Page 19 of Little Sunshine

I was already going to be frantically scrambling to make rent in time. I didn’t need to speed up the eviction process with complaints.

No.

Screw this.

I’m not letting her drown me to keep herself afloat.

My mother or not, it was time to start pushing back.

I just had to find her first.

Riled up on peanut butter indignation, I stormed out of my apartment and onto a bus. I took it across the city, waiting for my anger to fade as time passed.

It didn’t.

It grew with each seedy bar I’d had to enter searching for my mother. All I’d learned was that she hadn’t been to her usual haunts.

Oh, and some of her old drinking pals already had the mother but were happy to try out the daughter, too.

Barf.

Beyond barf.

I should’ve gone home. My time and effort would’ve been better spent searching for another job rather than my deadbeat mother.

It wasn’t like I was going to accomplish anything by finding her. She wasn’t going to pull me into a hug before groveling at my feet for forgiveness. I had a snowball’s chance in a Vegas heat wave of getting anything from dear ole Roni.

I knew that, but I was too pissed to think rationally. And the longer I searched, the more that anger festered and grew.

Because it was the principle of the matter.

The stench of stale beer and cigarettes filled the air as I neared a bar Veronica used to love. It’d been her favorite place—unless she got behind on her tab.

I remembered having to come drag her home when she was too wasted to walk the few blocks to our apartment alone.

I’d been six or so.

Instead of doing the smart thing, I did the stubborn one. I steeled my back and tried not to touch more of the sticky door than was necessary as I pushed inside.

It’d been a long time since I’d been there, but nothing had changed. And that wasn’t a compliment. The interior looked even worse than the outside—something I hadn’t thought possible.

As I approached the corner of the bar, the two bartenders spoke to each other quickly. The man continued filling glasses from the taps while the woman headed my way. Her brows were lowered—not hostile but definitely curious. Before she reached me, a surly, older man moved in front of her. He, on the other hand, looked outright intimidating as he glared at me.

“Get out.”

My eyes widened. “What?”

“Ya heard me. We don’t need whatever trouble you’re about to bring, so just do us both a favor. Go.”

“I’m looking for?—”

“Don’t care if you’re looking for a score, a date, or the mystical chupacabra. You ain’t finding it here.”

I bristled at the insinuations he made, but I focused on what was important. “I’m looking for Veronica Rogers.”

That got a reaction.

The male bartender’s gaze shot to me as he continued to pour a dark beer until it overflowed. He cursed and shook off his hand before dumping the glass that was mostly foam.

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