Page 10 of Endurance

"Who is that?" I whispered to myself, her gravity pulling me until I was locked in. Everything around me seemed to disappear, and all sounds fell away until I could only focus on her. Gone was the boardwalk, the loud chatter of people, and the music from the jukebox—it was only me, the white sand, and my rainbow mermaid. She alluded grace and confidence, the sensual sway of her hips so fluid it was as if she were still moving in the water and not on land.

She looked up and seemed to catch my eye. Before I could think to wave or motion her over, she disappeared—gone, poof—as if she were no more than a mirage. The world came rushing back into focus. I blinked, then scanned the beach, wondering if I'd only imagined her.

Johnny appeared to set a new Solo cup and a can of Coors Light in front of me, then began pouring a shot of Jack Daniels. Turning my attention away from the beach, I looked at him.

"Did you see that woman?" I asked.

"Working here, I see a lot of women," Johnny said with a laugh.

"No, I mean the woman with the rainbow hair out on the beach. Bikini, all curves, walked like she was floating on air. She was like a… I don't know… a mermaid or something."

"A floating mermaid? I've seen many things in my years, but I ain't never seen a floating mermaid. You're seeing things, my man. Are you sure you can handle another shot of whiskey with this beer?"

Pursing my lips into a frown, I nodded.

"Yeah, give me the shot. I wouldn't be able to drink this piss you're serving any other way."

Johnny chuckled.

"Owner was trying to cut expenses, and the regulars aren't too happy. I'll be sure to pass on your complaints," he said as he poured the beer into the cup, then dropped in the shot of whiskey. "You take it easy now. I'll save a cabana for you, but you need to use your own two legs to get there. I don't care how famous you are, Atwood. I ain't goin' to carry your ass out there."

The sound of a hand slapping down hard on the top of the bar caused Johnny to startle. Both of us turned in the direction of the noise.

"I knew it was you!" said a man three stools down. He thumbed in the direction of a beefy man sitting beside him. "I just said to my friend, 'Hey, that's Sloan Atwood!' He didn't believe me, but sure as shit, I was right!"

I gave the two men a short, two-finger wave, then turned back to my drink.

"So what? I don't fucking care if it's Sloan Atwood," the beefy guy said.

"Dude, he was a god behind the wheel! Do you know how many championships he won?"

I tried to tune them out, not wanting to listen to their critique of my racing abilities as if I weren't sitting right there. Picking up my beer, I chugged it back, taking three long swigs until the cup was empty. Since my anonymity was now lost, it was time for me to pay my tab and leave.

Reaching into my pocket, I fished out my wallet and removed a one-hundred-dollar bill. Motioning with my chin, I signaled to Johnny, my sole focus being anything other than the discussion the two men were having about me.

"I'll ah… I'll take that cabana now," I said.

"Really? It's early, man."

"Yeah, well…" I trailed off when I realized I wasn't able to focus on the bartender's face. Everything was foggy, and the room seemed to tilt. "I just gotta get out of here, Johnny."

Moving to stand up, I swayed and grabbed the edge of the bar to steady myself. I knew I was feeling pretty good, but my struggle to stay upright made me realize I was drunker than I'd initially thought.

"See what I'm saying? Just look at him," the man down the bar prattled on. "Atwood ain't no Tony Stewart. He's a washed-up has-been."

Slowly, I turned my head to look at man number two and gave myself a moment to focus. My initial impression was that he was beefy, but that implied muscular and powerful. This guy was anything but. He was overweight and out of shape, trying to hide his gut by puffing out his chest like a goddamned neanderthal.

"Who the fuck are you calling a has-been?" I challenged.

"Atwood," Johnny warned.

I ignored him and took a few unsteady steps toward the fat asshole. He stood up from his stool and glared at me.

"I'm talking about you, Atwood. You have a problem with that? It's a shame, really. You're not even thirty years old yet."

"Shut the fuck up," I snarled.

"Aww, poor baby. What's the matter?" he said in a cooing, mocking tone. "Don't like hearing you're all washed up?"

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