The bar. The one where all the guys from the mill drank after work. Nick had never been invited, because everyone knew he was underage, but who gave a shit right now?
He crossed the parking lot. Inside, dark paper blacked out the windows. Stale smoke and gloom swallowed him up.
Perfect.
At the counter, he asked for the first thing that came to mind. “An old-fashioned.”
He had no idea what the fuck that even was. Just that he needed one. And he needed it now, before his next breath could knife its way free of his chest and splatter blood all over the counter.
The bartender raised a brow. “You got an ID?”
Nick took the guy’s measure. He knew him from work. What was his name? Tom? Todd? He was a part-timer, but they’d crossed paths once or twice. “You don’t recognize me?”
Tom-Todd cocked his head. “Oh, yeah. You that kid who slings scrap? The new one, from Baltimore?”
“Yeah.”
Tom-Todd grunted, friendly. “Well, kid, you look like you got hit by a Mack truck.”
“Yeah. Feels that way.”
Tom-Todd crossed his arms and pondered. After a long minute, he waved to a stool. Nick tried to sit, but it turned into more of a collapse. His bones caved in, too brittle to prop up his leaden body.
“If anyone asks,” Tom-Todd said, “you weren’t here, and I didn’t serve you, all right?”
Nick bobbed his head.
“I’ll hold you to that.” Tom-Todd performed some kind of alcoholic alchemy and set a mean-looking drink on the polished wood. Nick downed it in two gulps.
And gagged. Apparently, an old-fashioned consisted of a solid punch to the face, somehow delivered via glass.
Exactly what he needed. “Another.”
“Damn, kid. You lose your girl, or something?”
He ignored that. “Please.”
Tom-Todd hesitated. “How bad do you need it?”
“Pretend like my life depends on it.”
“Okay. Shit. But this is a onetime deal, you got it?”
“Yep.”
After that, Tom-Todd left him alone, except for the steady supply of old-fashioneds he kept up.
Nick drank until the floor heaved. He halfway expected his stool to slide down the bar and dump him against the wall. Or was all this movement inside his head? Whatever. Either physics had broken down, or he had. Fifty-fifty chance, either way.
At some point, he paid the tab. Aubrey would be disappointed that he’d dipped into the New York savings for booze, but... No. No, she wouldn’t. She’d left him. He could drink himself into the ground with that money, if he wanted.
Fuck.
He stumbled out into the balmy night, then picked a direction and started walking. Cars whizzed by, a roaring river of light. Long grass snatched at his ankles. A few times, he fell, but lying on his back was intolerable. The stars wheeled madly overhead, so he got up and walked again, just to hold them still.
His head didn’t work right. Thoughts slid over one another, too slippery to catch hold of. Except for one. He should make sure Aubrey was really gone. Check to see if Mr. MacLean had told the truth.
Nick laughed, a violent bark. Pathetic. Of course Mr. MacLean had told the truth. Of course Aubrey had left him.
