Air Brushed

Chapter 3: POGs

Even though it goes against my better judgment, I decide to try and get the job at Duke’s. Sure it’s a bar, but turns out it pays really good money and I REALLY need that right now. The description given to me, according to the papers in the manila folder, is basically waiting tables and that is easy enough.

I figure that if I don’t go outside until after my shift, at which point I can just hail a cab and get the hell out of that place for the day, I would be safe.

So, I apply, interview, and get the acceptance call within a week and a half.

Liam and I have dinner to celebrate, but end up ordering in HIS secret family recipe Dominos pepperoni pizza. I have to laugh when I see the box. The words that will either make me sound like an idiot or a jerk leave my mouth before I can stop them, “I thought I was the only one who got to have an excuse like that.”

He laughs, setting the box on the table, “I got off work a little late today and didn’t want to take you anywhere lest you happen to find yourself in another tough situation.”

We end up eating in his apartment and watching some cheesy and forgettable romantic comedy on his fancy wide screen TV. It’s not like we haven’t done this before, but now it is different. For the past week and a half things had been odd between us. After our little excursion, we no longer hugged, friendly or otherwise.

It is as if neither of us wants to mention it, but it is still blatantly there.

The awkwardness, I mean.

I don’t want to say anything because I’m not sure how he might react. Sure, we had gone on a date, but we never talked about how we felt afterward. I thought he might not have mentioned it because he believed I was traumatized. Am I? I’m not sure.

Really, nothing had happened beyond me being scared out of my wits.

Sure, I am more careful when going out now and close my blinds before I go to bed, but I luckily live on the fifth floor of a building full of people. Oh and did I mention the fact that my neighbor is the most attractive police detective ever?

After all, it was probably just a one time thing. They don’t know who I am or where I live. The only place they would be able to find me is the bar and I’d be careful there.

So as Liam and I sit on the couch, a whole cushion between us, I feel more than safe, but honestly a little bit lonely. My eyes stare blankly at the screen, all of my other senses honed in on the opposite end of the sofa. Whenever he shifted, I knew, even if it was just a minuscule amount.

Once the credits start scrolling, he turns to me, brown eyes searching mine for something I can’t pinpoint, “So what did you think?”

Liam sits with his socked feet, yes I’m using it as an adjective, on the coffee table, one arm draping over his abdomen, the other resting on the back of the couch.

“Of the movie?” I inquire stupidly.

He nods, “I particularly liked what they did with the gas station scene.”

“Yeah, good one,” I agree, though have no clue what he’s talking about. For all I know, he could have just made it up. “I really liked the ending.”

A small silence falls between us, the only sound being the music from the still rolling film. He clears his throat, “So you’re starting work tomorrow?”

My response comes quickly, but yes, awkwardly, “My shift’s from three to nine… so I guess our next dinner will be on hold for a while.”

Liam ignores the last comment, “And you’ll be safe there?”

“I’m sure.”

“If you’re not?”

I sigh and take his nearest hand in mine, the one resting on the back of the sofa, “I promise I’ll give you a call.”

“That’s my girl,” he gives me a sincere smile, one that makes me melt inside.

At that moment, time seems to stand still. Do I bring up the tabooed topic? Or do I just go home? Liam doesn’t move, which makes the entire situation worse. He doesn’t withdraw, but he doesn’t accept the gesture either so my hand is just awkwardly sitting on top of his.

I guess I can just play it safe then, like Liam always wants anyway. There’s no use in rushing anything.

Slowly, I begin to withdraw my fingers, “You have work tomorrow, right? I better let you get to bed then.”

Suddenly, Liam takes my hand in his and gives it a friendly squeeze, “See you around, Brooklyn.”

“See you around,” I agree faster than necessary and stand, making my way across the hall and into my apartment, letting out a breath that I hadn’t realized I was holding.

There isn’t much inside the living space as I don’t have a lot of money to maintain it. Yet I do have a moderately functioning kitchen and bathroom, an older yet still relatively nice couch, a bed, and a dresser.

Most of the funds I do come by go towards my cell phone and other living space bills, so I don’t have much else. My form of entertainment is typically watching the nightlife of Doublet from the safe haven that is my sofa. The apartment overlooks the upscale portion of the city, so I often just sit there and watch the lights flash and people pass by.

This is one of those nights.

I curl up with a blanket wrapped tightly around me, scanning the building tops idly. Most times, there isn’t much to see so I just lose myself in the beauty of the skyline.

This is one of those nights.

I often find myself thinking about my parents and what they would say if they were still here. Would they be proud of me? I hope so. Would I be in a different situation? I’m not sure.

Whatever the case, this night, I am surprised to realize that I’m thinking about something completely different.

That boy. What had Tattoos called him? Little Man? Is that his name? Or a nickname? I don’t see why anyone would call their child THAT, but who am I to judge?

Why had he been running? Who are those people we had been running from? Who is Tattoos? What relationship does he have with Little Man? Who is Tommo? I had heard that name before.

It is silly that these things hadn’t really crossed my mind since the incident itself, but I blame PTSD. Maybe I had speculated correctly. Liam doesn’t want to bring up our little date because he thinks I may freak out. For all I know, I WOULD freak out.

It is possible that I blocked the memory out of my mind for that week and a half, taking care of chores like finally fixing those squeaky door hinges, but now that I am going back… I have to face my fears.

This leads me to the haunting question: what would I do if they came back?

The immediate response that Liam had programmed into me is: call him, but would I do that? In a moment of panic, all hell is sure to break loose. I have to have a plan, but I don’t know where to start.

You see, I’m not the plan type of person.

I usually only FOLLOW. I’m not a leader. Never have been.

Oh Brooke, maybe you should have thought of this earlier instead of hours before your first shift.

I fall asleep that night on the couch, no further in my quest for answers or a plan and wake up to a knock on the door.

Fear instantly shoots through me, but I peep through the peephole and ssee no one. Ding dong ditcher? I slowly open the door and find a rather large white paper bag on the floor with a note taped to the folded down top.

Liam’s perfect handwriting adorns the piece of paper:

Have a wonderful first day and stay safe-Liam xx

This makes me smile. I open up the bag to find some left over pizza from the night before. THIS makes me laugh. That boy… always looking out for me.

Later that afternoon, I take a cab down to Duke’s and arrive a bit early. Chipped Tooth promptly shows me to his office where, once the door is closed, I find the room is nicely sound proofed. He gives me his not so perfect, but absolutely friendly smile, “Nice to see you’re punctual.”

“I just wanted to get everything sorted out before I start,” I clasp the white paper bag of almost refrigerator cold pizza closer. This glorious meal is destined to be my dinner.

The manager nods, “You are quite the charmer, Brooke. Alright. Here’s the summary. The back room is through that door to the left of the bar. I’m sure you can distinguish that from the bathroom as you seem bright enough. In there, you can put any food or beverage you bring. I have the key to your locker right… here.”

He takes a moment to hand the said object over.

“Your break is at five thirty and you get a half an hour. Your job is basically whatever Trina over there tells you to do,” he motions presumably towards the bar. “If you have any questions, you can ask me or her. Ever waited tables before?”

“Yessir,” I confirm. If he had read my resume, he would have seen that I worked for a few restaurants. Maybe Liam’s recommendation had gone a bit of a long way in landing me this job. There is no OTHER explanation.

“Perfect, you start in ten minutes then.”

I go into the back room and put the pizza in the fridge before heading over to try and find my locker. There are five of them, but no numbers on the key. How am I supposed to know which one is mine? Process of elimination then.

I try the first one. No dice.

The second one. Nope.

I reach out, about to attempt the third when the door swings open, revealing a girl just a little bit older than me. She has a pixie cut, dyed dark red, and a nose piercing. I blink a couple of times, caught by surprise as she raises an eyebrow at me. Her voice is hoarse, like you’d expect from someone who’s a frequent smoker and heavily affected by the typical New York accent, “Either you’re tryin’ to break into those lockers or you’re the new girl.”

“New girl,” I take a step back and lift my hand in a half ‘I have the answer’ and half ‘hello’ wave. “I can assume you’re Trina?”

“Sure can,” she walks over and extends her hand. “And your name is…?”

“Brooke,” I introduce myself with a brief handshake. “Do you happen to know which locker is mine?”

“First one’s Dante’s, ya’ know, the manager,” she gestures toward it.

Oh, THAT’S what he said. Alright. Chipped Tooth is Dante.

“Second one’s Ren’s. He’s usually here on early morning dayshift so you won’t see ‘im too often. Third one’s mine,” she continues explaining. “Fourth one’s Benny’s. He’s the bar tender, like, all the time. Fifth one should be yours.”

“Thanks,” I reply brightly and go to the last locker in the line up. As I put my purse inside and lock it, slipping the key into my front right pocket, I venture, “So is there anything I should know before I start?”

Trina leans casually against the wall next to the door, “Yeah. Just do what I say and don’t talk about rabbits ‘round Benny.”

“Rabbits? Why?” I feel my eyebrows knit with curiosity.

“What was the first part?” she challenges, almost humorously. Almost.

“Just do what you say,” I repeat her instructions like the words spit out of a machine.

“Exactly,” Trina nods with a cocky smile. “C’mon. We’ve got work to do.”

So, besides handing drinks out like a millionaire making it rain, I have to clean off some tables and take out the trash. In retrospect, I can probably enjoy this job. The people are usually nice and offer great tips. I honestly can’t complain.

Five thirty rolls around quickly and I take my break, eating my cold pizza and reading and rereading the note from Liam. I am alone for a vast majority of the time, until Dante comes in to check on me.

The slightly balding man leaves shortly after I answer his questions about how things are going and he gets to complain a little bit about paper work.

At six o’clock, I go back out into the bar to find Trina putting a massive amount of drinks onto a ratio-wise tiny tray. I take a moment to marvel before she shoots me a look. Right. I should probably help. After taking the glasses to a large fifteen person party, apparently there for a birthday, Trina and I go back to the bar, where she usually gives me my next set of instructions.

Instead, she gives me a peculiar look.

“Brooke, how familiar are you with people around these parts?” she asks me quietly, her smoky voice somehow audible over the general din.

“BESIDES YOU GUYS, I DON’T KNOW ANYONE,” I have to shout back because a hockey team just scored a goal. Our attention is briefly diverted as someone spills their drink all over the bar countertop. Benny heaves a deep sigh and begins cleaning it up, which means we can continue our conversation.

Trina glances at something over my shoulder, “There’s a guy at that back table over there that’s been staring attcha since ya’ came back in. Know ‘im from somewhere?”

My heart skips a beat. There are two options here at opposite ends of the spectrum. A guy… staring at me. It’s got to be either Liam coming to check up on how work is going or one of the guys from last week.

Do I dare sneak a glance? I do. Black beanie, huge muscles, tattoos, bronze hair.

“I don’t know him,” my voice is a whisper.

At first, I’m not sure if Trina heard because her eyes narrow and she doesn’t respond, but slowly her lips purse, “Want me to go over there?”

That would be comforting, but I don’t want to explicitly say that and look like a coward.

“Did he order anything?” I seem to just get quieter and quieter with each word.

“Nope. Not yet. Lemme go ask ‘im if he wants something.”

A minute later, during which I help Benny clean the bar, she comes back and I ask through my teeth, “Any news?”

“Says he wants to talk to you,” she shrugs. “And that his name is… oh. What was it? Started with a T. Tony…Tommy…”

“Tommo?” the name slips from my mouth before I realize it is even an option.

“Yeah. That was it,” she taps the air as if the word were tangible just to the left of her head. “You know the guy?”

“Not personally,” I sneak another glance his way, but am mortified to find him staring directly at me. The instant I look over, our gazes lock and I feel my face turn scarlet. “Mind if I go over there?”

“One second- BENNY! I need a Bloody Mary! Yeah, sure thing, kid. One of the perks of this job is that as long as the customers stay happy, you can chat all you want,” Trina waves me away.

Hesitantly, I approach the table, trying my hardest not to look again or let emotions show. Fear, dread, and curiosity are some of the major players in the cocktail, but the second option is the thing that burns like a bitch.

This man. I had heard his name before. Tattoos had said it in the car repair shop. What does he want from ME?

I reach the table and my gaze slides up to meet his.

His blue eyes bore into mine, expression completely deadpan.

He says nothing and I have nothing TO say, so I stand there awkwardly, waiting for something to happen. My hands come up to rest on the back of a chair and I idly tap the painted metal with my index finger, leaning my weight against it.

I’m not sure how much time has passed between my approaching and the moment he speaks, but when he does, I am caught off guard. His voice is confident, raspy like Trina’s, but more natural and with a heavy British accent, “You’re Ozzie?”

Ozzie? Oh right. That’s the name I gave Tattoos.

My entire body stills, muscles tensing.

I nod slowly, having to drop my gaze, the intensity of his being too much.

“Little Man said you saved his life,” Tommo continues, sitting back and drumming his fingers to the beat of a song that is bleating from one of the TV’s speakers. “And Tats said he told you we owe you one.”

Tats? Like Tattoos from Doublet’s Best Auto Repair?

Huh. I hadn’t been too off with the name- or rather, nickname.

I nod again.

“How much do you know about Abscido?” he asks, ceasing the drumming of his fingers. I give him a blank look and Tommo sighs heavily, “Alright, here’s the deal, princess.”

Princess?

“You and I are currently in another gang’s territory.”

Another? That implies that YOU are ALSO in a gang.

“They call themselves Abscido. I’ve heard from Little Man that you’re currently in some trouble with them too,” he lolls his head forward, some of his bronze hair falling over his eyes. “If they ever give you any trouble, you just shout POGs, yeah?”

“POGs?” I speak my first word to him.

“POGs,” he confirms and stands, taking his leave without even a glance back.

I am frozen on the spot. What had that been about? POGs? Is that code for something? An acronym? Protection Of Girl? Partial Offering of Group? Please Overview Guidelines? I mean, none of those make sense, maybe save the first one, but it can be anything. And what is the ‘s’ for? Is that part of the acronym? Or does it make it plural?

Grunting, I push myself away from the table to continue doing my job.

POGs. How silly.

“If they ever gave me trouble, just shout POGs.”

What? Like throw my hands to the sky and fling my head back? Would some army just descend on my enemies from above, floating down through some heavenly light? I laugh at the thought.

POGs. What a funny thing to say.

A few days go by without much to talk about. Liam’s work schedule clashed with mine so I barely ever saw him, there was no sign of either Abscido or Tommo’s group, and I started getting used to my job routine. All in all, it was uneventful, but alright.

However, when Saturday and the end of my shift roll around, everything changes.

I had gotten comfortable. The street lights always flooded the area with a dim orangey glow, making most things visible. Duke’s is on a fairly busy street, so I began to assume no one would approach me again anyway.

Yet as soon as I walk out, pulling my purse higher up on my shoulder and dusting the day off of my ‘work uniform’ black shirt and jeans, I see them.

Six figures walking towards me…

Most of them I don’t recognize, but the moment I see the five parallel, scarred lines across the leading man’s face, I take a step backward. Oh shit. My hands fumble, reaching inside my bag for either the rape whistle that I had acquired a few days before starting work or my phone.

Maybe they haven’t spotted me. Maybe they will just keep walking.

“Hey, doll face!” Scratches shouts and my heart sinks into my stomach.

Giving up on my purse, I wheel back around to reenter Duke’s, but my hand barely grazes the metal bar to push the door open before someone’s arms wraps around me. I kick at my attacker, “Get the hell off of me!”

“Calm down, doll face, or you might attract attention,” Scratches wedges his way between me and the door, the other person still holding me from behind. Quickly, they drag me away from the glass of the entrance, my shoes scraping frantically on the pavement. With the loud music, I know no one inside can hear me.

My only hope is the help of a complete stranger on the street, but as the group of men surrounds me, I know no one can clearly see what’s going on.

Gotta get out.

“Let me G-”

My outcry is cut off as a sweaty hand clamps over my mouth, forcing my head backwards. Several people drag me towards the right side of the bar, into an alley, the neon lights of the building’s sign disappearing around the corner. I struggle, clawing at the hand trying to smother me and kicking at knees.

Scratches begins to give an order that starts with “put her against,” but my fingers finally find enough purchase to pry a couple of the restraining digits away.

I can only hope that whatever Tommo had in store will actually work.

With all of my remaining breath, I scream at the top of my lungs, “POGs!”

I wait and wait for what seems like an eternity, hands grabbing, feet dragging. I can feel my blood pulsing through my veins, the cold air stinging my lungs. Nothing happens. Tommo lied. No one is coming to save me-

Suddenly, the thud of human heaviness hitting the ground sounds behind me and I am instantaneously released. I spin around, trying desperately to escape, but something catches my eye- well, besides the two big men blocking my path out of the alley.

Everyone in the back street has frozen save one new person.

A blond guy, probably not much older than me, now stands in the midst of these vicious looking men. He is odd, to say the least. In my panicked state, all I can observe is his blondeness, a pair of goggles on his forehead, and the relative lack of tattoos on his body.

“Someone shout for me?” he asks humorously in a thick Irish accent.

“Beat it, leprechaun,” Scratches hisses, his teeth bared. “This isn’t Trifecta territory.”

“Oi, I don’t usually mind people making fun of da fact that I’m Irish, but tha’s a bit racist, ain’t it?” he replies, apparently amused but annoyed. “Now I suggest ya’ all back away from da pretty lady.”

“And what makes you think we’ll do THAT?” another man inquires, though he sounds scared, the wavering in his voice apparent even to my ringing ears. At this point, I go back to searching for my phone, but don’t take my eyes off of the people around me.

“Same reason ya’ haven’t taken me down yet,” the Irish guy winks and expertly opens up one of the many zipper pockets in his pants, removing a small metal object and wiggling it between his fingers teasingly. “You know who I am.”

Scratches lunges forward, pinning the guy against the wall and drawing a fist back.

The blonde’s smirk never falters, “Ya wouldn’t DARE.”

My fingertips find the device and I pull it out discretely, thumbs shaking yet desperately trying to dial 911.

There is a tense moment where Scratches stays absolutely still, weighing his options, but abruptly, he pulls back and waves at his companions, “Let’s go.”

Another man protests, “But what about-?”

“Fuck her. Fuck both of them,” he growls and stalks off, the rest of the group reluctantly following and leaving the Irishman and me in the alley alone.

Smoothly and without looking in my direction at all, even to ask if I am okay, he slips the small metal object back into his pocket and laughs, “Ya’ might wanna hang up.”

The moment after he says it, a woman’s voice comes out of my phone speaker, “911, what’s your emergency?”

“Why?” I ask him quietly as to not be heard by the woman.

“They won’t be able t’ help,” he shrugs, patting his other pockets for something. “Just a waste of time.”

“Hello?” the woman’s voice asks. “Hello? Are you still there?”

“Sorry, butt dial,” I reply hastily and hang up, immediately angry at myself for doing so.

As soon as my finger presses the button, the blonde’s light blue eyes meet mine, “Well hullo, Ozzie. Nice t’ finally meetcha officially.”

“Officially?” I feel my eyebrows rise.

“Sure! I’ve only been following ya around fer a few days,” his smile gets a little bit wider.

“Following me?”

“Tha’s what Tommo told me to do,” he crosses his arms and leans back against the wall in the most casual you-totally-weren’t-just-about-to-be-killed way.

“So why did it take you that long to help me?” my voice is shrill, anger shredding my ability to be reasonable with the person who just saved my sorry ass. “They were only DRAGGING ME INTO AN ALLEY-”

“Oi,” he puts a hand up, cutting me off, “a man has to sleep SOMETIME, yeah?”

Surprise and suspicion still my anger, “Wait, how OFTEN were you watching me?”

The guy chuckles, “Tis fer me to know and you not to.”

My face turns scarlet. He doesn’t have eyes in the bathroom, right? He can’t possibly! Then again, should I put anything past them?

“Well, thanks… for saving me, I mean, but why didn’t they hurt you?” I suddenly feel like I deserve at least a few answers. I mean, is an explanation really so much to ask for?

“POGs, Trifecta’s explosion expert at yer service,” he does a comical bow. “And what ya’ saw there, was a bomb.”

Ohhhh, so his NAME is POGs.

My eyebrows knit, “Explosions? Trifecta? WHAT are you talking about?”

“Fer the answers to THOSE questions, you’d have t’ ask Tommo,” POGs gives me a friendly smile. “I can take you t’ him if you’d like.”

Answers? Or safety?

I SHOULD go home right now. I should leave this job and stay FAR away from this part of town. I should go back to Liam but…

I have to know. It’s a bit clichéd, but my heart tells me to follow this guy. I need to understand, to figure out how this story ends. What happened to Little Man? Is he okay? Who are the Trifecta and why are they at odds with Abscido?

So many questions with answers that lead to more questions.

And after all, am I really safe if I just run away from all this? I know nothing about these people who are now apparently after me specifically. What if POGs or Tommo knows something that can help me turn them in?

Maybe my safest option is to get information.

Besides, POGs is with Tommo who is with Tats who is with Little Man who collectively just helped save my life. Why would they try and hurt me after all that trouble?

“Let’s go,” I nod decisively and my companion’s smile widens.

“Right this way then.”

Notes