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Walter wasn’t pleased with Cain being young. He wasn’t as vocal as Rick, but the quiet felt worse than anything sneered. He stared at Cain, only stared, and Cain’s hackles went up because he felt like he was getting picked apart. Too young for this particular job, looked it, and would bring attention to the rest of them, get them into more trouble as if dealing and pushing at the roadhouse they were livening up wasn’t enough.
It was going fine, though. On the way there Mac kept asking for his name, how old he was, what year he was born, and when they’d pulled into the lot and parked Cain wasn’t even hesitating: Cole Sullivan, twenty-one, seventy-seven.
“You order anything, you say the liquor first,” Mac had said. “None of that Sprite and Beam crap. Shit, just get beer, don’t need you shitfaced.”
“I won’t be,” Cain had insisted as they’d gotten out. And anyways, it was Sly that Cain usually saw getting shitfaced; hungover from being, Cain having only ever been around to see the aftermath of the others going out to sell at parties.
“You know your job?”
“Keep a lookout for cops, get the truck if you need it.”
Mac had given a pleased sound, and before they’d gone inside he’d hooked a few fingers in Cain’s collar and hauled him close. They'd parked in the back while the others had found space in front, so Mac hadn’t been worried about anyone seeing the quick kiss he lipped Cain with. After, Cain got shoved off with a mocking, “No funny business, Cole,” like he’d been the one to start it and Mac, laughing at the flustered look Cain got, had let himself get plowed into with a vengeful elbow. He’d sobered up once they were regrouped with the others, Sly wheedling Cain about the name he’d been given, Mac snapping at Sly to shut it or else the bouncer would hear.
When Cain had gotten let in after a skeptical look, Sly had slapped him on the shoulder and said, “You gotta grow a beard already, Cole,” before going straight to the bar.
Yeah, like it was Cain they needed to worry about getting wasted.
It was going fine. Crowd wasn’t the type to call the cops if things got rough; a fight had already broken out, no faces Cain knew in the middle of it so he kept out, and it was wrangled apart and the atmosphere hardly soured. Aside from that it was peaceful, as far as roadhouses packed shoulder-to-shoulder went. Cain rotated who he kept an eye on, tailed whoever went to the bathroom obviously to sell, and kept an eye out for cops.
He wasn’t sure if Mac was watching him right back or if they’d just timed it right, but when Cain went up to get a drink he felt a sharp elbow against his ribs, relaxing his hackles when he caught Mac’s slitted eyes. He frowned when Mac shouldered him out of the way and ordered for him; secretly glad even if Mac ordered him a Coors, nearly about to holler over the music for a Sprite and Beam.
“You havin’ fun?” Mac asked, hunched close for Cain to hear.
“Yeah,” Cain said, shuffling closer even if he knew Mac could hear him fine.
Cain wasn’t sure if it was the wall Mac had turned himself into, keeping the crowd out of their space at least from Cain’s left side, or if it was how the top of the flannel Mac was wearing opened and showed off muscled, tan chest, glossy with a sheen of sweat from the body heat; but Cain was glad Mac was there. Even if he’d ragged on him the whole ride about not fucking up and how much the fake ID cost.
Mac got his whiskey but wasn’t taking off right away, so Cain huffed, “I gotta grow a beard.”
Mac twitched, frowned, so Cain repeated it nearly right against Mac’s ear, which he didn’t get because Mac had heard him fine just a second ago. When Cain pulled back Mac was scoffing, the music too loud for Cain to hear, but he saw the hitch of wide shoulders and eye roll and knew what noise Mac was giving. Then Mac snapped to attention and Cain followed suit, not sure what had set Mac off; no cops, none of their guys getting into a fight, when he looked around. He was about to ask what was wrong when Mac cocked his head Cain’s way, lipping his whiskey; not his first, clearly, since he shoved a hand in Cain’s face without warning.
“Go watch Paul. Work on that beard,” Mac ordered, and Cain was pretty sure getting his cheek pinched was a good way to draw attention so he wrestled Mac off and ducked into the crowd.
He found Paul and watched him, and when nothing was going on except Paul getting fairly close with the girl in his lap, Cain hunted down Sly, who was perched on the other side of the bar’s U-shaped track and enjoying getting shitfaced. Kyle was actually selling, and when he was taking longer than usual Cain skulked into the bathroom Kyle had gone into. Cain was taller than Kyle but not as wide, but two against one wasn’t something the guy that had followed Kyle in wanted to risk; he shoved his money at Kyle, cursing, and shouldered Cain out of his way as he high-tailed it.
Cain started his rotation over, not too concerned when he couldn’t spot Mac the first time but frowning after the second. He popped his head into the men’s bathrooms, knew Mac wouldn’t be in the women’s, so he scoped out the men’s again wondering if they missed each other. Another rotation, no Mac, and Cain was getting overheated and irritated so he went outside for some air.
It was cooler and he sighed, felt his face radiating hot and sweat soaking his hair, when he ran his fingers through it. The bouncer had repositioned himself elsewhere, or maybe he only carded up until a certain hour, Cain didn’t know how this shit worked. There were a few stray smoke trails along the side of the place, so Cain followed them, but none reeked of Winston and, on a whim, Cain decided to try for the truck.
He froze when he rounded the corner and spotted two shapes against Mac’s hood, bristling, ready to holler at them for fucking on somebody’s wheels when the one pinning the other pulled off to tap ash off the end of his cig. Winston, because Cain could smell the mint and, in the cherry glow radiating in the shadow, it was easy to see Mac’s face. And the woman who’s legs he was between, who was looking at Mac fondly even if Mac hardly looked bothered.
And then he did, when the woman spotted Cain and swore, slapping at Mac’s shoulders and panicking.
“Bitch, fuck’s your—” Mac spotted Cain too, and Cain wasn’t sure what he was expecting but he startled, spooked, when Mac’s face turned ugly and he snapped, “Hell’re you doin’ out here, huh? Get back inside!”
Cain wasn’t sure if Mac was really going to get physical, slide himself out of the woman and go after Cain, but he started grabbing at her hips and Cain fled back around the corner. He pushed his way back into the bar, surrounding himself with the heat of the crowd and hoping no one noticed his... hell, he wasn’t sure what he even looked like. He wandered around, remembering he was still holding his drink and taking sips to keep his throat wet. It tasted too sour and his stomach felt cramped. He hardly rotated through the guys or looked for cops. Cain just kept trying to shove away what kept popping to the front of his brain: Mac and the woman, Mac with the woman, Mac fucking the woman...
There was a commotion across the room, and Cain wasn’t paying attention so he started when something clamped onto his arm. If Mac was sorry for getting caught he wasn’t showing it, face still twisted as he yanked Cain around. “Where the fuck’ve you been? Sly got in a fight, we’re done here.”
Mac took off without another word, giving Cain a yank to spur him on and letting go to leave Cain to keep up. At the door, Kyle was shoving Sly out and Paul was between Sly and who he’d punched, going by the split lip and crowd holding him back.
They scattered when they got outside, not running but not taking their time either, and Cain was hardly around the corner when Mac snatched him around the collar and shoved him against the wall. The others had parked in the front, would need to leg it right away, but the back gave them some privacy. Cain swore and grabbed at Mac’s wrists, scratching at them, and Mac pulled him off the wall and shook him hard.
“What the hell were you standing around for?” he snapped, shoving Cain against the wall again. “Weren’t you watchin’ him?”
“I—what the hell were you doing?” Cain hissed, grunting as Mac leaned into the pin.
“I was fucking her, what do you think?” Mac said. “Now, why were you—”
Cain snarled, shoving and yanking at whatever he could: chest, gut, ribs, but Mac wouldn’t budge, “You asshole! I,” Cain panted, feeling sick because it was like Mac wasn’t even sorry, “we...”
Mac frowned, squinting hard at him even if their eyes were adjusted to the dark now. “Wait,” he huffed, and Cain felt something go warm in his face and heavy in his throat when Mac started laughing, “wait, you thought I wasn’t fucking anyone else? You serious? Shit, you are,” Mac cackled, grip slackening on Cain’s shirt.
The laugh, Cain would think later, was what did it. Mac fucking someone else and not feeling sorry, Mac assuming Cain knew and wouldn’t have cared; it was Mac laughing at him for giving a shit, for being hurt over it, that got Cain violent. Blood roared in his ears and Mac’s laugh was cut off with a crack, grin snapping to the side as Cain punched him, hard enough that Mac had to step away to keep his feet.
And Cain froze, panting, hardly aware of the wet on his knuckles, or the ache of bone plowing against bone.
Mac hit him, a few times. Not the light stuff everyone got. There were times Cain fucked up or something was gnawing at Mac, and Mac slapped or cuffed him, punched him. They weren’t beatings, nothing as awful or painful as Gerald had ever given Cain. Cain never retaliated since it was never anything long; always one slap, one cuff, one punch, and then Mac was fixing whatever Cain fucked up or his temper was reeled in and he was lipping at whatever he’d bruised or split. Cain knew how to take hits, knew there was a lot worse than what Mac gave him, and he knew fighting back never did any good. Cain knew he’d split Mac’s lip open, if not chipped a tooth on his own knuckle. The grin Mac gave as he straightened was soaked, and gleamed wet and red with some far-off light.
“Shit, you finally hit back, huh?” Mac hocked and spat, smacking the split. “Fuck, not bad. Got me a challenge,” he grinned.
Cain should’ve felt scared as Mac closed the gap between. Babble sorry and throw his hands up even if he knew that never did any good either, curl up small and not any kind of threat, get his arms around his head and his back to something to protect his kidneys. Growing up with fists swung and boots kicked his way had taught Cain what he could let bruise and what he ought to guard with his life, because his life relied on those things.
So Cain should’ve felt scared, done those things and prayed Mac wasn’t too mad as if Cain still prayed anymore. Instead, something snapped and ran through him like venom, something hot like fire licking after gasoline. Maybe it was Mac’s laugh ringing in his ears again, or the swipe Mac took at him that sent Cain sideways. Whatever it was, it caught Cain like a fever, and it didn’t let go until his knuckles were raw and it hurt to open them.
The ride back was normal, if Cain pretended he wasn’t sore and gummy with blood, imagined the hand that cranked up the radio wasn’t scraped across the fingers where Cain had stepped on Mac’s fingers by accident but didn’t let up anyways. The music and the dark of the truck wasn’t going to last, so Cain prepared himself for... whatever Mac was going to do, when it stopped. Even as he worked himself up to run, to scratch or gouge at something that would stun Mac long enough to allow for an escape, Mac was years ahead and Cain didn’t have a chance. The hand that grabbed his collar was iron-forged and Mac hardly slowed his walk even if Cain crammed his heels into the gravel drive. Mac wrangled him into the kitchen, shoved Cain into a chair, and Cain froze only because Mac let him go as he went for the counter and started rummaging through the piles of junk.
Cain was stunned but not from anything physical, so when Mac was already skulking across the room again Cain wasn’t reacting until Mac was grabbing his wrist and something was spilling over his fingers, corrosive like acid, and Cain yelped.
“Relax, fuckin’ baby,” Mac grumbled around the napkin he was holding in his mouth, blotched pink and grey from his split and spit.
Cain stared, like he’d taken too hard of a punch to the skull. Probably had. The kitchen light was too yellow, piss-like; everything felt alien, Mac hovering over him bloody and the flannel skewed, oddly fixated on the bottle tipped to spill peroxide over Cain’s fingers again. Cain watched, almost mesmerized, as Mac grabbed a stack of napkins off the kitchen table and swabbed them over Cain’s knuckles, meeting his eyes like he was making sure Cain knew what to do. Cain flushed because he knew how to patch himself up, dammit, and wiggled his hand out of Mac’s grab to shake the sting away. Mac put his hands up, wagging them in a fine, you do it way like Cain was in a hurry. Asshole.
Mac plopped in his own chair and grabbed the peroxide. “There, see?” he sneered as he poured it across his own hand without flinching, even as the wound frothed. “Ain’t that awful, shit, what were you howling for?”
Cain scowled, ignoring him, flexing his fingers to feel the raw skin contract and go loose. Riding was going to be a bitch, the next few days.
“Can’t take a little sting, huh?” Mac teased, and Cain shook his head as tacky, foamy fingers ran through it. “You sore over that girl? You think I’d take her back here and patch her up, she tried what you did? Aw, nene,” Mac crooned, and the chair grated on Cain’s ears as Mac scooted forward. “Don’t get so dramatic, those girls don’t mean nothin’. Just need some pussy every now and then, that’s all.”
“What was that?” Cain grunted as Mac shoved his fingers further along Cain’s scalp, craning his face away as Mac stooped forward to see if there was anything scraped or if blood from elsewhere had gotten smeared. “What you said. Neigh?”
Mac cocked his head, slanting his eyes Cain’s way as he licked his thumb and scrubbed at the smear of red. “Nene,” he repeated, napkin wagging around the word.
“And what’s that mean?” Cain hissed, rearing away when Mac licked his thumb again, fucking gross.
Mac let him go, sprawling in his chair like there wasn’t hair plastered to his forehead from blood, tilting his face back as if he might fall asleep there. “Guess you’ll have to work on your Spanish,” Mac hummed, and Cain would’ve punched him again if his hand didn’t throb. “And your fightin’.”
BlackheartedPhoenix Thu 04 Nov 2021 11:25PM UTC
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rattlerinthewheel Thu 04 Nov 2021 11:26PM UTC
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BlackheartedPhoenix Mon 28 Feb 2022 11:07PM UTC
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