Page 1 of Queen of Ruin

1

DIEGO

“You can’t take that with you, Hank. Hank, give me the glass.”

The glass in question tips to one side and slips in Hank’s fingertips, but he manages to retain enough of his grip for me to get there, rescue the glass, and set it down on the bar.

“What glass?” Hank asks, his words slurring ever so slightly. “I ain’t got no glass.”

“Hank, are you sure I can’t call you a cab?”

“I’m fine.” He brushes me off with a wave of his hand, patting my chest in the process, and then he turns for the door. “I’m fiiiine.”

Doubt clings to every one of his words until Francis appears at my elbow with a warm smile.

“Don’t worry, Diego,” Francis says, bumping shoulders with me as she passes. “I’ll get him home safe.”

“You do that. Goodnight, Francis. Goodnight, Hank!”

Despite already being halfway out the door, Hank raises one wrinkled hand and waves at me in the best direction he can guess. Francis sweeps under his raised arm and winds her arm around his waist, then together they head off down the dark street and disappear into the night.

The world falls quiet and the doors of ‘The Crown’ close and lock softly with a click of my key. I should have closed hours ago, but like every Thursday night, my old regulars who spill in from bowling have a particular look about them that keeps me open an extra hour just to listen to their golden stories.

Life several decades ago sounds so much easier than it is now. Cheaper too.

Will I have the same stories to tell forty years down the line when I’m the one stumbling home after too many beers?

That’s the dream.

A light, cool breeze rushes across the quiet street while I hurry down the sidewalk and around the corner to where I parked my car hours before my shift. With no one at home waiting for me, the only urgent reason to get home is exhaustion. I’ve worked flat out this week and there’s a takeout menu and a beer in my fridge calling my name.

A simple, honest plan of drink, food, and bed.

A plan disturbed the moment my car comes into view and my phone vibrates to life in the back pocket of my jeans.

Who the fuck is calling me at three in the morning?

Tech’s name flashes up on the screen and my heart sinks ever so slightly. We haven’t talked in weeks, which means he’s either on something or he wants something.

Against my better judgment, I answer.

“Ello?”

“Diegooooo!” Tech yells my name loudly, and I jerk my head away from the speaker.

“What do you want, Tech?”

“What, no words of love? No excitement? C’mon, my guy. You’re awake and I’m awake. Isn’t this perfect fucking timing?”

“I’m awake,” I reply, glancing up and down the street and then lightly jogging to my car. “Because I have a job. I work. I earn money, pay taxes. The usual shit, Tech.”

“Boring shit,” he remarks. “Listen. Listen. I got a proposition for you.”

“I’m not interested.”

“Bullshit. If you weren’t, you wouldn’t have answered the phone.”

“Politeness doesn’t equate to interest, dickhead.”