“Ain’t that the truth,” I muttered, glaring across the room. My eyes landed on Braden, who was unapologetically staring at me. My scowl intensified and I jerked my chin away, not wanting to have a stare-off. I’d always been the best at staring contests and I knew this was one I couldn’t win.
I was afraid Braden would be able to see through my mask, and recognize the broken parts I desperately tried to cover up with my resting bitch face and well delivered scowls.
Braden
Small town life as a recovering alcoholic was challenging. Everyone seemed to know my business—but then again, everyone had always known my business. My family’s too.
I had to stay away from a lot of my old friends, because they didn’t seem to understand the slippery slope I was precariously balanced on. One drink could just as easily turn into twelve. I hadn’t touched the stuff since leaving rehab, but that didn’t mean I didn’t ever get thirsty for it.
Sitting at O’Riley’s with the guys should have been harder, especially with the pitcher of beer in front of me. Maybe it would have been, if Elle wasn’t across the room. Her presence there was enough to override my thirst for alcohol, because I had a different kind of thirst…a thirst for her.
I had a feeling she’d be at O’Riley’s, which is why I hadn’t turned down Brock’s invitation to go out, as I usually did. Sure, Travis was back in town too—but honestly, I didn’t care. Travis and I were never super close, but it gave me a solid excuse to see her again.
Now that I’d seen her, I felt dehydrated. All I wanted to do was walk back over to where she was and kiss her until I could breathe her in through my lungs, until I could feel her beneath my skin.
I’d heard whispers over the last several months that Elle wasn’t single anymore. She was seeing some guy. Living with him, in fact. It had to be serious if she was living with him. I didn’t want to screw things up further for her, but in the same breath…I couldn’t seem to shake the thought that things weren’t over between the two of us. Then again, maybe that was my dear old friend denial coming out to play.
My fingers clenched tightly around my glass, as I brought it up to my lips. The cold cola did nothing to quench the thirst, and I slammed it down harder than I intended. I closed my eyes against the sound of conversation around me, allowing myself a few moments to just breathe and centre myself.
In the last several years, I’d learned a few coping methods to help keep my dependency for alcohol in check. Meditation and taking the time to breathe, along with being self-aware were key things I had to do. Denial is an alcoholic’s best friend, and I refused to allow myself to live in denial.
I’d also developed a fine appreciation for tattoos and exercising. I got my first tattoo the first year of college, and I’d quickly realized it was the perfect way to inflict the right amount of pain for a therapeutic gain. I could leave marks that meant something to me on my skin, marks that would forever remind me of where I’d been and where I never wanted to go again.
The first tattoo, the one that started it all, was a massive chest piece that started just below my collarbone, creeping downward and swooping back up to touch my shoulders. Most people don’t get massive tattoos the first time around, but I had a concept in mind that I couldn’t shake, and I needed it to mean something. The Roman numeral clock hands pointed to the time of my mother’s death—also the time of my own descent into a personal hell. On either side of the clock were two identical roses, and flanked behind it all were incredibly detailed angel wings. Weaving around the clock and around the skull just beneath it was a beautiful string of pearls, the same pearls my mother had worn on her wedding day.
They’d been important to my mother because they’d represented hope, a hope that she’d carried with her throughout the worst years of her life. Her marriage to my father may have been a joke, he may have been an abusive piece of shit, but she still loved those pearls, even after my father had sold them at the hock shop in order to get cash for booze and gambling.
We came home to find Mom sobbing over her empty box, the same box that had once held those pearls. Without saying a word, my siblings and I put everything we had into getting her those pearls back. We didn’t understand at the time why they were so important to her, but they were, and so they were important to us as well. Brock paid the majority, from his job working on Bill Armstrong’s farm. I contributed eleven dollars and thirty cents that I had earned doing yard work, and Becky tossed in the fifty bucks she made babysitting for the neighbour. By a stroke of pure luck, we were able to buy them back after Dad died.
I made sure that the pearls would be etched on my skin as a reminder for evermore.
Not only did this tattoo remind me of my late mother, but it reminded me of my dickbag father too…the man that had destroyed everything that should have been good and healthy in my life. The man that had created the darkness within me.
I guess tattoos were just a way I could unleash some of the ugliness in a beautiful, artistic way. The pain of the needle entering and exiting my flesh helped to curb my desire for self-destruction.
And currently, my desire for self-destruction after the way Elle had regarded me tonight was pretty damn high. I made a mental note to find a decent studio and artist closer to home, now that I was back again.
“Braden, you alright man?” My brother’s voice roused me from the complicated direction my thoughts had taken. I looked up, catching the concern behind his gray-blue eyes.
“Yeah, I’m fine. Just tired,” I told him, giving him a reassuring grin. My eyes wandered again, this time pausing across the room. Brock followed my gaze and nodded with understanding, as conversation amongst the others continued on.
Travis was late getting to the bar and when he finally showed up, he brought his own entourage. Two women that were scarcely wearing any clothes trailed in, each of them holding one of Travis’s arms. They looked ready for a night out in LA, not a local dive bar in a small town in Ontario. Their faces were heavily painted with makeup, their blonde hair blown out and straight down their backs. They could have been twins, for all I knew, but I was pretty sure the one on Travis’s left wasn’t a true blonde. Her eyebrows were darker, as were her lashes. In any case, they’d spent a lot of time and money trying tolooklike twins. It was almost comical, seeing the looks on their faces as they stepped into the dimly lit bar and looked around. I guess whatever they’d been expecting, it wasn’t this.
Two tough looking guys in their thirties all dressed in black wearing sunglasses at night and a microphone came in behind Travis and the women, eyeing the bar as if searching for potential threats.
Travis tugged his arms free of the girls as he came up to our table, slapping the one on the right’s rear end. “Go get something to drink. Tell Mick to put it on my tab.” He said as he winked at her and nodded in the direction of the bar.
“Come on Tasha,” the one whose rear he’d smacked said, linking her arm with the other girl. Both of them looked as if they smelt something vile as they walked over to the bar in their five-inch heels.
Brock stood up, almost frowning as he embraced Travis in a quick bro-hug. “What the hell is this shit man?” he asked, gesturing to the massive guys standing behind Travis. Because of Travis, we were suddenly the focus of the entire bar. I could feel the scowls from the table across the room, the table I knew Elle was at, without even looking for confirmation.
“Oh, yeah. That’s Rob and Paul. They’re keeping me out of trouble—and trouble away from me too. Figured it’d be smart to bring them. They can help out with security detail at the wedding, so Tessa’s brothers can enjoy the ceremony and what not.”
“Great job not drawing attention to yourself,” Brock responded dryly. He looked as if he was having second thoughts about including Travis in his wedding party.
“Attention follows me no matter what I do,” Travis said, working to keep his carefree grin in place.
“And the Hollywood twins? Who are they?” Gordon piped up.
