Page 8 of Ryder
The prospect came over.
“Hey, Ryder, what can I get ya?” I dragged a hand through my dark hair and leaned against the bar.
“Vodka.” He nodded, grabbing a glass, and pouring.
“Anything with it?”
I shook my head, reaching for the glass as he approached.
“Thanks, Tommy.” I gulped most of it down in a few large mouthfuls, while he stared at me.
“Jesus, you okay?”
I nodded morosely, and he took the hint, moving away from me.
“Thought I told you to rest up,” Reacher growled from behind me.
“Tried that,” I mumbled, sipping the last of the vodka. It was burning its way through me, slowly lifting my spirits a little.
“Another,” I barked at the prospect, and he started to approach, but Reacher stepped up to the bar, and waved him away.
“This isn’t the answer, brother,” he was speaking quietly, but he might as well have yelled, because that was how it felt.
“Stop telling me what I should do. You don’t know. You don’t know what this is like.”
He glanced at Tommy. “Get some coffee on, kid.”
“I don’t want any fucking coffee,” I snapped, pushing away from the bar. Reacher caught my arm, just before I fell over the damn stool.
“Prospect, get some fucking food for him. Stupid bastard hasn’t eaten, and he’s drinking on top of whatever the fuck he was on last night.”
“Fucking let go!” I yelled, staggering back when he did just that. I crashed into the bar, and slid down, landing on my ass.
“Better? I assume that’s what you were aiming for?” Reacher crouched down, a frown on his face.
“Listen, I know I don’t know what you’re going through. Even you don’t, not really. But I want you to let us get some food into you, because you’re a mess right now. You don’t eat, and you’re gonna be puking again, and you know how the prospects hate cleaning it up.”
I stared at him, my eyes burning with god only knows what.
“I saw things… when I tried to sleep.”
His eyes widened. “Like?”
“We have some burgers I could whip up for him,” the prospect interrupted, reminding us that this wasn’t the place for this discussion.
Reacher nodded. “Good idea, kid. Bring it to the lounge area. We’re gonna sit and get this one’s head straight.”
He disappeared again, and I let Reacher pull me to my feet, leading me to the corner, which we called the lounge, because it had a bunch of sofas set in a square with a table in between.
He sent a text as soon as he’d taken his seat, and I groaned as I saw Stitch appear from somewhere.
“You didn’t need to call him too,” I moaned, my face in my hands.
“Club business is club business, brother.”
Stitch sat down, glancing at both of us curiously, while I watched him through my hands.
“Getting flashbacks,” Reacher muttered, jerking his chin in my direction.
