Night shifts black

Day Seventeen: Part I.

I get the frantic call early in the morning, before I’m showered, dressed, or sufficiently roused by my cup of black tea. Definitely before I’m equipped for drama. It’s Shauna, and if I don’t get over to the café in the next five minutes, the cops will be involved.

My heart stops long before she confirms the disruption involves Luke, and I have my jeans and sneakers on by the time we end the call.

I can hear the yelling as I approach Jemma’s. Evacuated patrons and random bystanders are huddled on the sidewalk, attempting to peer through the door, the windows, each other, with looks of fear and curiosity.

“Excuse me! Please! Let me through!” I cry, pushing past them.

I hear some curses, but also warnings as I plow forward. There’s a crazy homeless guy in there. No, he’s not homeless, just a café regular who’s lost his mind. He’s trying to rob the place.

I glance back in surprise at that one, I can’t help myself. Still, I don’t need more speculation, I need the truth, so I don’t ask and continue my journey.

By the time I get through the crowd and into the café, there are only a few brave patrons left, mostly the regulars who have come to expect such erratic behavior from the weird chair guy who turned out to be someone important. The rest of the witnesses are staff members. Both Darryn and Shauna are on today. Lucky them.

“Why can’t I have it? You have a hundred of them!” Luke cries. The Chair is firm in his grip. A table is overturned, a shocked audience curved around the scene. The manager has her hands up in surrender, using her managerial crisis training to try to calm the crazed guest. The problem is, he’s not crazy.

“Luke!” I call, rushing toward the front of the circle.

His desperate eyes turn on me, rooting me several feet away.

“What are you doing?” I ask, forcing myself to take a step forward. He moves back. “They’re going to call the police. They’ll arrest you,” I reason.

He shakes his head, eyes dark. “So what? They should.”

I soften and cover more of the distance between us.

“You don’t want that,” I say.

“You know I do,” he replies, the pain starting to replace the anger.

It hits me harder than I expect, the transformation, the bitter consequence of my attempt to reach him yesterday. My speech was supposed to be a cautionary tale, not an instruction manual.

“Luke…”

“Leave me alone, Callie!”

I shake my head. “No!”

“I said, leave!” he cries, swinging the chair in my direction. I duck away, surprised by the outburst, but not prepared to give up. His aim was too bad for him to have had any intention of hurting me. The others don’t realize that, they don’t know him well enough, and gasp at the new violence. I can see Ailee dialing the phone.

“Luke, please! This won’t help you escape! You want to hide? How will you hide with the cameras and reporters? You really want another mugshot for the tabloids?”

That argument has an affect, and I can tell what I said means even more to him than I’d thought.

He glances around the room again, suddenly seeming startled, and drops the chair with a curse. Another string of expletives slips from his mouth as he locks his hands on his head in distress.

“We’re sorry. So sorry!” I explain to the manager who’s look is somewhere between fear and fury. “It won’t happen again. You won’t see him back here.”

“I better not!” she hisses. “We will call the cops the second he touches the door.”

I nod, completely understanding her position, and turn back to Luke. He’s broken again. No longer a threat, just a terrified stranger staring at a chair.

“I need it, Callie,” he whispers as I approach. His eyes search mine, willing me to understand, to help him. “Please, just explain it to them.”

“I know, Luke. But it’s not going to help you. It’s not,” I reply softly, taking his arm.

He shakes his head, angry tears in his eyes. “Please. Please!” he repeats, one last desperate appeal to the manager.

She glares at him, but waves her hand with a curse. “Fine, take the damn chair. Just get out of my restaurant and never come back!”

I’m still not sure it’s a good idea for him to permanently possess the haunted object, but at the moment, it keeps him out of jail so I have no choice but to accept it.

He sighs with relief, and I see the visible change as a weight seems to lift from his shoulders. He picks up the chair and heads toward the door. I apologize profusely to every face I can’t avoid and do my best to clear an awkward path.

∞∞∞

We walk back to his hotel. Him with his chair, me with my apologies to those we displace on the sidewalk as we march past. I don’t know what to say to Luke, so I remain silent, focusing instead on making sure we arrive safely at our destination, still afraid the manager called the cops after all, and they’ll be showing up any minute to take the crazy rock star into custody. I’m sure he’s legally drunk, so the media would be merciless with that report. As it is, I’m almost certain bystander photos and recordings of his outburst are going to explode into the pop culture conversation anyway, fueling the thirst for celebrity blood with another tragic train wreck.

The Chair will be famous now, too.

I don’t think Luke understands that yet. What he’s done, the firestorm he’s just exposed himself to hasn’t registered, but it will soon, and I suck in my breath at what he’ll face. The ghost chair will now be legend, encased in speculation, investigated with a rabid persistence that will scrape old wounds raw.

I glance back at his face, and am surprised at the stern concentration. Maybe reality is starting to settle in his mind as well, or maybe he’s simply trying not to trip with his heavy burden, but either way I have hope that once we’re safely home we can reason through this. The present. The future.

The doormen give us a strange look as we approach, eyeing the chair with their characteristic skepticism, but it’s in the hands of Luke Craven of Night Shifts Black, so they respond by opening the door a little wider than usual. I’m sure my reception would have been less accommodating.

“Mr. Craven! A new purchase? Please let us help you with that!” Mara Jacobson cries, rushing toward us as we enter.

“Thanks, Mara. I got it.”

She glances at me, her expression more veiled than usual, and I give her a stiff smile.

“Thanks, Mara. We got it,” I repeat just to watch her squirm.

She does, but has no choice except to nod in defeat. “Well, of course if you change your mind, let us know,” she says, and Luke barely acknowledges her as he continues toward the elevator.

I follow him in, shifting to allow him enough room for his chair, and he finally lowers his burden to the floor. He shakes out his arms and stretches as the elevator boy pushes the buttons. Despite everything, I can’t stop the slight grin of amusement as I watch the poor teenager try not to react to the strange scene. Luke seems to notice too, and when his eyes catch mine, my grin breaks. He returns it, and I suddenly feel safe again.

“Thanks, Aiden,” Luke says, slipping him a bill larger than anything I’d ever tipped a server at a restaurant. Aiden will not be talking about the chair, that’s for sure. I give him a smile as well as I exit onto Luke’s floor and follow him to his door.

I can see him struggling with the chair and push past him.

“Here, I got it,” I say, producing my own key and sliding it into the slot.