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Post by wesley on Sept 21, 2011 7:53:32 GMT 10
 A week. Not even a week, actually; five days since hearing about his brother’s death and he was already halfway across the country. The service was less than a day and a half ago and Wesley didn’t waste any time high tailing it out of there. The idea of being stuck at home for the next two or more months with his family seemed like an unbearable side effect to being injured. It was already hard enough knowing that he’d have to be away from his job that long and even more so now that he had another issue to deal with. What was he supposed to say? That his brother’s death was hard on him? It was. It sucked; what else could he say? Staying in the same house as his parents would hardly be ideal. He had a hard enough time dealing with his own pain—watching them deal with it at the same time would only break him down more. No; they’d all be much better off if they just had time alone.
That’s why he was currently driving towards Massachusetts. He’d only visited his aunt once, so why not stop in again? He heard the area was nice, so why not spend a month or two there? Had the planning been more than just a quick decision and a phone call to make sure it was okay, Wesley likely would’ve been a bit more prepared. But, as it was, he’d just finished driving two, sixteen hour drives from Austin all the way to Capeside and he was in more pain now than when he started. The bad part about getting away is that you can’t always do it with a snap of your fingers.
Everything hurt. While most of the bruising had gone away by now, he still felt stiff and sore throughout his entire torso, and he was still without the use of his left arm. Or so his doctor had instructed him. He was allowed to bend those rules a bit, right? Besides, as the Marines put it, pain is weakness leaving the body. If he couldn’t put up with a little soreness, he didn’t deserve to go back to his job. Regardless, running straight to his Aunt’s house wasn’t exactly what he wanted to do. Besides, after his drive, he wasn’t ready to try and get comfortable and sleep. Lying down without hurting was the hardest thing since his accident. Who knew a few broken ribs could cause so many problems? If nothing else, he did realize how lucky he’d been through the years. All he’d sustained was some mild injuries; nothing that left him out of the competition for more than a day or two and certainly nothing like this.
Groaning lightly under his breath, Wesley was just glad when the ‘Welcome to Capeside’ sign appeared in his sights. Maybe he’d find a nice place to take a walk or something; some place where he could clear his mind before having to go ‘home’. At least, he would’ve found some place to walk it off if he hadn’t spotted the sign for the Pub up ahead. Instantly, he decided that alcohol was a better cure for both his physically pain and the pain of loss he was feeling. What better way to get better than a nice glass of whiskey and maybe some nice conversation? It’d give him a chance to meet some locals; if he was going to be hanging around for awhile, he might as well get to know some people. Someone that wasn’t related to him by blood. Parking the large pick-up in the parking lot of the Blackwater Banshee, he slid out slowly and stifled another small groan. Stretching would definitely be in order at some point. But first: alcohol. Running a hand lightly over his shoulder, he could feel the brace strapped on beneath his shirt and mutter quietly about the uselessness of it before setting his steps towards the door.
Considering where he was, he was fairly certain he was going to stick out like a sore thumb. He expected to see some Topsiders, polos, and beach bums around—whereas he was straight from the country with his boot cut jeans, cowboy hat and belt buckle. If nothing else, maybe it’d be the start of a conversation. ‘You aren’t from around here, are you… partner?’
Who was he kidding? Preppy beach kids didn’t say ‘partner’.
Pulling open the door, he quickly scanned the pub and found it to be moderately empty. Not that it was going to stop him. Heading for the counter, he pulled his hat off and set it down in front of him once he found a seat. Although hesitant to go right back to sitting, the thought of having that cold drink in his hand was enough persuasion to get him onto the stool. Situating himself as best as possible, he offered a small smile to the bartender and ordered himself a beer and glass of whiskey. As the man walked away, his eyes scanned the other customers, noticing that most of them had tucked themselves into booths or corners and looked like they didn’t want to be bothered. Sighing lightly, he shook his head and turned back towards the counter. Maybe, if he was lucky, the bartender would be friendly. Or, if nothing else, there’d be more people coming in later. It was only eight o’clock, anyway. The night was just getting started.
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