A Pirate's Life For Me

Temper

The door clatters open, Jackson whirling inside in a mess of half-asleep bed hair and an unbuttoned plaid over his tee. He freezes when he sees me, glancing over my shoulder. I catch sight of myself in the window, reflected against the darkness outside. Heavy purple bags, swollen eyes, chewed lips. I look away.

"O-Oliver." The surprise oozes from his voice. He shifts, but I don't respond with anything other than a hum. My attention returns to the pan on the stove. "What-What are you doing up?"

Holding back a sigh, I flip my wrist, spinning the pan. "I realized I needed to pull my head out of my ass and move on."

Jackson takes a step forward, his boots clunking on the floor. "Oliver..."

Anger spikes through me. "Fine. I need to work to distract myself."

It shuts him up, like I knew it would.

But that's not true either. If I don't start working again, it won't matter how well behaved they are. Declan will kick them out.

The door to the bar swings open, Declan's hearty greeting flying through, enveloping Jackson in the same way it used to envelop me. His eyes roll to the stove, locking me in a cool embrace, before he simply gives me a disappointed nod and grabs a roll from the counter.

Stomach churning, I empty the pan onto a platter and set it on the table, ignoring Jackson as he steps forward and takes the knife from my hand, serving.

I can't help myself from glancing into the kitchen, hoping that somehow none of the boys saw Declan's less than favorable attitude towards me, but the only thing standing tall in the kitchen are the dirty dishes in the sink. My eyes flick to the door Declan disappeared from, watching Lachlan laugh as he scrubs down a table, Callum and Elliot behind him.

Dishes are Lachlan's job.

"You gonna eat, Oliver?"

Jackson's voice stops me from leaving the room entirely, looking back with the kitchen door pressed hard into my side. I watch his hand hover over the pan, the curiosity in his eyes, the way Colette sends me a stink eye as she seats herself, the way my shirt shivers as my stomach growls.

"No," I say simply, pushing through the door. "I'm not hungry."

I set in on the dishes, scrubbing each pan down before setting it on the side to dry, moving from suds to towels until the sink is empty, dishes gleaming on their racks.

The mop is leaning, dripping, against the counter. Again, I glance out into the dining room, where the three have migrated to the corner of the bar, one wiping it down while the other two joke. Tempted to shout through the window to tell them to do their jobs, I lean forward through the service window, but I catch Dec's gaze from the doorway. The message is simple.

I move silently back and pick up the mop.

Time grinds by slowly, measured out in lengths of chores. The three have done next to nothing, leaving their grunt work to me. My shoulder is screaming, head pounding, sadness still stirring storms in my gut; I do not have the patience to silently suffer today. I swallow my pride and head for Dec's office.

He calls out after two knocks, voice silencing after the knob creaks long enough for me to poke my head through the gap.

"H-Hey, Dec," I say softly.

He turns his back and fidgets with his files.

Slipping all the way inside, I knot my fingers together. "I just, um, wanted to say that Lachlan and crew haven't really been working much today..."

He doesn't react, slipping papers into a Manila folder and thumbing through a stack.

"They've actually, um, given those chores to me...?"

The filing cabinet drawer slams shut, and he pivots to face me. My eyes fly to the floor; part of me wishes he'd turn around again.

My voice comes out ten times smaller. "So...I was just...wondering..."

"Why should I do anythin'?" He growls softly, eyes piercing through my confidence. "Haven't seen you workin' too much these past few days."

I scurry from the room with my tail between my legs, flying back into the safety of the kitchen, hiding from the customers as Declan had decreed earlier in the week, avoiding the boys as much as possible.

What has to be hours later, I cart a crate of onions to the back room, glancing around the small kitchen and dining area as I go. Dishes in the sink; probably left over from breakfast and lunch. Not bothering to hide the sigh, I roll up my sleeves and turn on the water.

A few dishes later, the back door creaks open again, Jackson's boots knocking against the hardwood.

"Hey."

I don't respond, filling a sponge with suds and scrubbing hard on a plate.

"I heard you've been working all day."

Silence, except for the clatter of the dishes under the water.

"Did you eat lunch?"

With a sharp pang, my stomach reminds me that no, I didn't, but with a much harsher blow my brain reminds me that Kiirn will never eat lunch again, and the hunger subsides.

I lift a larger pan from the sink, probably the remnants of leftovers, and flick it a couple of times, dripping the worst of the water back into the sink before reaching to place it on the side.

Jackson catches it before I can.

"Let me help," he says softly, looking at me with a swath of pity and concern, hefting the pan out of my reach and grabbing the towel from over my shoulder.

I twist away, angered by his sympathy. Fine. I'll get done faster.

I wash, he dries, I wash, he dries, over and over until I'm burying my hands in an ocean of bubbles to find the next dish. I pass over a larger plate, and Jackson twitches fast to respond, his sopping towel flicking water at me.

He giggles before apologizing, going back to his pan.