendly as his face. There was no harmful intent there, only the desire to connect with another human being.


    And I want to connect with another human being too, Lane thought. Oh God do I. I''ve been on the run, looking over my shoulder for so long I''ve forgotten what that''s like.


    So he shook Brendan''s hand and gave him his real name, not the name printed on his false ID.

 Chapter 2

    It was close to the end of the shift, and the bar was closed. Everything was quiet except for the jukebox, which was playing a Johnette Napolitano song (Lane¡¯s choice). Jamal, the cook, having already cleaned up the kitchen, had left. Phil was back in his office, counting the cash today¡¯s business had brought in. Business this evening had been good. Lane had his own nice wad of cash in his pocket from tips. Quite a bit of the cash had come from Brendan. Lane was caught between hoping he would make another appearance and hoping he wouldn¡¯t.


    After he was finished with everything, he dumped the dirty mop water and told Phil he was leaving. Phil didn¡¯t even look up as he mumbled, ¡°Go on, get out of here,¡± he said, eyes scanning the paperwork before him. Lane wonders if the man had a partner at home or if he owned a cat. A cat would be the only one capable of putting up with his shit. Lane thought as he stepped out into the night.


    The parking lot was mostly empty except for Phil¡¯s red Toyota, an outdated Honda Civic, and Lane¡¯s 1969 Mustang that he¡¯d watched Charlie put back together with his own two hands. It was the only physical thing Lane had left of Charlie. He went to the car, pulled out his car keys, opened the door, and popped the trunk. He shoved aside trash bags full of clothes and grabbed the Ziplock bag of pot. He tucked it carefully in his pocket, looking cautiously over his shoulder, even though marajuana was legal in the state of Colorado. Just a habit of caution he hadn¡¯t yet shaken. He was still used to the Bible-Belt way of things which werestill ass backwards. This is my treat for surviving another day of work, he thought. He tried to treat each day in which he was alive as something to celebrate.


    He unlocked the door to his hotel room and stripped down to his underwear. There was another tattoo that covered his whole back: The Grim Reaper with a shit-eating grin on his skeletal face, scythe in one hand, giving the finger with the other. He showered, dried off, and sat at the cheap little desk, completely naked, and rolled himself a doobie. The kush was good stuff and soon he found himself laying back in bed, staring up at the ceiling, with the sensation he was floating.


    For a little while at least he could forget the pain he was in.


    ...


    The next night he made a phone call. He called the only person there was left to call. He sat on the edge of the bed, phone pressed to his ear, facing the door of the hotel room.


    ¡°Hello?¡± the voice of a woman said hesitantly, cautiously. Hearing that voice filled him with relief and pangs of misery and guilt.


    ¡°Hey, Mom,¡± Lane said. He prayed he sounded more cheerful than he felt.This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author''s work.


    ¡°Lane?¡± She sounded just as relieved to hear from him. Hearing such relief brought tears to his eyes. He¡¯d been spending too much time in the company of strangers, a man living on the very edge of the world where no one had names or cared about the well-being of anyone but themselves. ¡°Oh, thank God! It¡¯s been...months since I¡¯ve heard from you. I¡¯ve been worried sick, wondering if something happened to you, wondering if you were still...¡±


    She didn¡¯t say the last word. She didn¡¯t have to.


    ...wondering if you were still alive.


    He remembered the last time they¡¯d spoken to each other. It¡¯d been a year. She¡¯d come to the cabin in Michigan from Indianapolis to meet Charlie. But something had happened...the weekend hadn¡¯t ended well. The only thing he could remember was coming to in the armchair and Charlie standing beside him in a T-shirt and boxers, screaming at Momma, enraged. The memory was fuzzy. Dreamlike.


    ¡°Where are you? Or can you tell me?¡±


    ¡°Not far from Denver.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re in Colorado.¡±


    ¡°Yep.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re up in the mountains.¡±


    ¡°Yep.¡±


    ¡°Are you working?¡±


    ¡°For the moment.¡±


    ¡°Where at?¡±


    ¡°A bar.¡±


    She groaned as if this was the last job she wanted him to be doing, but reserved comment. ¡°Are you staying somewhere?¡±


    ¡°A hotel.¡±


    ¡°Do you need money?¡±


    ¡°Even if I did, you know I won¡¯t take it.¡±


    Her voice was on the edge of tears. He knew what was coming next: She was going to plead. She was going to plead just like always; but he wouldn¡¯t let her tears sway him even though it hurt like hell. ¡°Lane, I¡¯m sorry about what happened with Charlie...I¡¯m so sorry about him...Come home. We can figure it out, we can figure out how to stop it, together, you and I. You shouldn¡¯t be out there dealing with all this on your own.¡±


    I don¡¯t think there is anyway of stopping it, he thought. ¡°You know I can¡¯t...even though I want to.¡±


    There was something inside of him, trying to break free, a memory perhaps, or a dream. Powerful hands forcing his head under cold water. Trying to break free, but being unable to do so. That hadn¡¯t happened with Charlie, so who had it happened with? His mother¡¯s voice calling his name in the dark, a pendant swinging in her hand.


    Now she was really crying. ¡°Oh Lane.¡±


    ¡°Sorry I made you cry.¡± He hated it when she cried.


    ¡°Oh no, it¡¯s not you. It¡¯s just...a mother worries over her child.¡±


    ¡°Even when he¡¯s been adopted.¡±


    She chuckled wetly, making the phone crackle in his ear with static. ¡°Especially then. Thanks for calling and letting me know where you are. You¡¯ve made my day.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, sure. Listen I have to go.¡±


    ¡°I love you, honey.¡±


    ¡°Love you too. Bye.¡±


    Lane hung up. He stared at the phone for a long time. He felt as though he might cry. But he knew he wouldn¡¯t because tears didn¡¯t change anything. They were only wasted.

 Chapter Three

    Brendan surprised himself by going to The Rainbow Baret the following Wednesday. For almost a whole week he hadn¡¯t thought about anything else but the new bartender Phil had hired. He stepped into the bar with his stomach full of butterflies, a sensation he hadn¡¯t felt in some time. He was afraid Lane wouldn¡¯t be there.


    But to Brendan¡¯s relief, Lane was there.


    Lane gave him a curve of the lips when Brendan sat at the bar. The young man was wearing a black shirt with blue flames spreading along the front to the edges of the short sleeves. ¡°Hi there. Can I get you anything?¡±


    ¡°A beer will do me just fine.¡±


    ¡°Heineken, right?¡±


    ¡°You remembered.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not too good at remembering names or faces but for some reason I can remember what people drink; it¡¯s a strange talent of mine. Comin¡¯ right up.¡±


    Brendan took a swig from his beer and let out a satisfied sigh. ¡°Where are you from, if you don¡¯t mind me asking? You have an accent. Midwestern from the sounds of it.¡±


    ¡°Indiana,¡± said Lane in a cautious voice. ¡°Why?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t mean to pry,¡± Brendan said hastily. ¡°Just wanting a conversation.¡±


    ¡°Well, it is pretty slow tonight. Real slowwww.¡±


    Brendan looked around. Sure enough there were only a few people in the bar. Johnny Cash played on the jukebox. ¡°So what brings you all the way to Denver from Indiana?¡±


    Lane cocked an eyebrow. ¡°Do you always chat up the bartenders like this?¡±


    ¡°Only the cute ones.¡±


    The bartender laughed. It was a genuine sound, not embarrassed or disparaging. The caution that had been there just seconds before was gone. Brendan wondered if he had imagined it ¡°You¡¯re funny. I got bored with the Midwest. Wanted to see the mountains, breathe the mountain air. What about you? Where are you from?¡±


    Brendan spread his hands. ¡°Born and raised. I¡¯ve never lived anywhere else. The mountains is where I belong. When do you get off tonight?¡±The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    ¡°I close tonight.¡±


    ¡°What about tomorrow?


    ¡°I¡¯m off tomorrow.¡±


    ¡°Any plans for the day?¡±


    ¡°Not really. Mostly just driving around and trying to find something to do.¡±


    Here goes nothing. ¡°I was wondering if you¡¯d want to have dinner with me tomorrow?¡± There, Brendan had asked the question. Now he held his breath, waiting to be rejected. Perhaps Lane would spit in his face - and if he did Brendan wouldn¡¯t blame him. He felt like a creep, like a horny old man with an itch he couldn¡¯t scratch.


    For a long moment Lane just stared at him, still as a statue. The jukebox had switched from Johnny Cash to something Brendan had never heard before: a mix of retro 80¡¯s pop and modern synth.


    ¡°Okay,¡± Lane said after a moment. ¡°Some Western hospitality would be good.¡±


    Feeling like a high school boy, Brendan said, ¡°Yeah?¡±


    Lane gave him another smile. It was small, more like a smirk. Again, not disparaging. Brendan noticed the way Lane¡¯s eyes seemed to gleam when he smiled, perhaps showing some flash of inner light, a contrast to the eyeliner and tattoos.


    He¡¯s beautiful, Brendan thought.


    ¡°Yeah,¡± Lane said. ¡°What time?¡±


    ¡°Seven.¡±


    ¡°Perfect. Do you have a phone number where I can reach you?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡± Lane reached for a napkin and a pen and wrote a phone number on the top. ¡°This is the number to my room.¡±


    Brendan glanced down at the phone number written neatly in black pen. ¡°You don¡¯t have a cell phone?¡±


    ¡°I have a cell phone. We just don¡¯t know each other well enough for you to have it. Call me later, though.¡±


    Brendan said he would, finished his beer, and left with his spirits soaring.


    ¡­


    Lane watched Brendan leave with a bounce in his step, the door swinging shut behind him. What did I just get myself into? I should have told him no.


    ¡°But you didn¡¯t,¡± Charlie said. He was leaning against the counter with his arms crossed over his chest as if he¡¯d been there the whole time, watching and listening. ¡°You do what you¡¯ve always done, which is deny the truth.¡±


    Lane felt his heart lifting against the rush of guilt within him. ¡°Don¡¯t I deserve some relief? Some indulgence?¡± Making sure no one else in the bar was looking at him, he turned to look at the apparition.


    Charlie grinned back at him, knowingly mockingly. He looked so much like the real Charlie and didn¡¯t at the same time. The real Charlie had never been bitter or cruel. ¡°But we both know what happens when you try to indulge yourself. The people you love die.¡±


    ¡°Fuck you,¡± Lane said.