Page 20 of Connor

I pulled out onto the road, my pulse hammering a steady rhythm in my ears. I didn’t need to think about where I was going. My body already knew the way. Muscle memory took over, guiding me through the streets, past the glowing neon of liquor stores and gas stations, past the familiar turns I’d taken too many times.

It didn’t take long before I reached the bar.

I parked in the same spot as always, the one near the flickering streetlight, the one that made it easy to get in and out without thinking too hard. My hands flexed around the wheel once before I let go.

The moment I stepped inside, the weight in my chest loosened just a little. It smelled like smoke and beer, the low murmur of conversation broken up by the occasional laugh or clink of glass. The jukebox in the corner hummed with a song I didn’t recognize, something slow and aching.

I walked to the bar without hesitation and Frank, the bartender, barely looked up when I sat down.

He was already reaching for a glass, already pouring me a drink before I had the chance to ask. He knew better. I knew I didn’t come here for the company, and I didn’t come here to talk.

The amber liquid hit the bottom of the glass, smooth and familiar, and he slid it across the counter with a practiced ease.

“Rough night?” he asked, voice gravelly.

I scoffed, picking up the glass. “Aren’t they all?”

Frank let out a quiet grunt, wiping down the counter with slow, methodical movements. He’d been working at this bar longer than I’d been of legal age to drink in it, long enough to know when to pry and when to leave things the fuck alone.

I tossed back the first sip, feeling the burn slide down my throat, hot and numbing. It settled in my stomach, pooling there like lead. I wanted more. Needed more.

Frank said nothing when I drained the rest in one swallow and nudged the glass forward.

He just poured me another.

And another.

By the time I was three drinks in, the noise of the bar faded into background static, the heat in my chest spreading, taking the edge off. It wasn’t enough. It was never fucking enough.

I let my head tip forward slightly, the cool rim of the glass pressing against my lips.

The memories still clung to me.

Summer’s voice. Summer’s touch. The way she looked at me the night she walked out of my apartment, eyes glassy, fingers trembling. The way I didn’t stop her. The way I should have.

The way I fucking couldn’t.

“Slow down, kid,” Frank muttered, eyes flicking to me. “Drinking like that won’t fix whatever’s got you looking like hell.”

I laughed, humorless. “Who said I’m trying to fix anything?”

“Suit yourself.” But he didn’t pour me another.

Not yet.

The barstool beside me scraped against the floor, and I barely glanced up as someone slid into the seat next to mine.

A woman. Red hair. Dressed to be noticed.

She drummed her nails against the counter, then glanced at me with a small smile. “You look like you could use a distraction.”

I let out a slow breath, tilting my glass toward her in a lazy acknowledgment. “You offering?”

Her face brightened, her eyes flicking over me like she was making a decision. Then she lifted her fingers and signaled Frank for a drink.

I watched her, detached. I should have been into this. Should have taken her up on whatever she was hinting at. It would have been easy. Just another night, just another warm body, just another way to forget.

But as she leaned closer, as her perfume wrapped around me, something in my chest twisted. I glanced at her. "Depends. You looking for conversation or something stronger?"

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