Page 9 of A False Start
“I love that. He’s a pretty boy.” She smiles softly at me, and I nod before she turns toward the house. I follow her up onto the deck as she pulls the keys out and swings the door open to a consistent beeping noise. “Security system,” she says over her shoulder. “The code is 6969.”
She types the numbers in, and sure enough, the beeping stops, and she spins around to say something, but must catch the expression on my face. “What? Are you going to tell me there’s an easier number to remember?”
I already miss the solitude of the mountains.
* * *
Ruby Creek issmall as fuck—one main street and one town bar. I push through the heavy front door at Neighbor’s Pub. I know I shouldn’t be here, but I keep coming back. Like a glutton for punishment, I do this every damn time.
It doesn’t matter if I’m coming to see my mom and dad, visiting Stefan—my only friend—or getting something done at the vet clinic. I always force myself through the front door of this establishment. No matter how it turns my stomach.
Sliding onto a stool with a quiet sigh, my eyes catch on the wall full of liquor behind the bar. All the shapes of the bottles, the colors on the labels, all the dark memories, or complete lack thereof, at the bottom.
“What can I get ya?” A coaster slides across the bar and lands in front of me as I glimpse up into the slightly upturned blue eyes of the bartender. Her dyed black hair lays poker straight over her shoulders, framing her huge tits that sit like she’s trying to push them up to her chin over the neckline of her tank top. I almost want to ask her if it hurts because I’m genuinely curious.
“Bourbon. Neat.”
“A man after my own taste.” She throws a wink over her shoulder and arches her back unnecessarily as she reaches up to the top shelf and pulls down something expensive rather than the Wild Turkey sitting in the well. “Upgrade is on me, doll. Not every day we get a future Hall of Famer in here.”
Excellent. Someone who recognizes me still.
She pours the amber liquid into a single shot glass before dumping it into a tumbler, licking her lips as she places it on the coaster.
There was a time where I’d have slammed the drink back and offered to take her out back. I got off on people swooning over Griffin Sinclaire, quarterback extraordinaire, the small-town boy who made it to the big show. I’d say something rude, likeI’ll fuck your cunt so hard you’ll be walking bow-legged for daysand she’d giggle as if she just won the lottery.And so long as I hadn’t had too many drinks, I’d usually follow through on that promise. Never had any complaints in that department except that I never stuck around. Plenty of complaints about that. But I always moved on. To the next city. The next game. The next Superbowl. Because I wanted more than the two that I already had. I was greedy, and keen, and lived to win big, fuck hard, and party wild.
But these days I feelold.I feel a little used up. I suppose that’s what becoming a functioning alcoholic in your twenties does to you.
I raise the glass with a silent nod as a way of thanking her. And hopefully dismissing her. I really don’t need to fuck the twenty-something bartender on my first night in town. I haven’t spent the past six years living on my remote property, trying to find some sort of purity among the filth in my brain, to give in just because she’s got a great rack.
She smiles curiously and strolls away, swinging her hips like a pendulum. But I barely notice. I’m too busy staring down into the glass. Rolling it between my hands and watching the way the syrupy liquid splashes against the sides before slowly dripping back down.
I can still taste it if I close my eyes and let myself go. The malty flavor, the texture of it in my mouth, the pleasant warm burn as it slides down my throat. Sometimes I wonder if I liked the act of drinking more than the taste. But when it’s close enough to smell like it is right now, I know that’s not true.
For me, alcohol is addictive. The taste, the smell, the act, the way it made me feel like a fucking king.
I used to miss it. But I don’t anymore.
“You moving back into town?”
The bartender is back, pulling my attention from the alcohol in my hand.
“Sorta.” I don’t even look up. I hate when people recognize me now. I used to love it. Used to take pride in locals patting me on the back and telling me they cheer me on every Sunday.
It only made my downfall that much more humiliating.
“Where are you staying?” She picks up a rag, polishing an already perfectly clean spot on the bar just so that she can lean over in front of me. There’s nothing subtle about this girl. And I remember being an age where I thought that was sexy.
I don’t think I’m that age anymore.
“Gold Rush,” is all I say. Because everyone is going to find out, and everyone here knows what that is, and I hate the way two R words in a row twist my tongue up.
“Fancy,” she says, smiling. And I admit to myself that she’s quite lovely while also acknowledging that it makes no difference to me. That’s not why I’m here tonight.
I’m here to torture myself, not enjoy myself.
So, I offer her a wry twist of my lips before ducking my head and hiding behind the brim of my hat again.
I do this every time I’m in town. I walk into my old stomping grounds, Neighbor’s Pub, order a bourbon, and sit at the bar. Staring at it like it’s a living, breathing nemesis. I let myself remember what it tasted like as I run my tongue across my teeth like it’s actually in my mouth.
