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LUCAS
This is what I needed. Cheap booze and plenty of it, and nobody telling me I’m fucking with my responsibilities by enjoying it. Nobody pretending to worry about me when what they’re really doing is judging me.
And that’s all it is. They can put any kind of spin on it they want. It’s all judgment. Thinking they’re better than me.
“Hey.” I lift my empty glass, signaling for another. How many has it been now? Four, five whiskeys? What’s the point of counting? “You might as well leave the bottle,” I tell the bartender, but he pretends to laugh it off like I was joking. The man doesn’t know me.
“Maybe you ought to slow down, buddy.”
He definitely does not know me. “Maybe you ought to pour me another drink and enjoy that I’m a good tipper.” He scoffs—then pours the damn drink. Because at the end of the day, we’re all driven by very simple needs. Money is right up there at the top.
There are others, as it turns out. I thought I was beyond them. Stronger than that, better. I used to despise the weakness of needing others. What was the use of needing people when they’d only screw you over at the first chance they got? I still believe that for the most part.
But I went and started needing people. And it turns out I’m the one who did the screwing over. Aspen was my chance to get something right for the first time in my wasted life. To prove I could do the right thing. To set an example and all that shit.
What did I do? I made her hate me. No. She loathes me. The look in her eyes, the anger and disappointment. She had every right to be angry. The sound of her disappointment resonates in my skull even now, bouncing around like a rubber ball, ensuring I don’t get a moment’s peace. The only thing she can trust me to do is keep things from her. Fuck, she hit it on the head.
I down the full glass without tasting what’s inside, relishing the burn. “Another.” The bartender pretends to ignore me, turning his attention to a couple of flannel-wearing guys at the other end of the scarred bar. “Hey. I’m talking to you.”
“Calm down.” The larger of the two men snickers. “Nobody is timing you to see how fast you can empty a bottle.” He then mutters something that sounds likefucking lush, and he and his friend have a snide laugh about it while looking my way.
Oh, this is good. This is better than I could’ve hoped for. I thought I’d have to do a little digging to find somebody willing to engage in a fight. That’s what I need. To drink until sanity is completely blotted out and to fight. To spill blood.
To ache. Fuck me, I want to hurt. Because that I can deal with. That I’ve managed countless times before. I can focus on the physical pain, at least once the physical pain is intense enough to block out everything else. There’s only so much self-recrimination a man can inflict when he can barely move for the damage.
It’s what I need and deserve for hurting or fucking over everyone who’s ever gotten close to me.
“You got something to say to me?” I swivel on the stool, smiling with my mouth alone. My eyes are a different story, I’m sure. I’ve watched men the size of the two of these assholes cringe when I don’t bother masking the darkness inside. “Why don’t you come over here and we can have a conversation? Or are you only man enough to make a snide remark when twenty feet of bar are between us?”
“He’s not worth it,” the smaller man insists, shaking his head at his friend before picking up his pint glass. “Everybody feels big and bad when they have enough liquor in them.”
“I’m big and bad when I’m dead sober,” I assure them both before slamming my glass against the bar to get the bartender’s attention. “But I’m also smart enough to watch who I insult.”
“Listen. We don’t need any trouble here.” The bartender holds up both hands in mock surrender. “Okay? But if you keep stirring up shit, I will have to ask you to leave.”
“I’m not trying to stir up trouble,” I lie smoothly, turning my smile in his direction. “I only want another drink, which, if I understand correctly, is something you serve here. I’m not sure why this song and dance bullshit has to be. Pour the whiskey.”
“These fucking outsiders,” the big guy grumbles, glaring at me. “Come into town thinking they can flash their cash around, act like assholes and get away with it. Sickening.”
“What’s sickening is hearing your fucking voice.” I jerk my chin toward the smaller guy. “Why don’t you shove your shriveled little dick in his mouth and shut him up? You’d be doing us all a favor.”
They both shove away from their stools. So do I, practically bursting with anticipation.
“That’s it. Out of here, all of you. I don’t want any fighting in my bar.” The bartender extends an arm, pointing at the door. “You wanna brawl like animals? Do it outside.”
“With pleasure.” I drop a stack of bills on the bar, more than enough to cover twice what I drank, then stroll outside and around the corner to a narrow alley between this building and the one beside it. The pavement is slick thanks to recent rain and the odor of garbage hanging heavy in the air.
Soon it will be the tang of blood filling the air. I intend to breathe deep.
“You made a big mistake, fuckface.” One of the men laughs behind me as they follow my progress. Let them laugh. They have no idea the damage I’m about to cause. I strip off my jacket and leave it lying across a plastic crate before cracking my knuckles and turning to face them.
There’s barely enough light to see, only a pair of bare bulbs mounted to the wall. It’s enough to give me a glimpse of their smug, self-assured grins. They believe the odds are in their favor, two against one. Maybe if they were fighting an ordinary man, they’d be right.
“Let’s see you back up that smart mouth of yours,” the smaller of the men mutters with a sneer, elbowing his friend. “He can barely stand up straight.”
Yet when the larger man strikes first, I block his swing easily before delivering a sharp jab to his ribs, leaving him bent over, gasping for air. “Broke my fucking ribs!” he groans. His buddy charges forward, and I give him a smooth uppercut. He recovers quickly after staggering backward but isn’t as quick to charge me again.
“Aw, ladies,” I mock, shaking my head slowly. “And I thought you wanted to fight. I didn’t know you were in the mood for a make-out session in a dark alley.”
