Page 1 of Beckon

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CHANDLER

Chandler didn’t duck,didn’t try to avoid the hit in any way, shape, or form. Instead, he stared at the raised fist and smiled. He wanted the pain, and if he was lucky, the sweet oblivion that would follow. That was if Tate hadn’t launched himself in the line of fire and taken the hit intended for him.

Throwing up his hands in frustration, Chandler turned back toward the bar. After taking up residence in his previous seat, he ordered a double. He’d have to find silence another way.

“Goddamn it, Benson.” Tate dropped onto the stool next to him, rubbing his jaw. “You can be a real asshole sometimes.”

“Me? I don’t remember asking foryouto play white knight.” Chandler threw back his drink and motioned for another. The burn wasn’t painful enough and the alcohol was slower than a hit to the head would’ve been. “And don’t call me that. I’m not that, not anymore.”

“What the hell are you talking about? Your last name hasn’t changed. Not that I’m aware of.”

His friend was being intentionally obstinate. “You know what I mean. You imply a rank that doesn’t apply. Not anymore.” Chandler finished the next drink too, but he was still fully aware of both past and present. He slapped a one-hundred-dollar bill on the bar top and grabbed the bottle from the bartender.

The man glared at him before leaning in and slipping the bill right into his pocket. “I could get into trouble for that, so do me a favor, don’t flaunt it by drinking straight from the bottle, use a glass.” He placed a new one next to the bottle on the bar. Chandler saw the plea in his eyes, so he complied. There was no reason to contribute to anyone else having a shit night.

“You’re not making any sense, Chandler. You haven’t for a bit now. What gives?”

If only Tate knew.

“I’m not implyinganything, but it’s hard to turn off learned behavior, you know. I’ve called you that for years, now suddenly you take issue with it. Forgive me if I don’t get it.”

Tate was right. He, of all people, understood how hard it was to let go of shit. Sadly, that didn’t make it any easier to accept. Knowing and doing were not the same thing. That was another lesson he’d learned long ago.

Another shot went down smoothly, more like three before his friend spoke again.

“I’m worried about you, man.” Tate clapped him on the back and let his touch linger. It wasn’t that Chandler was opposed to human touch, he craved it as much as anyone did. It was how dirty he felt accepting it. Like he didn’t deserve comfort or basic human kindness. When Tate didn’t end the connection, Chandler shifted enough to slip his friend’s hand from his shoulder.

Instantly, he felt a loss. Tate was the only friend who still cared about him. Everyone else was either dead or had written him off. He couldn’t blame them; he was a self-proclaimed lost cause. His demons didn’t just live rent-free in his head, they danced with his soul at an endless ball.

One, he’d hand-carved their invitation to it, no less.

As always, that path down memory lane led to a dark place. One he wasn’t nearly drunk enough to visit.

“Well, don’t. I’m fine.” He followed that statement by filling his glass, then not coming up for air until he could see his reflection in the mirror behind the bar through the empty bottom of it. It was not a sight he could stomach.

There was blood.

So much blood.

Some his, some the enemies, some belonging to his own team, but it was the blood of the innocent that stained the deepest shade of red. No matter how much time passed or how much he scrubbed, the blood never washed off.

“You’re not fine. You haven’t been fine for a long damn time. I thought… I thought things were finally good, with you I mean, but then a month ago you just went off the rails.” Tate finished his beer and tossed some bills down. There was an anger he hadn’t heard from his friend before. It wasn’t at all unexpected, hell, Tate had lasted longer than anyone else had.

Everyone gave up. It’s what they did. They either died or walked off. Either way, they all left sooner or later. And he wouldn’t beg them to stay. If he could walk away from himself, he would too.

Tate stood next to him expectantly. Chandler refused to look at him, instead he poured another two fingers of whiskey and downed it. It wasn’t that he didn’t give a shit his best friend was done with him, it was that look he knew was in his eyes. The look that caused him more pain than he cared to admit.

There was more than one war going on inside him. One was his head screaming to not let Tate walk away. That voice was growing quieter with every second that passed. But Chandler hadn’t drunk enough to completely silence it. The whispers were still there telling him to talk to someone and Tate was his last friend.

If he let him walk away now, he would finally spiral down into the darkness.

That voice could shove it.

That voice was hope and Chandler Wayne Benson was hopeless. The sooner he accepted that truth and stopped clinging to slivers, the sooner the darkness could embrace him. It was the reaching for the light that was painful and loud, but the darkness was numbing silence.

“Shit, man. You’re not even going to look at me?” And there it was, the pain he’d caused yet another person. He didn’t need to see it; he could hear it. Feel it.

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