Chapter 22
Wiping down the counter and organizing the garnishes she had just prepped, Frankie waited for the bar to open for business. She'd only been working at the Riff House for two weeks and was still getting the shitty shifts. A few of the customers had already taken notice of her, even though she didn't wear the skimpy outfits typical of the later shifts, anything too sexy exposed the still healing cut and gunshot on her shoulder. Her skill for reading people and knowing what they wanted or needed served her well; still tips were dismal during the day. The few patrons that frequented the bar during the hours between opening and dusk were either old, retired sailors or local alcoholics with nowhere better to go. Still, it was a job.
After her brief stay at Bobby's apartment, she had moved into a cheap hotel nearer the center of the city. It didn't take more than two trips into the heart of the entertainment district along the waterfront for her to determine it wasn't the right place for her. With the heavy sailor population, the area was loaded with undercover MPs, CSI, and city cops. Not to mention all the video cameras recording the comings and goings both inside and outside the businesses. Nope, if she wanted to lay low, that was not where she needed to be.
During her second week, she found the Riff House. It was pretty much a dive bar located between I-464 and a gently run-down neighbor on the southern edge of the city. With its out-of-the way location and seedy vibe, it was always looking for a new bartender and Frankie was desperate enough to overlook its faults. There was even an Econo Lodge within walking distance that offered weekly rates. Bonus.
She hadn't been sleeping well since she broke out of prison, though. Her dreams – nightmares? – had become more and more disjointed and mixed. Sometimes she woke up in a panic, remembering it vividly. Other times she woke up exhausted with a pillow soaked from her tears. To combat the constant fatigue she was experiencing, she upped her intake of caffeine, drinking coffee throughout the day, even at the bar.
Charlie O. came out of his office in the back to unlock the door at 10:00 then returned with a nod to Frankie. Until Bruce Leigh – don't ever ask him if he knows Kung Fu! – came in at 10:45 to start the kitchen, she was on her own, which was fine by her. Finding her favorite playlist on her phone, she connected to the little Bose speaker on the barback and hit play.
A pair of regulars came in soon after. After taking them the menu and getting their drink order, which was the bar's cheapest tap brew, she leaned against the barback and heaved a sigh, only wincing slightly at the pain from her ribs. Her shoulder still ached but the cut was healing nicely, though it itched terribly at times. Even the bruising had faded to a sickly yellow and would vanish in the next few days. All in all, she had come out better than she expected.
The first week, she had nervously checked the news from Danbury and Connecticut every day for any mention of her escape. The riot at the prison had caused quite a stir. The official cause had been reported as an altercation between two prisoners, Lucy, who was due to be transferred to a higher security facility and another, unnamed inmate. Lucy had been killed during the riot that followed. Frankie hoped it had been Leena's gang, but was not discounted Melissa or Justine. Poor girl, she had just been a pawn and didn't deserve it.
There was absolutely no mention of two escaped prisoners, which was surprising but, given that the warden was in Hogarth's pocket, not outside the realm of reason. As far as she knew, no law enforcement agencies were looking for her, which made her edgy. Not knowing they were looking was not the same as knowing they weren't looking. Then there was Glenda's faction in Hydra. Were they looking for her? She had no way of knowing that either. Which meant she was going to behave as though everybody was looking for her, hence this crappy job in this bar.
By the time she turned the bar over to the two nightshift bartenders, LeAnne and Katie, business was picking up. Pocketing her meager tips, she hung her apron in her locker and grabbed her purse, preparing to leave.
"Hey, Jackie," Charlie O. called from around the corner. "Come see me a sec."
"Great," Frankie muttered, hoping she wasn't about to be fired already.
Shutting her locker behind her, she went around the corner to the doorway of the owner's office. Charlie O'Connell sat behind his desk in a battered leather chair that begged to be put out of its misery, flipping through his ledger with long, slender fingers. His bloodshot eyes darted to her, then back to the book.
"What's up, boss?"
He shut the ledger, drumming his fingers on its hard cover as he assessed her.
"I've seen a ten percent increase in revenue during the days you work. Care to explain?"
What? "I don't understand," she frowned.
"You aren't skimming the till?"
"No." Of course she was. Everyone did. Maybe she was just more careful about it.
He grunted. "Megan is going to be out Friday and Saturday night. Interested in taking her shift?"
Frankie shrugged her good shoulder, "sure."
"I'll write you into the schedule." He opened the ledger again, effectively dismissing her.
Leaving the building, she walked across the dirt parking lot to the street. Her hotel was just over a mile away down the street at the next exit ramp for I-64. The road didn't have sidewalks, so she walked on the narrow shoulder as she followed it. An old muscle car roared by with more rust than primer-gray paint on it and the driver cat-called out the window at her. Damn, she missed the big cities. Out here, she felt exposed, vulnerable. Maybe she should head out west. But she needed time to make sure she was safe and to save up for the trip. She didn't want to hitchhike across the country.
The rest of the week went by without a hitch. Friday and Saturday were her normal days off, so she tossed and turned in bed until late morning on Friday. After rising and showering, Frankie dug through her clothes for something sexy that wouldn't show her scars. Unfortunately, her choices where limited; just tee-shirts and jeans that she had picked up at the thrift store. Maybe it was time for another trip. She could use something to eat besides sandwiches and frozen dinners also.
The thrift store just up the road from her hotel was sandwiched between the interstate and residential area with nothing else around except a gas station. The pickings had been slim the last time she shopped there, but just a few miles further north, in Westview Village, there was a Goodwill and another thrift store in a busy commercial area with plenty of shopping and eateries. It would require her calling an Uber, but it would be worth it. And those secondhand stores would have a bigger variety for her to choose from.
Less than an hour later, she was flipping through a rack of tops at the Goodwill.
"Hum," she hummed, "something red or bright blue?"
Pulling out two to try on, she went to find a dressing room. Both the tops were cropped to show her abs, which were still looking good even though she still couldn't do any exercising. One had sleeves fitted to the elbow that flared out in a soft romantic bell ending two inches from her wrist and a soft tie a few inches below her breasts baring just a narrow strip of her stomach. The soft contours were counted by the plunging neckline that showed off her tits nicely. This and a pair of faded cutoff shorts would work nicely together. The other top was a deep red with plunging neckline countered by long, tight sleeves. She paired it with a tight black skirt.
Before putting her clothes back on, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirrors. A thick, jagged scar ran down her right side along her ribs and another, thinner line ran across her body just under her bra, starting at the thick scar and ending under the opposite breast. There was also a short, thick scar high on her right thigh. Several smaller puckered scars dotted the area where shards of shrapnel had been removed. These were her souvenirs from the Quinn jet crash. She avoided looking at them as much as possible, staying away from mirrors until she was dressed. Still she knew how awful they looked.
Now, she had the jagged scar running across her left shoulder and a bullet hole on both sides of her right shoulder.
"Nice."
Frankie spun to face Rory and threw her arms around his neck, hugging him tightly.
"What? Where?" she sputtered. "How did you find me?"
"I always know where you are, Frankie." He wrapped an arm around her shoulders and gave her a quick squeeze, "you know I would never leave you."
The door to the dressing room flew open, revealing Glenda and two security guards; their weapons raised and pointed at Frankie and Rory.
"I would have never thought you'd be this stupid, Commander," the woman addressed Rory calmly.
"What you're doing it wrong, Glenda," he responded. "I won't let you hurt her anymore."
"Well, then, I guess we'll get rid of two traitors at the same time."
She fired her gun. Two shots in quick succession. Point blank into Rory's chest. The impact drove him backwards before he fell to the ground.
"No!" Frankie screamed and ran to his side, dropping to her knees on the cold floor. He was still breathing, but it was labored, and blood dripped from his lips. Blood spread from the holes in his chest at an alarming rate. Frankie pressed her hands over the wounds to staunch the bleeding, but her efforts were futile.
"Oh, Rory," she cried.
Her friend looked up at her, the pain on his face breaking her heart. "You failed, Frankie," he told her.
"What?"
"You promised to save me from them, but you failed. Just like you failed to save me back in New York. You just left me to die alone. Just like you failed to save your mother and father."
"No, that's not true."
"Yes, it is, and you know it deep down inside. You fail everyone you love, Frankie."
His eyes grew dim and the light in them went out as his breathing stopped.
"No! Rory! No…" she cried, bent over his lifeless body.
"Well, isn't this pathetic?" a dry voice asked behind her.
Frankie sat up and looked over her shoulder at Glenda, standing with her gun aimed at Frankie's head.
"You are such a pathetic failure, Frankie. I'm glad you're not on our side," she said as she pulled the trigger.
Frankie's head collided painfully with the mirror she was leaning against. Gasping, she spun around, but she was alone in the dressing room, with someone pounding on the door.
"Are you okay in there?"
Dazed, Frankie cleared her throat, "Yeah, I just stumbled and banged my knee."
"Okay," the woman didn't sound convinced, but she went away.
At the sound of her retreating steps, Frankie collapsed on the bench in the corner. What the hell just happened?
Shaken, she gathered up the clothes scattered on the floor, dressed, and fled the room.
The music from the speakers almost drowned out the noise of the crowd in around the bar, but Frankie moved like she was part of it. Drawing four draft beer from the tap, she put them on the server's tray with the ticket and turned to get the next order. She had been going non-stop for two hours straight now along with Nichole, the other bartender working with her, since 10:00 that night. Midnight had come and gone, and she had missed her break. Sweat dripped down her back into the waistband of her skirt, but there was no way she could do anything about it without everyone at the bar seeing, so she just suffered through it. Eventually, she would get a break and go to the bathroom and take care of the problem.
Taking an order for a top-shelf Manhattan, she turned to grab the bar's best rye whiskey, stretching to reach the tall shelf.
"I'll take a water and my friend will have something with an umbrella," she heard from behind her.
She knew that voice. Crap. This was it.
Turning around like nothing was wrong, she finished the drink and handed it to the woman that ordered it, forcing herself not to look down the bar at Clint Fucking Barton. Taking her money, she rang it up and put the change on the bar in front of her, then slid over to Nichole's side.
"Hey, I've got to pee so bad my eyes are floating. Can you cover for just a minute?"
Nichole cut her a look, "only if you do the same for me when you're back."
"You got it."
Throwing her rag on the sink, she went to the end of the bar and ducked under the drop-down, not wanting to lift it out of her way. Around the corner was the locker area and the employee bathroom. Slipping inside without turning on the light, she shut the door and locked it behind her. The wall on that side of the bar was the edge of the property line with a fence only inches away. The entire area was overgrown with bushes and trees spilling over from the adjacent property, a small yard behind Charlie O's dilapidated house. If Hawkeye expected her to make a run for it, he would be covering the back door, not this side of the building.
Standing on the toilet, Frankie unlocked the window and pushed it open. It would only go up a few inches, but that would be enough for her to slip through. Popping the torn screen off, she pulled it inside and slid it quietly to the floor. Standing on the tank, silently praying it would hold her weight long enough, she stuck her head out the window. Pausing, she looked around and listened. Nothing. Next, she wiggled her shoulders through, scraping the scab on the back painfully. Biting her lip to keep from making any noise, she used her arms, pushing against the building to pull more of her body through.
When her hips reached the opening, she paused, hanging from the window, to listen again. Still nothing. Her hips and ass were even harder to get through and she heard her shorts rip as they caught on a rough spot on the window frame. Oh, well, they were only $5.
Grabbing the fence, she used it as leverage to help pull herself through the rest of the way, dropping to the ground in the narrow space between the building and it with a thud.
Which way now? To her left was the well-lit street and to her right was the back entrance. Making up her mind, she climbed over the chain-link fence and into her boss's back yard. Thank God he didn't have a dog.
Pushing through the bushes, she stepped into the yard and headed for the house. There was a gate on the other side that led to the front yard. She had only taken a few steps with a shape stepped out of the shadows.
"Nice night for a walk."
Frankie couldn't the man between her and the house well enough to identify him, nor did she recognize his voice.
She held up her hands, "look, I don't want any trouble and I don't have any money on me."
He snorted and took a step closer, she back away warily.
"I'm not here to rob you, Frankie."
Crap! He knew her name. That meant he was either an Avenger or with Hydra. If he was an Avenger, she didn't stand a chance. Most of them were powered in one way or another. If he was Hydra, though, she might be able to get out of this. The trouble was, she wouldn't know until she tried.
She took another cautious step back and took a deep breath. This was going to suck no matter what since she wasn't 100% yet.
"You're not…," the man in the shadows started.
Frankie burst into action, darting across the yard to the fence on the other side.
Only to be tackled from the other side.
Her and her attacker rolled across the cool grass. Frankie kicked and punched at the man who had his arms locked around her like steel bands, landing several blows that made her opponent grunt in pain.
"Some help here?" Clint grunted, trying to keep a good hold of her as she struggled.
She managed to bring her elbow up and smash it into his cheekbone. His grip loosened and she bit him in the bicep and brought her heel down on his shin while pushing against him with both arms.
"Damnit, Bucky!" he yelled at the other man.
Then she was being lifted away from him and held off the ground as if she weighed nothing. If she had thought Clint's hold had been strong, it was nothing compared to whoever 'Bucky' was. No matter how she twisted, without any traction, she couldn't break free. Hell, one of his arms actually felt like steel under his sleeve. She couldn't even dig her fingers into it.
"You need to stop before you hurt yourself," he said in her ear with a surprisingly soft voice.
"Put me down!" she shrieked in protest.
"Will you calm down?"
"Fuck you!"
"Ok, so that's a no."
In front of them, Clint climbed to his feet, knocking dirt off his knees.
"What the hell were you waiting on?" He asked the other man with a frown.
"It was fun watching her kick your ass."
"And this is why nobody wants to be your partner."
"I'm fine with that."
Clint took a step closer, "she's bleeding."
"I didn't do it," her captor grunted as he dodged a headbutt from her.
"I'm right here, jerk!" Frankie spat and kicked at Clint when he took another step that put him within her reach.
He deflected her leg away from him, "are you hurt?"
Yes, she was hurt, damnit. Her ribs were screaming from squeezing out that window, being tackled, and now dangled like a doll. She could feel the cut on her back pulling open where it wasn't completely healed shut. And don't even talk about her gunshot wound. But she wasn't going to tell them that.
"Bite me."
Clint smiled crookedly and rubbed his arm where she had bit him, "not my kink. Nice bra by the way."
Frankie paused long enough to look down. Sure enough, the buttons on her shirt had broken and it was gaping open to review the lacy push-up bra she was wearing underneath that barely concealed her nipples. With all the struggling, she was shocked that her tits hadn't popped out of it yet.
That was enough to take the air out of her sails and she quit struggling. Even though she had been a stripper and had shown more of the body than this for money, she was not going to embarrass herself in front of them.
"Would you mind putting me down now?" she asked over her shoulder.
He lowered her until her feet were firmly on the ground but didn't remove his hands from around her.
"You can let go. I'm not going anywhere apparently," she told him in a quiet voice.
