“I’m not a fuckin’ child! I can drive myself! I’m not even feelin’ it!” Gannett protests, but then proves the exact opposite when he rises from his stool, loses his balance, and topples the one he staggers into.
“Right,” I scoff. “Go home and sober up, Wee-Waters.”
“Fuck off. And stop calling me Wee-Waters, Masterbatorson.”
Thatnickname strikes a cord. He has no clue how close to home it hits. A violent tide of shame and anger surges within me, swirling around me like a frigid tempest of ocean waves.
“Keep running your fuckin’ mouth, and I’ll let you figure out how to get your own ride down to the marina tomorrow. As it stands, I wasgoing to deliver your truck to you while you slept it off, but now I’m not so sure I will.”
Gannett glowers at me. The iciness in his blue eyes probably shouldn’t send a delightful shiver down my spine, but I can’t deny it does. There’s just something about pissing this guy off that has always gotten me all tingly in a way that I never felt when throwing verbal jabs at his brother, years ago.
Fuck, how is it possible to want to strangle someone so much, and yet breathe fire into him all at the same time? And why is italwaysGannett fuckin’ Waters that makes me this way?
Chapter Two
What the absolute FUCK?!Has my alarm always been this loud? I fumble around blindly for my phone, but when I can’t find it in its usual spot, I start getting suspicious that perhaps I didn’t put myself to bed last night.
That’s… concerning.
I finally locate the damn thing and silence it, but the sensory reprieve is short-lived once I get up and flip on the bathroom light. The sunbeam-level wattage that slaps me right in the eye sockets causes me to block my eyes with my forearm and has me stumbling blindly so much that I manage to topple ass over teakettle into the clawfoot tub.
Welp, that’ll leave a mark.
How’d you get that shiner, Gannett? Oh, you know. Battle royale in my own bathroom. No biggie. Aaand I guess I will just add buying a new shower curtain to replace the one I’m currently tangled up with here to my already lengthy to-do list.
Making myself breakfast isn’t going much better either. You’d think living on my own for three years would have gifted me with the foresight to do some grocery shopping over the weekend, but nope. A couple of pieces of wheat toast it is.
Er—scratch that. Charcoal toast, rather.Shit, shit, shit!My landlord will flip if I set off the smoke alarm again. The last time, I nearly set off the sprinklers in the general store downstairs. Yeesh, that’d fuck shit up. Can’t afford to havethathappen. I make like The Flash and dash over to the kitchen window, fanning the parfume de burnt bread out with… my boxers? Yep. Definitely my underwear.
This is a blast. I’m having the best day ever already. Fuck having Folger’s in my cup, the best part of waking up is perhaps getting ready for the day just like this. I don’t mean that. I do need coffee. Java gods, have mercy on my soul…please.
With the world’s shittiest fucking headache, and only myself to blame for it—since being hungover at thirty-three isn’tanythinglike being hungover in your teens or twenties—I make my way down the back fire escape, and beeline it for my truck. Thank fuck it’s actually here. Early December in Maine means it’s cold as a witch’s titties in a brass bra out here, and I’m afraid not even my thermos of coffee is going to warm me up. There’s a sticky note stuck to my steering wheel that Ispy when I hop up in.
I snort. What a fuckin’ dick. Although, knowing my drunk self as intimately as I do, I probably deserve it. Last night is coming back to me in bits and spurts. Pretty sure Gordy enlisted his son to bring me back, after I said some assholish things to him. I somewhat recollect calling him out for being a homophobe for eyeing my crotch, an invitation that I—for some inexplicable reason—gave him.
Still have no clear rationale for having done that, other than drunk Gannett can sometimes be synonymous with brat Gannett—and, given the way I painted my sheets sometime after I got home, horny Gannett. Ihopeit was my jizz, anyway. The memory of how that stain—along with several others over the last few months—got there still eludes me, though.
I vaguely recall entertaining some thoughts about inviting Trista-Lynn back to my place, but I don’t think I actually did it. After all, I mostly just make those thoughts known just to see how much it ruffles Gordy’s feathers. Why that happens to be my favorite hobby, I have no clue.
Interestingly enough, I do distinctly remember him not giving a shit who Trista fucks… as long as it isn’tme. However, a quick check of my phone assures me that I did not, in fact, reach out to her after Taryn dropped me off. Phew, Blackbeard remains the picture of health.
Probably because he hasn’t plundered anything but my right hand since—oh, I don’t know—roughly six months prior to my divorce. Or, I guess, my bedsheets too. What the hell did I do? Hump a pillow? Christ, I haven’t done that since I found a stash ofGQmagazines Ev left behind when he moved out.
That’s probably a decent sign that my drinking has gotten a little excessive, losing whole chunks of time like that, but that’s neither here nor there. Right now, I need to get to work before my crew has a conniption about me being late, again. I fish my keys out from underthe seat, thankful, yet again, that Gordy did me this solid after the way I treated him last night.
Fuck, I really was douchier than normal to him last night. I should probably apologize to him when I inevitably go back to the pub tonight. He’ll probably just brush me off and tell me to go fuck myself, though, because that’s just how he is. And I’ll get rankled and fire some shots back, because that’s just how I am. All told, though, I will at least try to make amends, because that would be the mature thing to do.
And that’s something I’m working on: growing the fuck up. Sarah still insists I need to, if I ever want to see more of the girls. So, that’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to rock the shit out of maturity, startingagaintoday.
“T-dawg! In case I didn’t say it last night, thank you for bringing me home,” I tell Taryn as he drops a plate off in front of me. The kitchen was closed, so bless this boy for making an exception for me. I need supper, but after the day I’ve had, I didn’t even have it in me to cook a frozen dinner before coming here.
Besides, there’s not much I wouldn’t do to be able to stuff my face with this kid’s cooking. This bacon burger looks amazing. Much better than the sight of that chocolate brick the TV dinner companies have the audacity to call a "brownie." Call me crazy, but it looks the same going in as it does coming out—especially when you consider the kernels of corn that get baked into it.
Yikes. Gross. Not at all mature.
Taryn grins, almost as if he was privy to my inner monologuing. Shit, I sure as hell hope he can’t read minds. I’m quite certain I’d make anyone with psychic abilities grimace.
“No worries. Your singing made the trip… interesting,” he says, and I nearly sigh in relief.
