Four Steps (Four)

“I’m great,” I say coolly. “What do you want?”

“We want to make sure you’re okay,” Barrett says.

I look down at my body in an exaggerated way. “Looks like I’m fine.”

They ignore my attitude. “Mom told us you work a day job too,” Bronson says. “We’d like to give you some money.”

“I don’t need your money.” Do they think they can buy my forgiveness? Though why would they even care?

I turn away from them and reach for another drink, but Barrett puts a hand on my shoulder and eases me back in their direction.

“We want to help you, Caro — Caz,” Barrett says.

“You can take these drinks to table nine if you’d like, but otherwise, I don’t need anything from you. What in the world makes you think I’d need your help after all this time?”

“We’re your brothers,” Bronson says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

My voice is colder than all the ice in the bin behind the bar. “You are not my brothers. Not anymore.”

I glare at them. They’re speechless, and I’m glad. Just as Bronson opens his mouth to say something, I turn away again. “We’re done here. Leave me alone.”

I lose track of them after that. The crowd is at its high point for the night, and I won’t give them the satisfaction of seeing me look around for them. I hope they’ve left. Christine and Becca both check in with me, and of course, I tell them I’m fine.

And I really am. My anger is satisfying.

I throw myself into my work with a heady sense of righteousness. There’s a table of three men that’s been keeping me busy all evening as they tear through rounds of beer. I don’t recognize them, and based on the bits of their conversation that I’ve overheard, it seems they’re on the island for a fishing trip.

When I stop by to check on refills, one of them holds a twenty dollar bill out to me from across the table. “This is for you, sweetheart. Thanks for taking such good care of us.”

“Sure. Thanks.” As I lean in to pluck the money from his hand, the men’s eyes drift down to the cleavage that shows above my black tank top. I’m used to getting looks; it’s part of the job.

“You’re a pretty little thing, aren’t you?” The man closest to me slides his arm around my waist and tickles me, making me squirm. When I try to twist away from him, he digs his fingers into my side and pulls me down on his lap.

Before I can get back on my feet, Lennox and Lincoln materialize, one of them wrapping an arm around the man’s neck as the other pulls me away from the table. Barrett and Bronson are there now, too, Barrett preparing to throw a punch.

“Hold on! Stop!” I shout. I pull away from Lennox and press a hand into Barrett’s chest, which is solid as a brick wall. “What the hell are you doing?”

“This piece of shit needs to learn how to treat women,” Barrett says. To my relief, he drops his arm to his side, though his hand is still balled into a fist.

The other two fishermen are standing now, clearly ready to retreat rather than fight. Good decision on their part, because it’s obvious that a fight would be no contest. Lincoln loosens his grip on the third man, who says, “Sorry, buddy. We don’t want any trouble.”

The customers throw money on the table to settle their tab, while Barrett and Bronson oversee their actions. When they’re done, Bronson follows them to the door, making sure they leave the building.

“Are you okay, Caz?” Lennox asks.

“What the hell!” I say, straightening my shirt. “What was that all about?”

“That guy shouldn’t have been grabbing you,” Lincoln says, his jaw tight.

“It happens,” I say, glaring at the three of them, and including Bronson in my death stare when he returns. “And I can handle myself. Like I said, I don’t need anything from you.”

5

New bosses

On Sunday, I catch myself watching the door at Rusty’s, though I’d never admit it. To my surprise — and relief? — the Stone brothers never show up.

Same thing on Monday. No sign of them.

My angry outbursts must have finally gotten through to them, or maybe they don’t expect me to be working after the weekend. Maybe they’re busy with their mom or they’ve connected with old friends. Maybe they’ve left town.

I hate myself for wondering where they are.

Because I keep getting speculative looks from my coworkers, I fill Christine and Becca in during our slow periods on my history with my former stepbrothers. How they moved into my house when I was ten, when my dad married Rachel. Lincoln and Lennox were twelve, Barrett and Bronson were fourteen, and they were instantly popular at our small school, but they never let the popularity change them.