A Shoulder To Cry On 3

This story is a sequel to my previous story "The Irishman at the End of the Bar". I'd recommend reading that for the continuity. I would further like to the give a special shout to everyone who helped make the last story more successful than I ever imagined it could be. I never dreamed it would rank as all time number one for the genre on Literotica. I don't think lightning is going to strike twice, but here's hoping. Thanks for the love.

–

Thursday – January 1, 2026

-Chase Kramner-

It is a brand-new year. It is time to dust off your resolutions and review which ones you managed to achieve or live by. At least, it would be, if I ever made resolutions. This year, I do have a few things I want to accomplish. I want to make something resembling peace with my family and myself. The first time I spoke to my father in nearly a decade was only a few weeks ago. I have not spoken to my sister for longer than that.

Before I can make peace with others, I need to make peace with myself. I need this time for introspection, to reflect on what role I played in that relationship. My relationships do not occur in a vacuum.

I have the day for New Years to think, so I spend a part of it at the cemetery.

A frigid cold front just swept through the city, so I am cloaked in one of my thicker jackets with a scarf protecting my neck and face. Directly in front of me is a grave marker with dimensions no larger than a shoe box. Inscribed on the marker is a name I am all too familiar with.

Patrick Conrad O'Neil

1996-2025

It does not say anything more than that. It should.

Patrick O'Neil was many things. A mob hitman who buried more people than the police are likely to ever discover is one of them. Some of his crimes if I was under similar circumstances, I do not have the confidence to say I would have acted much differently. God help the man who hurt a woman in front of him. It seems like even God did not judge him too harshly and turned a blind eye.

I feel a presence approaching and turn my head to see a woman. She is clearly not from this climate and is under far more clothing than me. Her top layer is a Navy peacoat, her long black hair stretching out from under her wool cap, half frozen from the windchill with a permanent wave. She is darker skin toned, likely Hispanic or something with a similar complexion.

After a moment of hesitation, we both realize we came to see the same headstone.

"Did you know Patrick?" the woman asks with a notable accent. English as a second language, but it is not a caricature. She has been an American long enough that the syllables mesh, and I trust she understands English perfectly.

"Never met him personally," I say, and she has a confused expression. Then suddenly she has an idea of who I could be.

"You're a cop," she says. Something about my demeanor gave that away, but I cannot imagine what it was. "Are you the one who killed him?"

"No," I say, then look down at his marker again. "I was investigating him though."

"He didn't kill that girl," the woman says, and I turn to her.

"I know," I say. "He'd slit his throat before raising his fist to a woman." I am paraphrasing a person who knew him.

"Are you here to spit on his grave. To tell his friends he was a lousy criminal who is now where he is supposed to be?" she asks.

"No. In fact, I'd tell them he was more good than he wasn't. He got dealt a shitty hand, but still had to play the game," I say, and she is quiet for nearly twenty full seconds.

"He was my friend. I know he likely did a lot of bad things. But he stood up for me when I didn't have the courage to stand up for myself, and he paid the price for it. That's on me."

I think I know who I am talking to now.

"Michelle Sanchez?" I ask, and she nods.

"It's Ortega now, but yes. He got kicked out of the Navy for attacking my rapist. He was a good man," Michelle says. "He tried to leave that life behind him. Twice. He loved that girl. They were about to leave when she died."

"Patrick didn't accept things just stayed the same, did he?" I ask.

"He certainly didn't. You want something to change, take the first step yourself," Michelle says, and I smile, which she returns a moment later.

"I'm sorry," I say, and I mean it. "I'm sorry it ever came to a point Patrick and I were on opposite sides of a firing line."

"He go out fighting?" Michelle asks. I open my jacket and pull up my shirt to show her the bruise from his bullet hitting my vest.

"He got his licks in," I say, and she smiles again.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't be smiling about that," she says, now laughing a little.

"I get it. You just wanted to make sure he was still the same person you called your friend," I say, and she nods. "He wasn't bad, he was just human."

"Thank you," Michelle says and looks at his gravestone. She stands to attention, holds a salute, releases it, gives me another smile then walks away.

I look at his marker one last time as well before departing. As I am walking through the cemetery, the thought of taking the first step hangs in my mind. I stop walking to pull out my phone, and after much hesitation I make a call. It rings a few times before I hear it connect.

"Hello?" I hear my stepmother Carrie ask.

"Carrie, it's um...it's...it's Chase," I say.

"It's been so long, oh my god! How's it going, what are you up to?" Carrie asks. She is a sweetheart, always has been. So much so it almost comes off as fake, like a stepparent trying too hard.

"I'm good. Sorry to cut you off, but is...um...is," I say, really struggling to take this step.

"You okay?" Carrie asks.

"Yeah, is...is dad there?"

–

Sunday – March 8, 2026

-Lauren Hill-

It has been so long since Chase and I have managed to get out for a date night. I honestly cannot remember our last one. Either I'm taking extra shifts for patrol or Chase is stuck in the office until midnight working on some case he can't talk about. After a few months, our schedules finally link up.

Chase wants to take me to a comedy club one of his friends performs in. I'm excited about meeting one of his friends who isn't in law enforcement. Up until this point I didn't even know he had any other friends.

Chase pays the cover charge at the door and we take a seat at a table close to the stage. It's a classic comedy stage, complete with a fake brick wall behind the microphone. There are thirty tables in six rows of five. I imagine Saturday is a little more crowded, because tonight the club is at half capacity.

"Chase," I hear a female voice say. Chase leaves his chair to hug his friend. He didn't tell me it was a woman.

"Lauren, this is Laurel," Chase says, over pronouncing both names to put emphasis on the differences.

Laurel is a few years younger than us, putting her in her mid-twenties. She has natural beauty, as I cannot see any makeup on her in the slightest, or it's the most subtle application I have ever seen. Her hair is golden hay blond and crimped into waves that cascade down her shoulders with pins placed to keep it out of her face. Her eyes are Green and reflect like stained glass. All of that packaged in a rocker girl look with Vans, black jeans, and black leather jacket over a plain white shirt.

"Hi, nice to meet you," Laurel says and shakes my hand. If I bumped into this person at a social event, I wouldn't have imagined she knew Chase.

"Same," I say to be polite.

"Omar?" Chase asks, and Laurel sighs.

"I tried making him stay home, but he's a stubborn son of a bitch," Laurel says, then turns to see someone emerging from behind the curtain. "Yeah, I'm talking about you."

Omar is a tall dark and handsome stereotype. Over six feet with dark olive skin. He's either Mediterranean or Middle Eastern if I had to wager, and I'm leaning more on Middle Eastern just from the name. He is dressed plainly with jeans and a t-shirt, contrasting him greatly with Laurel. His green eyes also reflect like stained glass, but the sun is shining at dusk.

"Omar, this is Lauren," Chase says. When I reach to shake his hand, he gestures me away.

"Not meaning to offend. I'm just a little sick and trying to keep that to myself," Omar says, and I say I understand. He certainly does look sick. His handsomeness is sunken into his face and his voice sounds weak. There is a sway in his body just trying to stand upright.

"Then go home. You can miss a night," Laurel says with concern.

"I asked to go first, I'll go home after my set," Omar replies. He's one of the comedians I'd take it.

"You typically close, and I hate following you," Laurel says playfully back. They're both comedians.

"I'll be fine," Omar says and looks over his shoulder to someone who peeks out from behind the curtain. The man flashes him a five with his hand to show how long until he's up on stage.

"Are you sure you're good?" Chase asks.

"I think I puked most of it out yesterday, just a flu," Omar says before adding he'll talk to us later. He then vanishes back behind the curtain again. Laurel sits with us at the table, and people continue to fill in and take seats.

"You guys drinking?" Laurel asks, and we both nod. We took a cab to get here so we could both drink. "I'll get the first round." Chase and I let her know our orders and she goes to the bar to get it. She comes back just before the MC comes to the mic to introduce Omar.

"I hope everyone is having a good night so far," The MC says, and everyone gives a 'woo' in response. "Give it up for our usual closer. Omar Asfour."

The room erupts in cheers and whistles as Omar comes from behind the curtain and comes to the stage. He has a few soft words with the MC before picking up the mic off the stand.

"Give it up for Andre everybody, our most gracious host," Omar says, and the room applauds for him. "Great to be here. Great to be in America really. I mean that, I really do. People who look like me, we don't usually say that."

The room laughs a little and he continues after the applause. "Hope everyone is drinking, have a few drinks, have a great time. I'm Muslim, so I don't drink, but have a few for me." Laugh break. "Maybe that's what Islam needs. We need a few drinks, calm us down a little. I think it'll work wonders. We'll be like 'Omar, I think we should strap on a bomb vest and find a crowded area.' I'd get to be like 'Fuck you Ahmad, you're drunk.'" The room laughs and I do too.

"Allahu Akbar!" Omar shouts, and the room is half laughing and half quiet. "That's a phrase that makes butts pucker. I saw it in the crowd, half you looked for the exit just in case." We all laugh, and he points to a table. "That guy was looking at his buddy like 'I thought he'd bomb, but not like that.' I love the expression 'you da bomb'. At least in America I do. You da bomb is supposed to be a compliment. Middle east, that shit's a fucking argument." The room explodes in laughter.

"No, you da bomb," he says in an accent. "Fuck you Ahmad, you're drunk."

"I'm actually from Saudi Arabia, I moved here when I was real little, and last year was the first time I went back in over twenty years. It was pretty cool, and pretty weird. I thought the goat and donkey fucking stuff was a western stereotype of the middle east. Then I went back, and...yeah, that shit's real." The room laughs again. "Look at the options, a goat or playing wife roulette with a bunch of beekeepers. Eighty percent of the time it's your cousin. Like I said...glad to be in America." The room laughs hard this time, his applause break is nearly a full twenty seconds.

"All kidding aside, I went back for the Hajj, the pilgrimage. So the fifth pillar of Islam, is you have to make the journey to pray at Mecca at least once in your lifetime. It was my time, and I went. It's really interesting, and I had an amazing time doing it. Mostly because I had like nine of my uncles try to wed their daughters to me because I was coming back to the States. The awesome part is everyone wants a piece of this. The not awesome part is they were all my cousins. Different world entirely. Here, we make fun of crack head white people in Appalachia fucking their nieces, but over there...that's normal. Yeah, like I said, happy to be American."

Omar has a small coughing fit during the applause and seems to clear it up before he starts again. "I was so happy to come back to America, I bought four guns and a truck, put the confederate flag in the back window and threw my non-alcoholic beers out as I drove shouting Murica!"

The more conservative parts of the crowd whistled, and Omar coughed again. He didn't recover as fast and tried talking again while it was still working its way out. "Blaring country music...*cough*...beating off to NASCAR...*cough*...and...and..."

Omar didn't recover from the fit and wobbled on stage a little, Laurel standing up from her seat to help him just before he puked and collapsed into his own vomit.

"Omar!" Laurel shouted, climbing onto the stage as Omar began to have a seizure. His body was convulsing, and Laurel rolled him to his side so he wouldn't choke. "Someone call an ambulance!"

The audience is backing away from the stage with gasps and whispered questions. For the first thirty seconds his choking, gargling sounds echoed in the room from the mic before someone finally cut the audio. Chase jumped onto the stage as well to make sure he didn't hurt himself while he seized as I called the ambulance.

–

Four hours after Omar collapsed, I'm in the hospital waiting room with Laurel and Chase. Both smell like vomit and had tried their best to clean it a little within an hour of arriving, but it was in their clothes. I'm sitting next to the Chase who is next to Laurel. The is stifling silent, until after several hours Laurel has had enough.

"I told him all weekend to get it looked at. He come down with something on Friday, and all of Saturday he was hugging the toilet bowl. Had to be the tough, stubborn man who doesn't need a hospital," Laurel says, seemingly because she can say I told you so but doesn't want to. She's not really mad, she's just venting.

"He could just be an undiagnosed epileptic. Food poisoning, who knows. He'll be fine though," Chase says to comfort her.

"We ate the same things. He's just too fucking proud sometimes," Laurel says. "You guys can go, salvage what you have left of the weekend."

"We'll make sure he's alright before we go anywhere," I say, and Laurel looks at me. "You don't need to be alone with this."

"Thanks," Laurel says with a smile.

A man who looks like a doctor – white coat, clip board - comes through the door and asks for Laurel. Laurel stands up and walks to him, Chase and I following.

"Mrs. Asfour?" he asks, and Laurel nods, and I see Chase look at Laurel with an inquisitive look. Are Laurel and Omar married?

"Yes," Laurel says, then looks at us. "You can talk in front of them."

"We don't know what this is. It's not food poisoning, it's not neurological, or epilepsy. We do know he's suffered multiple organ failure and hypovolemic shock. We've giving him fluid to treat the shock, but his body isn't absorbing it."

"Hypovolemic shock?" Laurel asks.

"There are too few fluids in his body. His kidneys have failed, so has his liver. Ma'am, he's likely not going to live through the night," the doctor says, and Laurel is frozen just trying to process that. She holds back tears, then fails at doing so.

"What can you do?" Laurel half asks and half cries.

"We don't know what it is. We've pumped his stomach, and he's on oxygen therapy, but right now, we can only make him comfortable," the doctor explains, taking a deep breath before saying, "I'm sorry."

Thirty-seven minutes later, Omar is pronounced dead. The doctor was kind enough to let Laurel stay in his office to cry away from the public, and Chase and I stay with her. When the doctor comes back to check, Laurel says she wants to see him, but the doctor advices against it.

"I want to see my fucking husband," Laurel says, and the doctor relents and prepares to take her to him. "You guys, go ahead and go."

"Laurel, I'm not going anywhere," Chase says, and she shakes her head.

"What the fuck you going to do to help right now?" Laurel asks. "He's already dead. Please, just...let me be alone with him."

"Chase," I say, grabbing his hand. He looks over his shoulder to me, and I squeeze his hand tighter. "We'll check in on her later."

"Okay," Chase says, looking at the ground and releasing a deep breath. "Get yourself checked though, in case whatever it is was contagious."

"I will," Laurel says, and they hug, Laurel crying into his shoulder, and I can now see a few tears escaping Chase's eyes and rolling down his cheeks. "When I know what it is, I'll let you know."

"Call us if you need anything. I will drop everything," Chase says, and I nod to agree with him. I barely know her, and I will.

I can tell it bothered Chase to leave, but it was clear she wanted to be alone. Whether or not she should be alone is another thing entirely, but there is nothing we can do. She'd probably feel worse if we stayed against her wishes.

When we arrive at the apartment, Chase drops his keys in the bowl and leaves to the bathroom immediately. I don't hear any normal bathroom sounds, only running water. He's likely washing his face, and I lean against the door frame and wait for him.

"Chase," I call to him, and the water stops. "You okay?" The door opens and he leans against the other side of the frame. "Talk to me."

"I just watched my friend fall into a pool of his own puke and die. Don't ask me if I'm okay," he says, and I don't speak or move at all. "I'm not okay."

"I'm sorry..."

"...and we left her alone to deal with it?" Chase asks and steps out of the bathroom and past me into the living room. "I'm going back."

"Chase, stop," I say, jogging toward the door to block his path.

"Move."

"No," I say firmly, putting my hand on his chest. "She needs space."

"She needs support...'

"...and that comes after she's had her space. I've only known her for a few hours, but does she ever cry in front of people?" I ask, and he stops. He knows I'm right. Laurel cries in private, and we need to let her do that.

Chase's hand is hovering over the key bowl, but he retracts his hand and it falls to his side.

"I smell like shit. I'm going to shower," Chase says, pivoting back toward the bathroom and shutting the door.

"Chase," I say, and hear the water start running in the shower. I jiggle the doorknob to open the door, but it's locked. I knock on the door loudly. "Chase, open the door." I pound on the door a moment later. "Chase!"

It doesn't open, so I storm to the bedroom and pull a loose hanger from his closet. I bend the top into a straight line as I walk back and use it to pop the lock on the bathroom door.

Chase is naked in the shower, facing the water with his head down, leaning forward with his hand on the wall for support. He's crying now and doesn't take any notice to my entrance.

"Chase. Talk to me," I say, and he sobs in the shower.

"What the fuck do I do?" Chase asks, looking at me, the water drizzling across his face and off his chin.

"I don't know. Right now, you need to accept you can't do anything," I say, and he looks again, and his body shakes from taking in a breath too fast.

I lean into the hall and toss the hanger away, before stepping to the shower fully clothed and hug him from behind. In seconds I am completely soaked, and I just hold him so he can cry.

–

Monday – March 9, 2026

-Midge Appletree-

I wipe off the mirror to look at myself. The shower fogged it up, but after a few swipes with my palm I can see my head to my shoulders. I've been told my entire life I am one cute boy. Strange, because last time I checked I had a vagina.