“The corner of Marcia and Trate,” I request to the cab driver when I dive into the backseat.
Hugo charges out the hotel’s double glass doors just as the taxi pulls away from the curb.
“Did you want me to stop?” queries the taxi driver, his dark eyes peering at me in the rearview mirror.
Wiping my hand under my nose, I shake my head. My heart hammers against my ribs, no doubt matching Hugo’s as he chases the taxi half way down the street and around the corner. Only once his frame becomes nothing but a blur in the distance do I allow my first tears to fall.
Twenty-Two
Hugo
“I’m sorry, Sir. This bar has a very strict policy on limiting the drinks of intoxicated patrons.”
“Are you kidding me?” I retort, standing from the wooden bar stool my half-drunk ass is precariously sitting on. “I’m not even close to drunk.”
The hiccup sounding from my mouth douses the strength of my statement, and don’t even get me started on my inability to stand straight. After guzzling enough whiskey to make most men slip into an alcohol-induced coma, my body is only just registering a warm buzz. Since alcohol was the only thing supporting me through the debacle of my life the past year, it takes me a lot to get drunk.
“Give him the bottle,” says a raspy voice to my side.
Turning my eyes, I spot Isaac standing in the middle of the out-of-date bar I’m drowning my sorrows in. His hand rests on the middle button of his suit jacket as his eyes glare at the bartender.
“If I'm required to voice my request again, I won’t use words the second time around,” he warns, ambling closer to the bar.
The bartender’s eyes shift between Isaac and me before he leaves the half-empty bottle of whiskey on the counter and moves to stand at the far end of the bar.
“Good choice,” Isaac mutters, removing his black suit jacket and slinging it over the countertop.
“Is this one of your clubs?” I ask, my words slurred as the alcohol I’ve been downing seeps into my veins.
A chuckle escapes my mouth when Isaac shakes his head.
“Then what are you doing here?” I query, pouring myself a generous serving of scotch.
He doesn’t answer my question. He just sits quietly in the vacant stool next to me and turns his eyes down to my busted knuckles.
Once his silence becomes too much for me to bear, I ask, “Wanna play a game?”
Isaac’s brow etches high on his face, seemingly unimpressed by my suggestion.
“Come on. You want me to be your right hand man, don’t you?” I slur.
A smirk carves on Isaac’s mouth before he curtly nods.
“Well the right hand can’t operate without knowing what’s going on with the left hand,” I say, my loud voice rumbling in the eerie quietness of the bar.
After a beat, Isaac asks, “What type of game?”
I nearly vault out of my chair, shocked he finally spoke.
“Twenty questions,” I reply, grinning.
Isaac’s furious growl makes the bartender’s thighs quake.
“Not your standard school yard game. Let’s up the ante.”
“I’m listening,” Isaac interrupts, his tone stern.
“Every time one of us shares somethingshocking, we have to take a drink of whiskey.”
