Rivals?

Chapter 38

Daniel's POV

I wake up, hung over. My head throbs and flashes back to images of Mikayla, Lane, and my dad, and I can't deal with it anymore. 

Tomorrow is Thanksgiving. Of course, I won't be home for it. Not like my dad ever celebrated it anyway. 

I sigh and look in the mirror. My nose is healing but I know I have other permanent scars on other parts of my body. I was supposed to work out this morning, but instead, I decided I needed to go to work. I applied last night online. I'll be working at a farm. Yeah, a farm. However, it keeps me and shape and it has good pay so I don't care. I'll be mowing, pertaining to the fields, getting crops, and shit like that. It starts today.

I look at my cracked phone screen. 

Five o'clock in the morning? 

I snap my neck to the window. It's barely lit up outside. I shove my phone in my jeans pocket and change into a white tank top. It's a little stained but it's for work so I don't mind. I brush my teeth and examine my face closely. Little scratches here and there, and of course, my fucked up nose.

I grab my leather jacket, slip on my boots, and stumble out of the hotel. My limp is barely there now, but it's there. I climb into my truck and start it, looking around the ghetto parking lot. I don't mind. My parents used to be rich until now. My dad spends all his money on beer and drugs, and we live in crap. 

I wave sheepishly at some guys smoking dope and I drive slowly away. 

Once I am at work, it's only six o'clock. I drove extra slow on purpose. Work starts at seven but I get out anyway. I see a dark figure working in the fields already. I limp over to the figure and stand there awkwardly when he doesn't realize I am there.

Finally, I speak up, "Hey," I say, making him jump.

"Ah, you must be Daniel? Daniel Blake?" He chuckles and reaches out his glove-covered hand. 

I shake it willingly and smile, "That's me, sir. Is it okay if I start early? My mind wasn't too straight this morning and I left early." I clear my throat and shove my hands in my pockets.

"Hell yeah, son. I'd love that, actually. You can start by carrying those big dirt bags over there," he points, "and load them in the big truck over there," he points again in a different direction. 

I nod and head for the barn where the dirtbags are sitting out. There is a lot. 

Damnit.

I throw one over my shoulder and almost fall on my ass. I pick up the other one, pain shooting through my leg as I bend over. I throw the second one over my other shoulder, limp towards the big pickup truck, and toss them in the bed.

I want to give up already. However, I need the money desperately, so I keep going.

Dirtbag after dirtbag, my body aches more. Once I am finished, I limp over to... the boss? I don't know I never got his name. On the website, it said he was Ryan. 

"You are Ryan, right?" I ask, panting. His head pops up from plucking berries and he narrows his eyes at me. 

"Yes. I am. You already finished?" He asks, placing the huge bucket of berries down.

"Uh, yes sir." I nod.

"Damn. Impressive. It only took you an hour while it'll take Liam hours." He chuckles.

"Who's Liam?" I ask, dumbly. 

"Oh, my son. He works for me obviously. I think you two would get along. He's sick today though. He was probably lying, knowing him." He says, spitting something out of his mouth. 

I nod. "Well since it's," I check my phone and then continue, "seven-ten, what else would you like me to do?"

"Go collect the eggs from the chickens and place them in the multiple egg cartons you'll see on a shelve on the right of the barn." He says, bringing dip out of his pocket.

I want to ask for some. I don't. Instead, I just nod, "Yes sir," and turn around back for the barn. 

***

After four, aching, tiring hours of labor, I go to Ryan.

"Ah, son. I see your shift is indeed over with. Do you want to get paid daily or weekly? It asked on that dumb website but I don't pay that much attention to it."

My eyes widen a little, "Daily would be nice." I sigh.

He hands me a twenty-dollar bill. I look at it suspiciously, knowing some people get paid this per hour. I shrug and I am grateful anyway. 

"Thanks, Ryan," I say, turning on my heels.

I hop in my truck and check the time. It's eleven-thirty. My shift is supposed to end at twelve but I got here early. 

I sigh and pull off, my leg throbbing along with my alcohol-poisoned brain. I want to disappear. I want out of this betting shit. I want to apologize to my dad even though he'll always hate me and be a depressed alcoholic. I want to erase my past with Mikayla. She's so smart and pretty. She was hurting just as much as I was. 

I punch my old radio and my scabbed knuckles crack and bleed. My whole body aches and wishes for good nutrients and food. It wishes to be set free from toxic alcohol. However, a little shitty part of me wants to grasp onto it. Grasp onto nicotine and alcohol. I don't cry, but my eyes twitch and beg for sleep. Behind my eyes hurts and throbs. 

I sigh when I am back at the hotel. I get out and notice the dope-smoking guys are gone. I slam my truck door and limp into the hotel lobby. I breathe in the cold air and head straight for the public gym. 

I dig around my pockets for my earbuds. Once I find them, I take one out and connect it to my phone. For dollar store earbuds, they work pretty great. I put on my playlist and set my phone down with my water bottle and earbud case. 

I just sit on the bench for a second, trying to tell my body to stop hurting, to get this workout in. I sigh and grab onto the bar that has eighty pounds on each side. 

My arms struggle and beg for surrender, but I don't. I push through it and finish my reps. I move on to the other workouts I do in my routine, my mind lost in the music. 

***

My workout lasts three whole hours. My tanktop is soaked and my hair drips with sweat. My body begs for rest but I stand up and head for my hotel room. Only to change. 

I shower and pull on another football hoodie and another pair of jeans. I wince, pulling them over my wound. I then walk out of the hotel with my phone, wallet, and keys to pick up Mikayla. 

My hair is still wet but I roll down the windows anyway. I like the cold. I pull off and drive slowly. It's three-thirty. I loll my head backward, hitting the headrest of my seat. My eyes feel heavy and I know they're red and bloodshot. 

My whole heart pounds harder and harder as I wonder if Mikayla remembers anything from last night. She was way more wasted than I ever was. All I know is she's taking my heart and I can't tell if I like it or not because it's not like she'd ever like me anyway.