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“Tits and a pussy,” Mitch replied, laughing as he nudged the woman.
Michael glared at him. His brother seemed off, though he could always be crude. He didn’t say anything and started down the hall toward his room. There was a time he would’ve thought that was hilarious, but for some reason, it struck a nerve with him.
“Oh, come on Mikey! Lighten up!”
Turning on his heel, he grabbed Mitch’s truck keys from the table. “I’m gonna borrow your truck for a bit. By the looks of things, you’re not quite finished with her.”
“You’re different, Mikey.”
He went to open the door, stopping at his brother’s comment. Glancing over his shoulder, he despised the woman watching on like this was a reality TV show. “Being sent away to prison does that to a man.” He exited the house for a second time that evening, clutching the truck keys in his palm with no destination in mind. He just couldn’t be there at that moment. He had to get far away from his brother for a while.
Chapter Eight
Michael wasn’t sure where he was going. He didn’t want to be there with his brother and his latest booty call, so he just drove. One of his parole requirements was to not leave the county, so he made sure not to do that. He figured one small mistake would land him back behind bars, and that was the last place he wanted to be. He thought about his parole – 8:30. It was close to that time, so he had to keep an eye on that as well.
Slowing the truck in front of a bar, he read the neon sign – Duly’s grill, where he and Marilyn used to spend most of their time when they weren’t home doing things behind closed doors.
He could taste the whiskey on his tongue – velvety, smooth, burning down his throat into his chest and down to his stomach. His saliva glands kicked in. It would taste so good. It would numb everything. It had been years since he had a good drink. Prison hooch didn’t count. Turning into the parking lot, he slowed the pickup down until he found an empty parking spot, pulling in and turning the engine off.
One sip. Only with him, one sip turned into twenty, and before he knew it, he’d wake up in a holding cell with his parole officer staring down at him. He couldn’t do it. It wouldn’t be worth it. And now he had a potential kid who was depending on him. He had to stay out and fight for him – Marilyn obviously hadn’t changed, and he could only imagine the man she was now married to.
Sliding his cell phone from his pants, he felt Haize’s note underneath and pulled it out. Her handwriting flashed up at him – simply her phone number scribbled on the colored piece of paper, warning him that just sitting in the parking lot was a horrible decision putting him far too close to a bad choice that would make his world tumble down around him again.
Would it be weird to call her? She mentioned having a sponsor more than once. Many people at the meetings mentioned it – it was a normal thing, apparently, but he still questioned if he should. It was getting late. He didn’t want to wake her up or inconvenience her.
Glancing up at the bar, he watched two women leave with a guy, skirts so short they might as well have not been wearing anything. He remembered that crowd – used to enjoy that crowd, and now it made him cringe. The thought of what his brother was doing back at the house made him cringe. And before he went off to prison, that was the life he was living.
He typed her number into the phone, making sure he had the correct digits. Screw it. He was going to call because waking up someone who would help him get away from the bar was far better than getting his parole revoked.
The other line rang for a few, and he heard a click. “Hello?”
Hearing her voice calmed him, though he hadn’t left the parking lot yet. “I didn’t wake you, did I?”
“No. Gosh, no. Can I ask who this is?”
He felt his face heat up. Of course, she didn’t know who he was. He hadn’t given her his number. “It’s Michael Brennan. From the meetings.”
“Oh, yeah. Hey, Michael. Is everything okay?”
He raked his hand through his hair and considered how much he should tell her. As he had been told multiple times in the last few weeks, therapy wouldn’t work unless he was open and honest about things.
“No. It’s not. And I feel bad for calling you so late about it.”
“I’m a night owl. It’s fine. Let’s meet at the diner off the main road. I’m not sure where you’re at, but it sounds like you need to get away from it and it’s the only 24-hour place in town that doesn’t serve alcohol.”
“I’ll see you there in a few.” He ended the call and placed the phone in his brother’s cupholder. Funny how Mitch wasn’t the least bit concerned about where he was. That’s what happened when he thought with the wrong head. A woman was far more important than his parolee brother.
He pulled into the front parking spot and waited. A small, silver sedan parked not long after and Haize stepped out, her hair in a loose ponytail, wearing black leggings and an oversized sweater. She looked different than at the meetings – more casual, no makeup, and Michael eased when he made eye contact with her.
Nodding toward the door, he followed her inside and they grabbed a corner booth, both ordering coffees and nothing else. He took his baseball cap off and set it on the seat beside him.
“I really am sorry for getting you out so late.”
“Stop apologizing, Michael. This is what I do. I help people, and though I’m not formally your sponsor, I would never turn someone down who needs something.” The server brought their coffee, and she took a sip before adding a cube of sugar. “So, tell me what’s going on, Michael.”
“You can call me Mikey.” Michael felt so formal. He took a breath and sipped his coffee. It was bitter and strong, and would probably hinder his sleep, should he ever be able to go home for the night. “I’m staying with my brother. They accepted the address so I wouldn’t have to go to a halfway house.”
“That’s good. Those places set you up for immediate failure.”
