Chapter One
Ricky
“Another round.”
The bartender raises an eyebrow at me. What a jerk. “You sure? I’ve seen men coming off a heroin bender who look healthier than you. Why don’t you have some water, take a break?”
“Fuck you. I’ve been one of those assholes coming off those fucking heroin benders, I know what they fucking feel like — I’m fine. Fill my glass and shut your fucking mouth.”
He hesitates.
Was I too fucking harsh on him? No, the asshole deserved it. He’s a fucking bartender with a ragged-ass mustache that he keeps stroking like he’s proud of it. His job is to fill my glass and stop stroking himself in public.
Do I look worse than I feel? No, there’s no chance of that. Not since Vanessa died.
What is it?
I blink and am about to open my mouth.
He reads my mind. “You’re pretty deep in your tab, Ricky. I can give you more, but I think you might want to put some cash on the bar first. And if you change your mind, water’s free.”
I dig into my pocket, pull out my wallet, throw some bills on the bar; I don’t look, because I don’t care. It isn’t just the bar that I’m in deep with, and right now, it’s just a waiting game to seewhich kills me first: the alcohol, or the other people I owe money to. Either way, I know I can’t wait much longer.
The bartender looks at the counter, then back at me. “This is a fucking CVS receipt, Ricky.”
“Ah, fuck.”
“Yeah, you can’t pay your tab with a receipt for toothpaste, baby aspirin, and honey mustard pretzel twists. It’s good you’re brushing your teeth, though. And baby aspirin’s handy to keep around in case you have a heart attack. But you need money.”
I want to punch him for the patronizing tone that is dripping from his crooked, smirking, crappily mustached face, but I want the alcohol he has access to even more. I take my wallet out again, and look inside.
“Put it on my tab, Jayson,” comes a smoky, feminine voice beside me.
I blink, turn, blink again — angular features, dark hair, brown eyes that simmer with an inner heat. Am I drunker than I feel, or am I seeing Vanessa’s ghost? No, I must be drunk; Vanessa’s dead, the woman beside me is alive, and she’s buying me a drink — I shouldn’t question it.
“Thank you,” I murmur as Jayson refills my glass, pouring the finest, cheapest whiskey — ‘Rootin Tootin Granddad’ — to the top of my highball glass. Jayson adds a small twist of lime, just to show off, or maybe he’s worried about me getting my vitamins.
“My name’s Adriana,” she says, while she slips a few bills to Jayson and gets her own drink, something that looks like a Cosmopolitan or something else I have no interest in. “What’s yours?”
“Ricky.”
“Ricky what?”
“DeMarco. Why the fuck do you care about my last name?”
“Because I gave you my full name when I bought you your drink, so it’s only polite that you give me yours.”
I blink. Did she really? Am I that fucking drunk? I don’t feel that fucking drunk, but then again, it’s been so long since I’ve felt sober that maybe I don’t know what’s what anymore. “You did?”
She sighs. Smiles. That simple act turns her sharp features and burning brown eyes into a projector that illuminates the bar brighter than the sun. There’s something about her face I can’t quite place, something that pokes a wounded, aching part inside me and fills me with a pain that’s sweet, a pain that’s alive — so alive that, for a moment, I don’t want to keep drinking, don’t want to see how much longer it takes me to get the end I crave.
“Sorry. It’s been a rough night,” I say. “I didn’t mean to take my shit out on you.”
“It’s okay.”
“Why’d you buy me a drink?”
She smiles again. It’s a different smile — this one burns red, burns with something other than sunlight. “I’ve been checking you out for a while, and it seemed like a good time to come talk to you.”
