Ortega necked some painkillers and got back to work. His face still burned, so he nursed the injury with an ice pack, thinking back to that moment…
He remembered the whole shit like it had happened minutes ago instead of hours. He'd checked the mirror and seen he wasn't that bad. Just a little swelling that would go down with antiseptics and rest.
Somehow, with the pain on his face, he only felt better.
Bron had his phone pressed to his ear and was smiling. By the looks of it, he was talking to Mae.
"Yeah," Bron said. "A coupla robbers came in. Relax, we beat 'em up real good."
Ortega smiled a little as he wiped the counter. Bron had said we.
"Rest assured, they won't bother us again. My plan worked. I was behind the door when they came in."
Ortega raised a skeptical brow. Plan? Seemed like a pretty convenient coincidence, Bron.
"They didn't see me and went straight for your boy, so I ambushed from behind."
Something was said on the other line, and Bron glanced at Ortega.
"Yeah, he's fine. Just a few bruises here and there… He's… not half bad. How are you feeling?"
A pause.
"Alright. Are you sure? Okay. I'm off anyway… Yeah, I know what to do… Take care of yourself."
Bron ended the call and said suddenly,
"Do you want to go home?"
The tone was far different from the rude, condescending one Ortega was used to.
"No," Ortega answered quickly.
His head hurt, but he could manage. Besides, he'd been through far worse pain thanks to his temporary boss. He didn't say that out loud. He just busied himself with work.
"Well… you can watch the store, right? I'm off," Bron said, standing and preparing to leave.
"Wait." Ortega stopped him. "If anything goes wrong, how am I supposed to reach you?"
"Right. That's my number." Bron pointed behind Ortega to a plate on the wall with his contacts.
And with that, he boarded his bike and left, leaving Ortega alone in the store.
When the door closed, Ortega let out a deep breath and relaxed his shoulders.
The heaviness of being alone in this store for the first time was really starting to kick in… and so was the weight of responsibility.
All this—Ortega looked around at the aisles of various goods on display—was left for him to handle. He was… in charge.
Minutes that seemed like hours passed, and not a single customer strolled in.
Ortega threw his head back and groaned. The boredom was eating him alive.
Wait.
Ortega straightened behind the counter and immediately turned up the music. He let the grooves carry him along, the melodic harmony of bass and synth. There was a mess waiting to be cleaned. Ortega got to work. He grabbed a broom and began to move to the music. A little embarrassing, but he had the space all to himself. He couldn't care less. He got a dustpan and bent down to pack the glass shards, then disposed of them. Thankful the damn robbers hadn't gotten blood on the linoleum floors. That would've been a whole different ball game.
Ortega mopped the floors, singing along to the beat. The music made it way more enjoyable. When he was done, the floors were sparkling like they had stars buried in them.
Lunch was three protein bars. Ortega ate, and while he did, he thought. Of the fight. Of Bron. He was starting to see Mae's brother in a different light. And he was damn sure Bron's perception of him had changed too. Something far better than last time.
He crunched on the chocolatey bar, savoring the rich, nutty sweetness that overrode his tastebuds. With no customers coming in, boredom crept up on him.
Then restlessness.
He steered clear of Mae's room out back. Didn't want to invade her privacy.
His mind kept drifting back to the brawl. The gun that had almost cost him his life. He'd handed it to Bron, thankfully. So there was nothing to satisfy his stupid urge to do target practice on the concrete wall outside.
Ortega balled his fists and stared at them. Could he… Did he even know how to throw a punch?
"Let's try that," he muttered.
He slid off the stool and moved to the center of the store. There was space enough for a stance… or something like one.
He stood with both feet facing forward. Before he even lifted an arm, he knew something was terribly wrong with his form.
He sighed. This was embarrassing even with no one watching.
He paced in circles and threw a fist.
Fuck. That came out worse. He nearly lost his balance, barely catching himself.
Vexed, Ortega clenched his fists. 'This is a waste of time.' Hands on hips, he stared down, craving either cheap entertainment or sleep.
Neither were available.
He banished the thought of pushups. That wouldn't help him fight better. He needed to know how to fight. He thought hard, remembering Bron's movements. Clear. Clean. Efficient.
How could he replicate that? Something like this…
Ortega angled his left foot forward, fists raised, shoulders tense, core tight. He checked his form in a large standing mirror for sale. It looked right. He cross-checked it with Bron's image in his mind. His body agreed.
He took a deep breath and slowly extended his arm, throwing a punch in slow motion.
Again.
Watching the range of motion, he imagined the robber's jaw. Somehow it turned into Bron's face. His fist connecting cleanly.
Again.
This time, at the last instant, he twisted his wrist. He drew back and swung, rotating his hips.
Whoosh!
That felt better. More flow.
He repeated the motion slowly and realized the power didn't come from the arm. It came from the hips. The wrists.
Satisfied, he sped up.
One arm, then the other. Then he started integrating ducks and feints once the compounded rhythm allowed.
His breathing sharpened. He didn't stop.
Two minutes in, his heart burned, but he pushed harder. Faster... Stronger.
The air thickened with sweat and aggression, a sharp scent spiking his nerves. He drifted toward the wall without realizing it, throwing light punches against it.
Then memory snapped back. The cold gun butt under his jaw. The robber's snarl.
He punched harder. Pain flared through his knuckles. Didn't matter. He punched again. And again.
Fists slammed plaster as thuds echoed. Grunts turned to harsh breathing, then to furious screams.
The helplessness. Mae seeing him break. Bron humiliating him.
He was a madman now. Spit flew.
He only stopped when blood speckled the wall.
His arms dropped. Heaving, Ortega stared at his torn, bleeding knuckles. Then the door chimed open. He looked up. His breath caught.
Mae stood there, handbag slung over one shoulder, worry softening her smile.
"Hi," she said, waving.