Free The 51st Thursday by Mercy Celeste Page A

anything else. After the third, he paid his tab and stumbled out into the dark. Deacon could see the cast on his leg as he left. A stab of something pierced Deacon's thick skin that night, sympathy maybe.
    He came every Thursday after that, earning him his name. He came for the quiet, taking the same seat at the bar and ordering the same three beers before taking his leave. Sometimes he came dressed in jeans, other times in business attire, but always in an oxford cloth shirt, usually white, sometimes blue. Deacon started noticing his clothes sometime in January. He didn't usually notice his male patrons or their attire, but Thursday wore his in a way that made Deacon want to look.
    Then in May, something changed and Thursday came for more than just the quiet spot at the bar and a few beers. He joined in a game of pool, which was just fine. Deacon enjoyed looking at his ass across the room as he leaned over the table to make the shot. He still didn't say much. Then he left with one of Deacon's waitresses.
    The next visit Deacon had to remove him and a couple of wannabe bikers to the parking lot. Thursday gave 'em hell before Deacon put him a cab and told the driver to take him home. After that, Thursday kept his temper, except when he lost it. And when he did, it was a magnificent temper to behold. In June Deacon noticed a pattern where Thursday was concerned. Woman, fight, brood alone in angry silence, rinse, repeat.
    That's when he started wondering what made the man tick. Why just Thursdays; what was so special about Thursday? Why the reckless behavior? He was obviously well schooled and he wore expensive clothes and an air of authority when he was dressed in his Sunday go-to-meeting best. The blue tie with a discreet gold letter A tie tack. The choirboy haircut he wore at first became a thing of the past in May, and as of last Thursday, his hair just touched his collar, falling in soft waves that he constantly pushed out of his eyes.
    Dark began to creep in the door, and Deacon gave up watching. He wouldn't show. He'd gone farther inland. He would be safe, sitting in some other bar on a Thursday night. The fifty-first Thursday night. At the top of the hour, he turned up the volume on the closest television to catch the latest update on the projected path, making a beeline for the bay.
    Shit, it was going to be a long night. In an hour or so, he'd do last call and send the brave souls out to seek shelter elsewhere. There was still work to be done before old Sally turned the street outside into a raging river.
    At seven, the weathergirl started looking nervous. She was new to the area and this was her first hurricane, or so she said. Most of the costumed customers had gone home, and only a few die-hard drinkers were left when he saw the headlights sweep the falling rain outside the door. Irritated, he told himself to stop being a fool, Thursday wouldn't walk through the door. It was just a car driving slowly because of the wet streets.
    Then he stepped inside, just as he had every week for the past year, pausing in the doorway to take in the place before taking the same seat at the bar. Tonight he was dressed in a pair of faded and ripped jeans. A blue button-down collar oxford shirt, slightly wrinkled and half-buttoned to expose a white tank undershirt and a pair of beat-up Top-Siders. His hair was wet and slicked back from the rain.
    Deacon nodded just as he did every Thursday night and pulled him the only beer he had on tap. "I'm closing in an hour."
    He walked away to put away another box in the storeroom while trying to ignore the strange sensations churning in the pit of his stomach.
    Shelby took the beer from the bartender, nodding to the closing time warning before he looked around at the nearly empty establishment. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea, coming all the way out here this late. Any other day and this would be a great time. Just not hours before a damned hurricane was going to crawl ashore right over