“I’m in charge of the touch tunes all night.”
He groans, but I raise a hand in defense. “But I promise nothing too pop. Wouldn’t want to tarnish the reputation.”
Russ barks a laugh as I take another gulp. “Keep the drinks coming. Don’t water them down. I—” I hesitate with how much I want to give away. “I need this, Russ.”
He must see something in my eyes because he simply nods. “I won’t watch you hurt yourself.”
“I know, but you know my limits. You know when I get to that point. I…need to forget,” I whisper the last part, but Russ hears it.
He sticks out his hand, palm side up. “Keys.”
I huff but pull out the ring with the old Chevy keychain and give Russ the keys to Dad’s truck.
“Thank you.”
I nod before finishing off my first drink. “I’ll take another when you get a chance.”
I’m a few drinks in, and the warmth of the whiskey has reached my fingertips, leaving me buzzing. I’m standing at the modern jukebox, scrolling through songs like I’m flipping through a memory book. Each song I stumble over hits me in the chest. The Spillway has a variety of everything: pop hits, country ballads, and hair bands our parents listened to. I feed in plenty of cash, stacking the queue until I’ve got hours of music coming.
When the first song starts, a soft smile spreads across my lips and my hips begin to sway. The rest of the bar fades away until it’s just me and my glass of whiskey. I melt into Shania Twain as she sings about how any man of hers better walk the line. I shout a “hell yeah” as I wiggle my hips to the beat.
I can feel eyes on me from the pool table, but I pay them no mind. Let them look. I want them to see the hot mess princess they’ve labeled me as crumble beneath their gaze. They think they know me. I’m the girl who moved West, made it to TV, and came home with nothing to show for it. But they don’t know the demons that haunt me every night. I can feel them in the darkness, watching me with their sharp claws and beady, glowing eyes, waiting for me to let my guard slip. They don’t know I’ll never let these walls crumble. I can’t risk it…not again.
Tonight, I want to dance. I want to drown the pain and sorrow in alcohol, laughter, and good music.
The bass thumps through me, pulsing in my chest, filling the hollow spaces. I spin, hair flying, and for a second, it almost feels real. Happiness.
But my chest aches and my hands shake when I bring the amber liquid to my mouth. Tipping the glass, I’m hit in the lips with ice.
Oops, I chuckle to myself. Guess it’s time for another drink.
I fling myself against the bar, unable to control my giggles as Russ eyes me. He reaches below the bar and pulls out a glass.
“Russ, my man,” I slur. “You knew exactly what I needed.”
He slides the glass toward me, but instead of a whiskey sour, it’s ice water. I pout. “Aw, wrong drink.”
“Wren.” His voice is careful. “Maybe slow down. Have some water now.”
I flash him a smirk as I lean over the bar. My fingers wrap around the neck of Jim. “Slowing down is overrated. Tonight, I have a date with Jim and only Jim.”
He takes the bottle from my hand. “You’re on your fourth.”
I make a show of glancing around the bar and huff. “That’s weird.”
“What is?”
“I don’t see my dad here.”
His eyes narrow. “Wanna tell me what’s going on?”
“Nope,” I say, popping thep.
The song changes to “Ain’t Going Down (‘Til the Sun Comes Up)” and I chuckle at the irony before stumbling off the stool.
“I’ll take another,” I call over my shoulder, laughing too loud as I practically skip toward the pool table. I feel the glare of a guy twice my size as I reach a hand out. He hands me a pool stick, and I sing an off-pitch version of Garth Brooks before leaning over the table.
“Wait, are you solids or stripes?”
