“And you couldn’t go for a drive instead? Like a normal fucking person?”
Aberlour had rarely seen Marcus so angry. He wasn’t sure what had angered his friend more. The rescue mission at such an ungodly hour, or the fact that he’d needed to rescue Aberlour for no apparent reason in the first place.
“I’d never drive drunk,” he repeated.
“You’re not drunk.”
“Anymore,” Aberlour corrected.
It was a bit of a lie. He’d intended on getting drunk, but his liver had gotten too good at it. He’d never gotten to the point where things got hazy and fun. He’d just gotten to the point where he’d been suffocating in his own house, run out of beer, and needed to get as far from base as he could. But he drew the line at getting behind the wheel. If the cops hadn’t picked him up, he’d probably be halfway to Canada by now.
He turned and walked up to the passenger side of Marcus’ car. The little blue sedan was a sensible choice. Low mileage, fuel efficient, cost effective. It was a boring car. An ugly car. Aberlour fucking hated this car.
He pulled the handle, pissed off when it refused to budge.
“The hell is up with you?” Marcus asked. Obviously, refusing to unlock the car was a tactic to get Aberlour to look athim. He was tempted to start walking again, but there was a hole in one of his shoes, and the ground was still wet from the evening rain. His socks had only begun to dry out some as he’d stretched out on the cot in the cell. He didn’t want to get his feet wet again.
“I just took a walk.” That was all he’d done. Nothing more, nothing less. It wasn’t his fault that Officer Cuntface had arrested him.
Aberlour pulled at the handle again and again, knowing it would irritate Marcus.
Marcus growled and cursed to himself as he reluctantly unlocked the car.
“I didn’t ask them to call,” Aberlour defended himself as the anemic-sounding 4-cylinder engine turned over. The lights of the parking lot were faint, and Abe could just barely see the silhouette of his friend in the driver’s seat.
“The night duty secretary recognized me from the base and found my file,” he explained, staring blankly out the window as Marcus pulled out of the parking lot.
“I know,” Marcus sighed. “You pissed off the cops, refusing to talk like that. They wanted to drive you to the ER. They thought you were a headcase.”
Who said he wasn’t?
Aberlour had thought about driving himself to the nuthouse a few times. He was pretty sure that’s where he’d end up anyway.
One-way ticket, please.
“I was taking a walk,” he repeated for the umpteenth time that night. It was almost calming after he’d said it the first hundred times.
Marcus shook his head like he did when he refused to get angry. Always so even keeled. Their compass, pointing due north. Aberlour had lost all sense of direction a long time ago. He wanted anger. Rage. Frustration. He wanted to see it ravageMarcus the same way it was killing him. Just for a second, he wished the man would let himself lose it.
Two one-way tickets, please, he’d tell the nut-train conductor.
“Where am I taking you?” Marcus asked.
Aberlour shrugged. For all he fucking cared, Marcus could let him off right here, on the side of the highway. He’d walk, shoes wet, until he found somewhere that didn’t feel like it was swallowing him whole. Or until he found more alcohol to drink so he could pass out. Whichever came first.
“Where were you going, anyway?”
“Nowhere. I was wandering aimlessly,” Aberlour replied with dramatic flair.
Marcus snorted. “Can you hear the irony?”
Of course, Aberlour could hear it. It’s how he’d intended it sound.
“I always hit dead center, but it’s never the thing I need,” Aberlour said, and maybe he was still a little drunk because the words didn’t sound like something he’d ever say. Not like sober Abe would say at any rate.
“Whatdoyou need?” Marcus asked, sounding confused.
“Don’t know. That’s the real problem, now ain’t it?”
