To Bophobean: On your comment about Muffy's scheme, all will be revealed once we finally get to the Autumn Ball, but I bet you've already guessed that. As to the POV stuff, thanks, and it is very much a conscious effort. I take notice, both in fanfic as well as trad-published works, when a character's POV narration suddenly becomes omniscient and tells us with certainty things about other characters, things the POV character can't possibly know. I'm sure I've accidentally done it before, if my record of typographical, grammatical, and syntactical slip-ups is anything to go by, but I try my best not to because it grates me when I see it elsewhere. I'm glad you like it!

WARNING: Description of blood and injury ahead. Reader discretion is advised.

Chapter 17

Headshot

It was funny how quickly the course of one's day could completely change. It was a joke that was being played on him now, but Chip did not find it amusing in the slightest. Rather, it hurt, and it hurt a lot. And it was terrifying. He had been looking forward to this weekend. Weekends were the best days for tips, with Friday and Saturday evenings neck and neck for the most lucrative spot. Anticipating the hundreds of dollars he was sure to rake in over the next two days, Chip had dressed in one of his best and sharpest outfits, consisting of a gray trouser-vest ensemble and his favorite silk herringbone tie, powder blue, and he left his apartment with a spring in his step, not knowing that he would not return home for some time. He did not know that he would not make much money this weekend, nor did he know that thirty seconds would take him from looking fresh to death to looking like an extra in a Tarantino flick.

"Sarah and I had been married for thirty-nine years when she passed, and I thought that would be it for me. I figured I would never find another as good as she was, so I didn't even bother…"

Chip listened intently as he muddled mint and sugar together in a julep cup. He had just begun his Friday shift when this particular guest, a male monkey with a kind and grandfatherly face, took a seat at the lounge bar and asked if they still had Heineken on tap, assuring Chip he would rather be ordering something else, only he had a promise to keep. Curious, Chip had asked the man what he meant by that as he tended to the order. The man introduced himself as Bernard and went into his story about how he had met the love of his life.

"A year later, I came up here on a whim during summer," Bernard said, taking another swig and making a pained face. "Thought I'd vacation on Dominique Isle for a week or two, just to get away and clear my head. I took a ferry tour on my second day. That's where I met Andy. We sat next to each other on one of the stern's benches, and we couldn't shut up. It was like we had known each other all our lives. We would come to The Waterfront every evening, sit right here, drink beer and talk. We stayed in touch after we left… I didn't know it was what it was until one day…I did. I must have thought he felt the same, otherwise I probably never would've told him. But I did. Three months later, we made it official, or as official as one can make it in this state. He loved me, though, and that's what mattered to me most…"

Chip thought about this as he stirred the cocktail with his bar spoon. Years ago, he would not have given much thought to putting labels on relationships. It had taken reconciling how little he had meant to Lexie and, later, after several aborted relationships, realizing how much Catherine meant to him to alter his perspective on what it meant to have the privilege of calling someone his, the gift of calling her girlfriend, wife, whatever. Anything. He did not fully understand Bernard and Andy's plight for recognition, but he knew a bit what it was like to love someone with all his heart and still be met with resistance and how sweet it would be when the wall Catherine had put up finally came down. If it ever came down. Right now, he would even settle for an "I love you" from her.

"We knew we were a couple of geezers—we wouldn't have forever. We always said if we made it five years we'd come back here. But Andy fell ill… We didn't have forever, but we had three wonderful years together. Don't get me wrong—Sarah was a doll, and my boys are the greatest kids a man could ask for, but Andy was the light I never thought I'd get to see again. Before he passed, he made me promise. He said, 'When five years comes, go on, Bern. Go to the isle again. Go to the hotel and have a beer for me.' So here I am. He liked Heineken, but me? Can't stand it. I thought I'd do him the honor, though…"

Bernard stared out the wall of windows to the left of the bar, toasting the sunset reflected in the bay before draining what was left and placing the glass back down with a solid thunk!

"That's really beautiful, sir." Deftly, Chip placed the mixed drink in front of Bernard and smiled. "If you're looking for a palate cleanser, may I offer a Gloria's Julep? My own creation—summery, with peach and mint and a couple of secret ingredients, compliments of The Waterfront. To three wonderful years."

Free drinks were allowed, mostly to distinguished Waterfront guests, powerful people who got practically everything comped during their stay. However, a few exceptions were set aside for Chip to dole out as he pleased to guests he found deserving, a birthday here or an anniversary there. Bernard had remained loyal to his partner, his love, keeping his promise to him even after death. Andy had asked Bernard to do one thing for him, and Bernard had done it, and Chip could not think of anyone more deserving.

"Summery…" said Bernard. He eyed the drink fondly before picking it up. "I'll drink to that. Cheers, son."

Chip never got to ask Bernard if he had any other plans while he was in Erie. There was shouting and screaming coming from somewhere in the hotel, and it was growing closer to the lounge. Marcus, one of The Waterfront's pianists, abruptly stopped playing and listened along with the guests scattered throughout the lounge, who had silenced their quiet conversations to look around in confusion. A couple of them gasped when an aardvark man, who wore a slick navy suit and looked to be in his late forties, sprinted through the open entrance, tie sailing over his shoulder like a flag in the wind, mouth stretched in a silent scream. He made a beeline for Chip, not stopping until he slammed into the bar. The man reached out and grabbed Chip by his tie and yanked him forward until they were nearly nose to nose. The silver tie clip Chip was wearing popped off with the force, clattering onto the bar. In his periphery, Chip saw Bernard stand and back away from them. The man's graying black hair was soaked with something that smelled fermented, possibly wine.

"Help me!" the man gasped. "Hide me! Help me before—"

"EVAN! COME BACK HERE, YOU MISERABLE RAT BASTARD!"

"Oh, god…" the man, Evan, moaned.

He frantically tried to climb over the bar and out of his pursuer's sight but froze, one knee on the seat of a stool when the woman bellowed, loud and clear, "DON'T YOU DARE TRY TO HIDE FROM ME!" Evan gave up and eyed Chip with a pitiful expression and a whimper before turning to face the woman, who had just stomped into the lounge, not stopping until she had reached the halfway point between the entrance and the bar.

Chip got a good look at her over Evan's shoulder. Like Evan, the rabbit woman appeared to be in her late forties, though it was hard to tell. Going on the ultra-tight skin around her eyes and plump lips, Chip suspected lifts and fillers. The only part of her that did not look feral or disheveled in some way was her helmet hair, bottled-blonde with dark roots just beginning to present themselves, held expertly into place with copious amounts of product. Her eyes, heavily made up, were wide with unbridled fury. Her silk shawl hung limply over one shoulder, perhaps clinging to her with static alone. She had apparently ditched her footwear to give better chase, and there was already a run in the left foot of her dark stockings. She had pushed up the sleeves of her long and gray cashmere sweater dress, like a street brawler readying herself for a fight. In her right hand was her weapon of choice. It was a Champagne bottle, held by its neck like a small, green club. There was no cork in the bottle, which likely explained Evan's wet hair. It would seem she had chased Evan here from the hotel's restaurant, but only after dousing him with the bubbly.

"Admit it!" she screamed.

"I— I don't know what you're talking about. She's a client—I already told you! I was having a meeting with her."

"And I just bet you buy all your clients, the people who are supposed to pay you, two-hundred-dollar bottles of Champagne! Is that what you do at all your little meetings?!"

"Rachel, baby, it's not what it looks like! I swear, I—"

"Tell that to the PI I hired to follow your sorry ass! He's been watching you for months, Evan! I have photos!"

"I…" said Evan, blubbering, on the verge of tears. "Well, I…"

"You told me you'd never do it again," Rachel said more quietly and in a hoarse voice that, to Chip, sounded hurt to the bone. "You promised!"

"Please… Honey, I have a problem. You know I—"

"DON'T! Don't try to make me feel sorry for you! Did you feel sorry for me?! EVER!?"

"Would you believe me if I told you I did?"

Rachel let out a primal scream and threw the bottle at Evan with the speed of a pitcher and precision of a ninja, only it did not hit Evan. With quick reflexes, the man ducked, and the bottle clipped Chip at the top of his forehead before he had time to react. Chip saw a flash of light and felt instant, brain-piercing pain as he stumbled back, crashing into the shelves behind the bar and taking several expensive spirits with him as he dropped to the floor, smacking the back of his head on the counter as he fell. There was more pain. There were shrieks and gasps from guest in the lounge, but Chip could hardly care. He was in for one hell of a headache for the rest of the night. His ears rung, and everything wobbled in his vision. Bottles lay strewn around him, some having just rolled to a stop. Some had spilled, and the scent of mingling liquors was strong. Something red had splashed on him, seeping into his shirt and tie.

Must be the Luxardo cherries, was the addled thought he came up with. That's not coming out. Dammit.

"I'm a doctor! Call 9-1-1 and give me the phone!" Bernard called out, and the man was behind the bar now, grunting as he knelt beside him with a handful of cocktail napkins. "He's injured!"

"What—no," Chip slurred. "I'm good. I'm good. I got this…"

To prove his point, Chip scrambled to his feet in spite of Bernard's protests. Or he tried to, at least. He couldn't seem to get beyond all fours. He was so dizzy; his head hurt so much. He pressed against the floor, trying to lift his weight, and something red splattered on the back of his right hand. Then he knew; it could not be the Luxardo juice. It was far too bright.

"Please, son, you're bleeding. You need to stay down."

"I'm… I'm…"

Chip could barely register the commotion that was going on in the lounge.

"Don't put your hands on me!" cried Rachel from somewhere out of sight, beyond the other side of the bar. "I came to talk to my husband and now I'm leaving! I said I'm leaving! Let me go!"

Her voice was growing more distant. Had security finally caught up with her?

"I'LL SEE YOU IN COURT, EVAN! I'LL SEE YOU IN COURT, AND I'M GOING TO TAKE YOU FOR EVERYTHING YOU HAVE! DO YOU HEAR ME?!"

Chip sat in the floor again, and Bernard helped ease him against the bottom cabinets so he could rest.

"You're a doctor?" he said dully.

"ENT," Bernard said. "Retired. You hang in there, and we'll get you some help."

Before Bernard's napkin-filled hand blocked his view, Chip saw that he was covered in blood.

"You hang in there…"

He remembered the last time someone had said those words to him. He had nearly died then. Was he going to die now? Surely not, or else Bernard would not be so calm and steady. But he was a doctor. Was that not how they were supposed to behave, cool and collected in the face of death? He wanted to ask if it was serious, but he was afraid of the answer, and a woman had just reached over the bar to hand Bernard her cell. When he heard the man speak the words "head trauma victim" to the 9-1-1 operator, however, Chip could no longer say anything at all. Panic was creeping into every fiber of his being, and he was steadily becoming paralyzed with fear.

To be continued…