Big Man's Contract

The memory fades and I stare at the man in front of me, trying to see the boy he once was. Holy shit, has he changed. I hardly recognize him. The longer I stare, the more I see that boy hiding behind those deep set, mesmerizing eyes and angular jawline. He has the same great smile, though the gap between his teeth are gone. Those green eyes. How could I have not remembered those pale green eyes? I’d stared into them while we ate sushi. Now it seems so obvious. I can’t believe I didn’t recognize him.

“How have you been?” I ask casually, trying to play it cool.

He ignores the question and asks, “Why are you back in Pepperhill?” His words are cold and a little cocky. He hates me right now, but he’s trying to show indifference. I can’t blame him. I would hate me too after what I did to him. I should just let him have his moment, but I have pride of my own and match his cold and cocky demeanor.

I put my own indifference into my tone when I say, “I plan to restore my dad’s old bar to its former glory.”

“You can’t do that.”

I cut him off with a withering glare. If someone tells me I can’t do something, I most definitely will show them that I can, and I will. And I’ll show him. I know what I did to him when we were teenagers was wrong, and I even understand his coldness toward me, but I will not let negativity from other people drag me down.

He stares at me calmly. “You can’t fix it up.”

“Why the hell not?” I ask with my hands on my hips and a look of determination that refuses to waver.

“Because you can’t even get the door open.”

I roll my eyes. “So the locksmith gossips, I take it.”

“Word gets around in a small town. Also, the locksmith is my brother’s best friend so I tend to hear news quicker than most.”

“I hate this town,” I grumble and go back to the locked front door. There has to be a way to get in without busting the window. Last thing I want to do is pay for any unnecessary repairs. But if the locksmith won’t help me, I’m not sure what else to do.

I decide to give it one more shot. First I take off my heels because I don’t want to fall flat on my butt yet again, and especially not in front of Madden. I imagine he would love to see me humiliated after the torture I put him through in high school. He deserves his retribution, but I’m not going to just hand it over to him on a silver platter.

Tossing my heels to the side, I grab the door handle yet again.

“You can’t muscle that thing open,” he says.

His lack of confidence in me only makes me want to try harder even though I’m almost certain he’s right. I’m angry and not exactly thinking clearly, so I’m not completely using all of my brain power when I decide to throw my shoulder into it like you see people do in movies. One hard thrust and I slam into the door. I let out an agonized yelp, and I’m afraid I’ve broken my collarbone from the impact. Once the pain wears off and the fire in my shoulder settles into to a dull ache, I try again because I think maybe if I use a different position or stance it will work this time. No amount of logic will make me believe otherwise at this point. I’m far too stubborn for that.

Just as I’m about to throw myself at the door again, Madden grabs me and pulls me to the side. I’m shocked by the sudden touch, but not in a bad way. Not at all, which also surprises me. He looks a little taken aback himself, but shakes it off quickly.

“Don’t be an idiot,” he says. I might’ve taken offense by the words, but they were said lighthearted.

He grabs the handle the same way I did. “It’s not going to—” I start to say but I’m interrupted by the loud crack as the frame fractures and the door swings open.

I look at Madden, surprised yet again. He’s insanely strong. How did that skinny boy from high school change so much in such a short amount of time?

“What the hell have you been eating?” I ask him.

He gives me a look, something like pride, but also like disgust. He really doesn’t like me, and I don’t like that look he’s giving me, so I turn back to the door. There’s a bit of damage but nothing too expensive and nothing I can’t fix on my own. It’s a far better alternative than breaking a window.

Walking into the bar, I go straight to the cupboard where my dad kept the spare key. It’s still there. Everything is just as I remember it. No surprise there. The only thing that surprises me is how good of shape it’s in. By now I figured raccoons or teenagers or squatters would have wrecked the place. Looking around it doesn’t seem like anything has been touched. I guess that’s one good thing about a small town in the middle of nowhere. People tend to have just a little more respect for others’ things than they do in the city.