He shakes his head, shaking away my concern.
“I’m fine, Pax. Just stressed about some big cases that I’m handling. How are you doing? Are you pulling things together?”
“You mean, am I still using?” I stare at him harshly. I mean, fuck. If you have a question, just ask it. Don’t beat around the bush. Dad nods, tired again.
“Fine. Yes. Are you still using?” He asks the question haltingly, as if the words taste bitter in his mouth. And he doesn’t really want to know the answer, I can tell. He thinks I’m a fucking addict who can’t quit.
It’s fucking annoying.
“No, I haven’t used,” I tell him, rolling my eyes. “I said I wasn’t going to and I’m not. Not the hard shit, anyway. I’m not an addict, dad. Seriously. I use it because I like it. Not because I have to.”
My father stares at me with his best hardened attorney gaze.
“That might be so,” he tells me. “But eventually, when a person keeps using, they become addicted. You’re pushing it.”
“Whatever, dad,” I sigh, pushing away from his desk and standing up. “It’s been good to see you. I’ll see you next quarter.”
I stalk out, away from his disapproving stare and his doubts. What he doesn’t understand is that if you constantly expect the worst from someone, that’s probably what you’re going to get. He should have learned that by now. I’ve certainly shown him time and time again.
I am headed back toward the Skyway when I decide to take a quick detour, into a seedy little bar that I know of. I’ve had to stop there numerous times after heated visits with the old man. The bartender knows me and calls out a greeting when I enter. I never can remember his name. Dave? Dan?
I make my way across the dingy room, glancing around at the split vinyl seats and dark walls. This place hasn’t changed. It still has a hole in the paneling back by the pool table where somebody punched it and it still smells like piss and old grease. It’s not what you would call upscale, but it’s perfect for drinking away a bad mood.
I nod at the bartender.
“I’ll have a Jack.”
The bartender nods back and fills a tumbler with the dark golden liquid, sliding it towards me. It sloshes a bit onto the bar, but he’s not concerned. Cleanliness isn’t exactly his highest priority. You can tell that by his stained shirt and greasy hair. But that doesn’t bother me. The whiskey will taste the same regardless of the bartender’s personal hygiene habits.
Before he can attempt to talk with me, he’s distracted by another customer, a dirty old man who is clearly far too drunk. I watch with interest as the bartender tries to cut him off, then just gives up and pours him another drink.
“Hey, big fella. I’m Amber.”
I stare down at the big-busted woman who has just slid up to me. She’s got bar whore written all over her, from her extremely tight jeans that exhibit camel toe to her garish overly done makeup. Her tits are practically busting out of her top because it’s three sizes too small.
I cock an eyebrow and take a gulp of whiskey.
“Big fella? The 1940’s called. They want their phrase back.”
Amber throws her bleached blonde head back and laughs as though it is the funniest thing she’s ever heard.
“I’m from Iowa. I guess we still talk that way back home.”
“Charming.” I knock back the rest of my drink and motion for another. I look at Amber. “Would you like one?”
I figure it’s the polite thing to do, even though I’m not much in the mood for company. She nods.
“I’d love one.” She looks up at the bartender. “Dan, can you make it two?”
Dan the bartender. I’ve got to remember that.
But I’m sure I won’t.
Amber slides her hand up my thigh. “Thanks for the drink. But if you don’t want me to call you big fella, you’ve got to tell me your name.”
I eye her, at the way her eyes are already dilated because she’s already had a few too many. “Do I?”
She examines me for a moment, before she laughs. It’s a slutty laugh. A fake one. I almost shudder, but don’t. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. This is an easy woman who is mine for the taking. If I wanted to take her, that is, but I find that I really don’t. And I think I do know what’s wrong with me.
Mila Hill is in my head, wholesome and sweet. But I’ll be fucking damned if I let her invade my life when she doesn’t even want me in the first place.
I knock back my glass of Jack and signal for one more. I knock that one back too.
A comforting sense of calm descends upon me, the familiar numbness that I love so much. When all else fails, the obscurity prevails. I almost laugh at my deep thinking, but instead, I reach over and grasp Amber’s thick thigh, enjoying the fleshy feel of her leg in my fingers. If this chick wants me, she can have me.