Curling my hand at my hip, I felt the invisible weapon. The idea of it made me itch, boiling in my tendons. I wanted to crush the handle, feel the weight. I knew, as I turned and jogged from the park, that I would go home and clean my gun.
I'd been handling it every night that I wasn't wasted on booze.
You need to stop this, I told myself flatly. This can't be healthy.
Telling myself this wasn't new. I'd tried to hammer it into my skull for months. I had debated seeing a therapist, but imagining the conversation had been enough to put me off.
Yes, that's right. I keep visiting the spot where I murdered someone. Oh, no. Not the first man I ever killed—just the last.
Oh? You're going to need to call the cops?
Well, thanks for your time!
I was too burnt to run the miles back to my place. This time, I flagged down a taxi.
Watching the city creep by through the foggy window, I felt—was lonely the word? Detached. That was better.
When I was younger, I'd felt like this. Back then, I'd had reasons to withdraw into myself. I imagine all kids cope with rough shit that way.
Then Jacob had arrived in my tiny world. Our blood oath had given me gravity. Jacob, of all people, was at my side and ready to talk.
That wasn't the problem. I wasn't craving human interaction. What I was lacking these days was something more encompassing.
Now that I wasn't a contract killer...
I didn't have a purpose.
Paying the taxi driver, I shut the door and headed into the apartment. I took the stairs, long strides that skipped a step at a time. I wanted to get away from my depressing realization. Alcohol didn't do it, sex didn't do it, and literal running was futile.
But I still tried.
Inside, I threw my sweater onto the couch. My shoes left wet smudges on the wood floor; I ignored them. Almost possessed, I entered my bedroom. There was a pair of black panties by the side of the bed, I just kicked them aside. The woman they belonged to wouldn't come back for them.
Tracing my fingers down the side panel of my bed's headboard, I found the indent an inch up from the shaggy rug. A little pressure, and the secret cover popped off. Inside the hollow bed frame, I stored a number of things. The Ruger Mark Two was what I retrieved first.
Bringing it with me into the living room, I also carried a bottle of oil, a rag, and my tools. Reaching the coffee table, I shoved everything on it.
There was a rhythm to taking the gun apart. My fingers were practiced, unscrewing and twisting at the smooth metal. Surgical precision, I had the Ruger dismantled in minutes.
I could have done it faster, but I savored this process.
Polishing the barrel, I hummed softly. The vibration in my pocket demanded my attention. Digging the device out, I saw Jacob's name, then tapped the button and shoved the phone between my shoulder and ear. “Hey man,” I said, going back to cleaning. “What's up?”
“Just checking in.” His voice had an echo. I knew he was in the basement at the bar. “Did a few errands today. What about you, what are you up to?”
Glancing at the partial-gun, I held it to the light. It shimmered. “You know. The usual.”
“Right. Got it.” Jacob rolled something, metal grating.
“Are you working right now?” I asked, knowing the answer.
Chuckling, he breathed out softly. “Got a delivery this morning. You want to come down, help me out? Could use more muscle.”
My smile went sideways. “I guess I am stronger than you.” Jacob made a noise that said he didn't agree. “Let me finish up and change. I'll be there in thirty.”
“Sounds good,” he said. “Think you'll stay for the night shift?”
In my fingers, the gun came back together. I'd assembled it while we talked. Now, holding it eye-level, I stared down the sight and aimed at the front door.
It smelled like polish. It felt like heaven.
Under my finger, the trigger squeezed. The empty clip did nothing. In my head, I imagined the bang; my shiver went to my belly.
All I wanted to do was feel that rush again. Fuck, I wanted it so bad. I needed something rolling over my tongue—alcohol or flesh—to make me forget.
“Yeah,” I whispered into the phone. “I think I might just hang around after all.”
****
Anabelle was already serving customers, the place busy with the happy-hour rush.
I tossed her a look; she hurried our way, giving us priority. “What can I get you boys?” she asked.
“Whiskey,” I said. “Straight, please.”
She gave me a glass, then handed Jacob the same. We clinked the containers, and dammit, it was hard not to smile after a gulp of that strong drink.
“So,” he said, leaning back on the stool. “I noticed another bottle of Johnny Walker was empty.”
I flinched. “Yeah, I finished it off. Is that suddenly a problem?”
He shrugged casually. “You started it and finished it all by yourself, last night.”
Rocking my glass in my fingers, I watched the golden whiskey slosh. “It's okay if you lecture me.”
“I'm not going to do that.”