The pain, the humiliation—as much as he hated them, he had learned to detach himself. One day he would be so used up he would die on the hard floor. No one would notice or care.
But the hot breath…the demonic stench…that wind from hell wafting over him.
He never detached from that.
* * *
Hot breath…stench of alcohol, stale cigar smoke…
A blunt object poked me in the back. “Your wallet, asshole,” the voice said.
I elbowed the assailant in the ribs, knocking him to the ground. I kicked his weapon down the alley and then booted him in the side a few times. “Who the fuck do you think you are? You think you can just take what you want? Life doesn’t work that way, you dumb fuck.”
I kicked the bum’s face and walked away.
This wasn’t the first time I had been mugged. I often walked through the seedy area on the outskirts of the city at night, just waiting for some dumb-ass to try to jump me. Two times before tonight I had been jumped, and two times before tonight I had disarmed the mugger and beat the shit out of him. No one had ever called the cops on me. I didn’t care if they did. I was careful never to do any lasting damage. Plus, self-defense and all.
I wanted to go back to that one, though. I used my will not to go running back and pummel him to his death.
The sickly heat of his breath on my neck. The acrid stench.
I wanted to see him dead.
But I wasn’t crazy. I knew killing was wrong, despite my time in the Marines and despite everything else I’d been through. I still had morals, and I knew how to exist in society. I knew right from wrong. I wasn’t a sociopath. I knew this as well as I knew anything. I’d done my share of research.
I didn’t beat people up indiscriminately. But hey, try to mug me, take what is mine, and I’ll make you pay. Not too many would argue with that thought process.
The face of Jade’s ex emerged in my mind. He was the exception. He hadn’t tried to take anything from me.
Or had he?
I had become an animal when I saw him kissing her. All rational thought had fled, and I had lunged forward to protect…what was mine.
I had no right to think of her as mine. I had nothing to offer her.
She was the only thing I had ever truly wanted.
And I had no right to her.
I walked into a seedy little dive that served rotgut whiskey and catered to two-bit whores. I wasn’t proud of it, but I had spent more than my share of time in the little alcove. There had been a time, after I turned twenty-one, when this place was my second home. I drank and fucked myself into oblivion, trying—and failing—to ease the pain that consumed me. I hadn’t been here in years, but still it stood, a haven for the melancholy, the outcasts—the people like me.
I sat down at the bar next to an old geezer in a blue-and-yellow plaid flannel shirt and a hunting cap.
A bartender who looked like he’d seen damn near a century strolled up to me. “What’ll it be?”
I cleared my throat. “Whiskey, straight.”
He poured me a drink from a bottle I’d never seen or heard of.
I downed a shot, burning my throat. Yep, rotgut. But I was in a rotgut kind of mood. I pushed my glass to the edge of the bar and signaled the bartender for another.
The old geezer next to me turned toward me. “Troubles, son?”
I shook my head in the low chuckle. “You don’t know the half of it.”
“You need an ear? I got nowhere else to go.” He held out his hand. “Name’s Mike.”
I shook his hand. “Talon.”
“Talon, like a bird’s claw?”
I nodded. “That’s the one.”
“Mighty unusual name.”
Not the first time someone had commented about my name. “My mother liked it. My dad wanted to name me John. That’s my middle name.” I took a sip of my drink. I’d take this one a bit more slowly.
“That’s some real crap you’re drinking,” Mike said.
“So?”
“So, you look like the kind of guy who can afford the good stuff.”
“Why do you say that?”
Mike looked down. “Those ostrich cowboy boots, for one.”
I let out a huff. “Maybe I like the crap.”
“If you say so. Me, I love to taste that good stuff once in a while.”
I took another sip. Mike looked tired. Old and tired. “What you do, Mike?”
“Worked construction all my life. I’m retired now. My wife passed away year ago, so it’s just me and my dog. What about you?”
“I’m a rancher.”
“That can be a hard life,” he said.
I laughed. Yeah, for most, ranching was hard. For the Steels? Not so much. We were lucky. Great-Grandpa Steel had started out with nothing, and between him and Grandpa, they built an empire, adding the peach and apple orchard to the already thriving beef ranch. Dad had built the winery, and he and Ryan had created another empire.
Not that we didn’t work hard. We did, Jonah and Ryan especially. They were known to put in twelve-hour days. But money was never a worry.
No, my ranch wasn’t the source of my problem.
“We do okay,” I said.
“Then what’s eatin’ at you, boy?”
I glared daggers at him. “Don’t call me boy.”