Walking Disaster (Beautiful Disaster #2)

Just as the anger welled up within me, America pulled on the emergency brake. “We’re here.”


The soft glow of Ugly Fixer Liquor’s sign lit the entrance. America was my shadow down aisle three. It only took me a moment to find what I was looking for. The only bottle that would do for a night like tonight: Jim Beam.

“You sure you wanna go there?” America asked, her voice tinged with warning. “You do have a surprise birthday party to set up tomorrow.”

“I’m sure,” I said, taking the bottle to the counter.

The second my ass hit the passenger seat of the Charger, I twisted the cap and took a swig, leaning my head back against the headrest.

America watched me for a moment, and then shoved the gear into reverse. “This is going to be fun, I can tell.”

By the time we reached the apartment, I’d drunk the whiskey in the neck of the bottle, and made headway at the top.

“You didn’t,” Shepley said, spotting the bottle.

“I did,” I said, taking another swig. “You want some?” I asked, pointing the glass mouth in his direction.

Shepley made a face. “God no. I need to stay sober so I can react fast enough when you go all Travis-on-Jim-Beam on Parker later.”

“No, he won’t,” America said. “He promised.”

“I did,” I said with a smile, already feeling better. “I promised.”

The next hour Shepley and America did their best to keep my mind off things. Mr. Beam did his best to keep me numb. Halfway into hour two, Shepley’s words seemed slower. America giggled at the stupid grin on my face.

“See? He’s a happy drunk.”

I blew air through my lips, and they made a puff sound. “I’m not drunk. Not yet.”

Shepley pointed to the diminishing amber liquid. “If you drink the rest of that, you will be.”

I held up the bottle, and then looked at the clock. “Three hours. Must be a good date.” I lifted the bottle to Shepley, and then touched it to my lips, tilting it all the way back. The rest of the contents passed my numb lips and teeth, and burned all the way to my stomach.

“Jesus, Travis,” Shepley said with a frown. “You should go pass out. You don’t want to be up when she gets home.”

The sound of an engine grew louder as it approached the apartment and then idled outside. I knew the sound well—it was Parker’s Porsche.

A sloppy smile spread across my lips. “What for? This is where the magic happens.”

America watched me warily. “Trav . . . you promised.”

I nodded. “I did. I promised. I’m just going to help her out of the car.” My legs were under me, but I couldn’t feel them. The back of the couch proved to be a great stabilizer for my drunken attempt at walking.

My hand encompassed the knob, but America gently covered it with her hand. “I’m going to go with you. To make sure you don’t break your promise.”

“Good idea,” I said. I opened the door, and instantly adrenaline burned through the last half of the whiskey. The Porsche rocked once, and the windows were fogged.

Unsure of how my legs moved so fast in my condition, I was suddenly at the bottom of the stairs. America took a fistful of my shirt. As small as she was, she was surprisingly sturdy.

“Travis,” she said in a loud whisper. “Abby’s not going to let it go too far. Try to calm down, first.”

“I’m just going to check that she’s okay,” I said, taking the few steps to Parker’s car. The side of my hand hit the passenger-side window so hard, I was surprised it didn’t break. When they didn’t open the door, I opened it for them.

Abby was fidgeting with her dress. Her hair a mess and gloss-less lips, a telltale sign of what they’d been doing.

Parker’s face tensed. “What the hell, Travis?”

My hands balled into fists, but I could feel America’s hand on my shoulder.

“C’mon, Abby. I need to talk to you,” America said.

Abby blinked a few times. “About what?”

“Just come on!” America snapped.

Abby looked to Parker. “I’m sorry, I have to go.”

Parker shook his head, angry. “No, it’s fine. Go ahead.”

I took Abby’s hand as she stepped from the Porsche, and then kicked the door shut. Abby flipped around and stood between me and the car, shoving my shoulder. “What is wrong with you? Knock it off!”

The Porsche squealed out of the parking lot. I pulled my cigs out of my shirt pocket and lit one up. “You can go in, now, Mare.”

“C’mon, Abby.”

“Why don’t you stay, Abs,” I said. The word felt ridiculous to say. How Parker could utter it with a straight face was a feat in itself.

Abby nodded for America to go ahead, and she reluctantly complied.

I watched her for a moment, taking a drag or two from my cigarette.

Abby crossed her arms. “Why did you do that?”

“Why? Because he was mauling you in front of my apartment!”

“I may be staying with you, but what I do, and who I do it with, is my business.”

I flicked my cigarette to the ground. “You’re so much better than that, Pidge. Don’t let him fuck you in a car like a cheap prom date.”

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