Disclaimer: I don't own anything remotely related to Make It or Break It, but everything unfamiliar and explained in the story is all MINE. Well, technically Faith Giancana is Life's Crash Test Dummy's brain-child, but Joey, yup, Joey is all mine.
A/N: I seriously wasn't planning on starting a new story, but I couldn't resist 1.1.11. LOL It just looks so great. Anyways, this is entirely B ushering in the New Year. I think it's going to be pretty freaking awesome if I have anything to say about it.
Warning: This fic contain excess profanity, lots of crude humor, talks of sex and other adult situations, gruesome imagery at times and Austin Tucker telling it like it is. Don't say I didn't warn you. If you aren't turned off thus far, then let's see how deep this rabbit hole goes, shall we?
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Remember October
Chapter One
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Shouting, "drinks on the house!" three times a night sure has made me a lot of friends over the years, but it's also a sure-as-hell-fire track to losing a business and going bankrupt. Then again, I am the Austin Tucker. Money doesn't really mean shit to me. It started out as something I cherished, something that showed everything I accomplished early in life and then somehow it became excess, something to burn.
I was once infamously known as the Austin Tucker, the bad boy of gymnastics who won his first gold medal with a hangover. If I wasn't known for being the star on the men's team for the good ol' U.S of A then I was known for being God's gift to women, caught between a model on one arm and an actress on the other, smirking between them. I was envied in my prime. It was some of the best times of my life.
Now, pushing thirty and still a bachelor, I'm Austin Tucker, owner and head bartender of October, the coolest bar in downtown Denver. It isn't anything hip or fancy with neon lights and bumping techno music or any of that young crowd crap. It's more like an old-school Irish pub with brick walls and dusty wooden shelves, looking like a scene straight out of an episode of Cheers.
October is a small little corner bar and home to every has-been champion and plain ol' lonely drunk in Denver. The occasional crowd of rowdy college boys will stop in from time to time and drop a load of cash. There's a steady stream of sports junkies that come in to watch the games and give out free high-fives for hours and hours, slapping down bills with their eyes glued to the flatscreens playing sports highlights. Things are never dull. Every night is a new adventure and I wouldn't change a thing even if I could.
Sometimes I think that these days the only thing I'm really infamous for anymore is how freely I give out alcohol. That's probably what draws in the crowds, the rumors about the dude who'll dish out round after round if you get on his good side and bring up the Olympics. It isn't like I'm being taken advantage of or anything. I've got the money to keep the bar running for decades if I want even if the booze going out doesn't balance the money coming in. As long as everyone is happy then I'm happy.
"Aus, some chick named Alexis called for you," a bored voice calls out.
I look down the long stretch of the bar and see my beta, my second in command, Faith Giancana. She's petite and pale, a girl who barely looks like she's legal to drink, let alone take charge (and occasionally dance on) a bar. She's cute as hell with her bright blue eyes and honey blonde hair pulled into two braids that hang over her shoulders. There's something so innocent about her, something that makes it seem like she's only bartending because she needs to, but then she opens her mouth and talks like a dude. She'll tell you that she bartends because she likes it and that's that.
Faith Giancana is a fucking contradiction. One of my favorite things about her.
One thing that makes Faith fit in real well is that she's an ex-gymnast just like me. She has a rep on her, causing scenes and leaving Ellen Beals splitting hairs when she was in her late teens. We swap stories from time to time and I've developed some sort of kinship to the girl. Plus, it doesn't hurt that she can twirl bottles of liquor better than those girls from Coyote Ugly. I was sold the second I met her.
"Austin, wake up!" Faith shouts. Out of the corner of my eye, I see her grab a basket of stale pretzels and throw them at me. I react quickly enough to shield by face, but then there's pretzel pieces flying all over and I see the strawberry blonde grinning innocently at me.
"Whatcha say?" I ask.
"Alex-is," Faith annunciates. She gets off on being a smartass like that. "I don't know the details because I'd die before heading the Austin Tucker Fan Club, but I'm assuming you fucked her and now she wants seconds."
"I don't remember an Alexis," I say. Honestly, I don't.
I still date around. Well, actually, it isn't actual dating, but that sure as hell sounds better than random, casual sex with strangers, which is what it really is. I'll fuck a girl after a good five seconds of flirty eye contact, not even knowing the basics like names, ages and blood alcohol levels. The last thing I want is some bullshit emotional connection. I tried that shit. Once. Twice. Three times. Three Rock girls and fuck no do I want to go back to that, to feeling like that. I think people call it heartache, but I refer to it as the downfall to the best years of my life and not even alcohol can erase that deep-rooted shit.
"Well, regardless of if you remember her or not, she wanted me to tell you that she had a great time the other night. She left you her number and wanted you to know that she's sorry about the broken lamp," Faith recites off a piece of paper. Her face crinkles in distaste. "Eww, your place is a total sex den. Unsanitary, Aus. I hope you at least change the sheets from time to time."
"Yeah, fat chance," another lazy, masculine voice pipes in. "That place is the definition of bachelor pad. Beer bottles galore, a city built entirely out of Chinese takeout boxes, trashcans overflowing with condom wrappers and draws filled with souvenir panties."
Chuckling as he pulls off his jacket to hang on the wooden coat rack by the door is another one of my favorites and a pour smuck that calls me boss – Joey. Another ex-gymnast who couldn't put down a bong long enough to get serious about the sport. Joey is a good-looking guy, light skin and light eyes. He's lean with neatly cut brown hair and a clean shaved face. He has an easygoing energy about him that made my decision to hire him a no-brainer.
"You know what I love? I love when guys don't even pretend they aren't all perverts," Faith says. "It kills the fantasy, but who needs all that fake romantic crap, right?"
Her sarcasm draws a smile across my face. Just more reason to love Faith.
"I could have guessed that about you, actually." Joey smirks. He adjusts the gold chain around his neck as he rounds the side of the bar. "Faith Giancana is the girl who carries magnums in her purse. No bullshit. No strings. Straight up sex. Get it in. Get it done. Never see each other again. My kind of girl."
Hmm. What a charming way to call a girl a slut. That Joey sure is a gentleman. I know how to pick 'em.
"Go through my purse again and I won't hesitate to cut you," Faith says in her sweetest voice.
Seeing the exchange, the way he smirks and she glares, I can't help, but chuckle. Either they a) fucked b) are fucking or c) want to fuck. It probably isn't the best working environment, but it's all too amusing. I don't think I'd break it up even if I should. Boss of the year, I'm sure.
"So Aus, should I add this most recent love note to the rest?" Faith asks. She holds the crumpled piece of paper like a cigarette between her slim fingers, fingernails painted black.
"Yup," I say. No hesitation. I don't even have to think. If I can't remember it then it must not have been that good so I really don't plan on ever calling this Alexis chick. Ever. Sad truth.
I watch as Faith makes her way to a glass box behind the bar that's filled with tiny slips of paper. The Conquest Box, we call it. It's the ultimate little black book of October. Every time someone scores a phone number whether it be scribbled on a napkin or the back of a cigarette carton, and the receiver has no intention of actually reconnecting with the giver, it goes into the Conquest Box.
It's probably a little too late and even a little pathetic to be acting like a college frat boy, but I say fuck it. We get a kick out of it, adding to it, explaining it and even getting the bar patrons to contribute. I say a happy staff is a happy Austin and so the Conquest Box is alive and active.
"We as good as open or what, boss man?" Joey asks.
I look to the clock. Nearly 7 pm. I give him the thumbs-up.
There isn't a crowd stampeding in once Joey pulls back the chain and lifts up the metal gate in front of the door. He unlocks the front and props open the door with a brick. He doesn't come back inside, but instead goes out for a smoke break. Again, probably behavior a normal owner would frown down upon, but Joey always comes back in with a group of giggly girls and to me that's a job well done.
We work from 7 pm to 2:30 am. Well, if you can call it working. It's more a mix of charming unknowing customers into spending more on alcohol. I should probably be behind the scenes in my office, crunching numbers, doing paperwork and finding new ways to promote the bar, but none of that organizational crap is for me. I'd rather work the floor with my bartenders. All party and little business, but that's always been my style.
The one and only rule I've got for my bartenders and me is this: no drinking on the job.
Customers are always trying to buy us drinks, but the last thing I need is my employees getting sloppy. Then I'd end up babysitting and I do enough of that on a regular basis with an actual kid. Seriously.
Tonight starts like every other night.
The same ol' poor saps come in, grab a stool and rant about their less than satisfying lives while refilling glass after glass of whatever is on tap. There's Divorce Guy who sits and rolls his golden wedding band over and over between his wrinkly fingers. Poor bastard got screwed over by love. A hard, violent screwing that was more trouble than it's worth. Dude is so gone that Faith, with her sweetest voice and cutest smile, can't even cheer up the miserable fuck and that's saying something.
There's Sports Guy who's most likely gonna end up dead in a ditch somewhere outside the city when he can't pay up for lost bets. His mood always depends on what's on ESPN at the time. Sometimes he walks in like he owns the joint and other times he's on edge. Apparently he's a buddy of Joey's and I'm yet to decide whether that's his saving grace or downfall.
The Bishop Street Flasher runs in here three times a night. Once at 9 pm, again at 12 am and again at the last call. Every night (minus Sunday, praise the Lord) the skinniest, whitest dude ever in the biggest beige trench coat walks into the bar like a naked man on a mission. If it was Faith he was targeting I'd probably need to kick some serious bare ass, but no, the guy purposefully seeks out Joey, loosens that belt and exposes himself to the bartender and everyone in the general vicinity.
Then the entire thing turns into an episode of Tom and Jerry where Joey in his show of masculinity, chases him as the Flasher runs around the bar, making sounds like those giant ass blue freaks from Avatar that ride those badass sky dragon things. The rest of us just cheer 'em on. Really, the thing is like an attraction at Disneyland. Well, it ain't exactly family-friendly, but entertaining as hell. Definitely.
Then there's the Oz Boys, three strapping young gentleman who don't come for the stale pretzels or cheap (occasionally free) beer, but to ogle Faith. Joey explained it to me once. There's the Tin Man (no heart, just wants in her pants), the Scarecrow (no common sense, thinks he can make an honest woman out of Faith Giancana) and the Cowardly Lion (doesn't have the balls to even talk to her, just sits at the corner of the bar, staring in a way that's borderline stalking).
Then there are the women. We don't get many female regulars other than the handful of clingers that show up to nag Joey or even me about why we haven't called back after promising to. Usually I can work up an at least halfway convincing smile and say some soothing words, letting 'em down gently. It's always Joey getting slapped across the face and occasionally being accused of being a baby daddy.
Over the coarse of a single night, at least a dozen seemingly random things happen at October and this is the kind of life people long for. While other people have their thriving marriages, three kids and suburban homes, I have my bar and my buds and a million different stories that would make nuns blush and ordinary men worship me. I've never really felt that whole 'grass is greener on the other side' ordeal…until that night.
"Fifty says in the next five minutes she'll let him finger her in the bathroom…"
I look over at Joey, looking like I've just been shaken free from a dream. Chewing on a toothpick, Joey has the sleeves of his shirt pushed up to his elbows and his forearms resting against the edge of the bar. He has an almost predatory look and when I follow his gaze, I see Faith chatting up a customer.
"Tin Man?" I ask.
Joey nods.
"Nah," I disagree. "She isn't the slut you make her out to be, y'know?"
"She isn't the saint you make her out to be either," Joey says. I know he's only speaking his mind and I've always known that he's a little prick, but something about hearing that strikes a nerve. "So what do you say?"
"Fifty it is," I say. "And when you lose you're closing up on your own tonight."
I see Joey's hesitation, but he's in too deep and too cocky to back down. "Deal."
"Start the clock."
Little things like this aren't anything surprising. We always bet on shit. Sometimes it isn't about money, but maybe chores around the bar or the most embarrassing consequences. One resulted in Faith being a platinum blonde for a month (which wasn't a real consequence because she still looked pretty hot) and another involved a stripper pole and me in some daisy duke shorts. Not one of my finest moments, as you can probably imagine.
Joey looks nervously from the clock on the wall to where Faith is further down the bar. The guy isn't someone I'd imagine Faith with. Overly muscular and proud of it. Too tan, practically orange with the lighting of the bar. Too much gel like he has these rock-formation spikes protruding from his head. She's forcing out these girly giggles and Tin Man is lifting the sleeve of his shirt to showoff a tattoo.
Somewhere in the swirls of black ink and stupid, meaningless design I make out F-A-I-T-H and it makes me grin.
"I got this one in the bag."
"What makes you say that?" Joey asks.
I nod over to where Faith is and her little game of forced flirting for extra dollars to stuff into her bra comes to an end. She pulls back and away from the oblivious dude and her mouth forms a straight line of a smile. Her demeanor is no longer loose and carefree, but freaked the fuck out. Joey finally sees this and turns to me, scratching the back of his head. His eyes are begging me to share my wisdom with him, but I don't think he's ready for that just yet.
I will offer him something, though.
"See," I say. "Maybe you should take the time to get to know her before making judgment calls, huh?"
"Sure thing, Wizard." Joey smirks.
Inwardly, I groan. Lesson not learned.
"Just go over and save her," I say, giving him a small shove. "You're still closing and I still want my fifty, but I won't make you mop the floor or clean out the bathrooms like originally intended. And do it discretely, will yah? The last thing I need right now is to break up a bar fight."
"Sure thing, boss," he says, saluting me.
With a nearby rag, I start clearing off the table when a group of girls near the back tables catch my attention. Four of them sit there – exactly four – two dark-haired girls and two blondes, a collection of smiles and giggles between them. Their happy laughter echoes in my head and I get this horrible feeling deep within. I can't bear to look at them any longer. They look nothing like the ghosts of my past, but the setup and the sounds hit too close to home. At a quick glance it all seems too familiar. My throat seals shut and a cold sweat breaks across my forehead.
There were four girls in my past that changed my life – changed who I am. Whether it was for the best or for the worst is still unclear even to me.
"Aus, the crazy bastard got a tattoo of my name on his arm! And right above the name of his ex who he lovingly promised me he's getting removed!" Faith shouts. Suddenly I feel Faith's warm presence at my side and I'm happy for the distraction. I shift my eyes away from the table of strangers and to my friend. From past to present in a blink.
"I bet that tat was henna," Joey says. "No way a guy like that would do something that desperate for one chick he doesn't even know."
"Let's hope so." She scoffs. "I told him to get lost and he actually looked confused."
Faith looks at me in this way that I've never seen before. She looks at me like I'm a painting or something hanging in one of those fancy museums. Like every detail of my face is a brush stroke, telling her something new about me. Frankly, it freaks me the fuck out. Mostly because once she looks at me like that then the inevitable happens.
As expected, she asks, "What's wrong, Aus?"
"Early morning and a long night," I reply. Faith gives me this look, telling me she isn't buying any of my bullshit, which she seldom does. I rub my hand down my face and lean down against the bar.
"Why don't you head upstairs and call it an early night?" Faith suggests. She doesn't push for answers and it usually means I should be worried, but for some reason, I feel like all my energy is just gone. Faith gets this cocky look on her face and lightly hits my arm. "Go. I'll make sure the place doesn't burn to the ground."
"Actually, Joey promised to close all on his own tonight," I say. Looking over at Joey, he's inwardly fuming, but doesn't say a thing. "So in half an hour we can both get the hell out of here."
"Sounds like a plan," Faith sings. She taps her fingernails against bar. "Sooo Nicky and Kelly tell me you haven't been answering either of their calls lately."
Austin rolls his eyes. "Kelly Parker is worse than a mother. I ignore one of her phone calls because I'm driving and I kinda sorta...forget to call her back and she treats it like a national disaster."
"Don't I know it," Faith says. "Just call her and remember tomorrow is your day with Parker."
"Noted."
We finish out the night and before I head up to my place above the bar, I walk Faith to her car out in the alley. That's when she nearly jumps me, hugs me tighter than ever before. I'd never admit it, but that's exactly what I needed especially with the way the day's been going. The closeness and innocence, something so foreign in a world that's so tainted, where people think they're close, but really aren't at all. She hugs like she knows me and understands me and sometimes she even makes me believe it.
After watching Faith drive away, I head up to my apartment above the bar. It's nice and spacious, used to be a dance studio or something before I inherited the bar and bought out the rest of the building. Then I called up my people and had the entire thing renovated and redecorated with modern furniture and high-end designs. The place would probably look impressive and expensive if I wasn't such a pig and my apartment wasn't such a pigsty.
I finally pop back the tab of my beer and sit around, watching some lame ass cop drama that's on at nearly 3 am. The bottles start filling up the table and I don't know what the fuck is going on in the show so inevitable I start to drift off. When I snap back awake it feels like mere minutes, but it's been at least an hour. Infomercials are all that's on the television screen, the only sense of light in the entire apartment.
Oh shit. It's too late to call Kelly. Fuck. She's going to enjoy bitching me out come noon.
Right when I'm about to pull off my shirt and head for my bedroom, the sound of violent, frantic knocking stops me. Who the hell could that be especially this late at night/early in the morning?
I have half a mind to just ignore it, but then the sound of a baby crying mixes in with the knocking and I can't help, but think it's Kelly Parker, here to bitch me out in person, not having the patience to wait until I'm awake and coherent. She has to do it right here and right now. Bitch may be one of my best friends, but she's a fucking nut job.
Walking to the door, I can't help, but drag my feet that feel as heavy as my eyelids. I unlatch the locks on the door and slowly yank it open, ready to slam it again if it is indeed Kelly Parker or a booty call, too tired to deal with either. Instead, the unexpected happens and I see someone that brings me back to being a young gymnast, living in boring Boulder of all fucking places.
Her face is pale and her limbs seem longer and more awkwardly gangly, but maybe that's because she's just so fucking thin that it seems that way. Her hair is longer than I remember, but just as dark. She's looking down with her hair in her face, her eyes and even part of her nose concealed, but I'd know those lips anywhere. Soft. Pink. Kissable.
The one thing that strikes me is the blanketed bundle in her arms. A baby.
I rub my eyes just to make sure this is actually real.
She looks up at me and I almost gasp out loud like a fucking pansy ass loser in a soap opera. She's bleeding from a cut on her corner of her lips and the whole side of her face is swollen, barely being able to open her left eye. Despite this, seeing me, her brown eyes brighten and her lips, those lips I've dreamed about for fucking forever, curve into the smallest of smiles.
"Austin," she murmurs.
After she says my name, her long legs seem to give out and the baby wails as I catch her in my arms.
Emily Kmetko changed my life once before in a train station in France and I have a feeling she's about to do it again here on my doorstep.
A/N: Please review and tell me what you think. Happy 2011 everyone!
xoxo