Page 3 of Where Angels Fall

On autopilot, I leave and wait for my car to pull up, settling into it as soon as it arrives. And I drive. I should go home to my apartment where a scalding hot shower, a toothbrush and a bottle of wine awaits me.

My hands move, steering me in the opposite direction of the harbour, where my waterfront apartment sits silently. So silent.

I know how pretentious this will sound, but sometimes I loathe the penthouse suite in the sparkling building that never has a speck of dust on it. Muted and empty, it forces thoughts and feelings into my mind that I don’t appreciate. I need noise. Distraction. Would it be so bad to have a noisy neighbour who constantly stomps above me?

The air flowing through the windows still holds a lingering bite from winter, but the slight warmth filters through my hair as I turn the music up to a deafening roar. An exhale I feel like I’ve been holding onto for days whooshes out of me and my jaw unclenches. It feels painfully good.

I need a fix... Something that reminds me I’m still here in this body. Sometimes it’s a too-fast drive down the wrong streets. Sometimes it’s driving to the Harbor Bridge and standing so close to the edge that my heels hang off. Little moments of reckless freedom. A sick little thrill that pulls me back from the edge of disappearing. Tonight... Tonight I need it.

Chapter 2

Maddison

Idrive past a few bars and clubs, deliberating going in. Drinking and watching people until my eyelids are heavy and I can meander home. But I see crisp button-up shirts and crystal glasses, and my foot presses back down on the accelerator. I know they aren’t all the Malcolm’s of the world, but even sitting through a corny pickup line or receiving finance advice from a finance bro whose portfolio consists wholly of crypto, makes me want to gouge my eyeballs out with a cactus.

Yes, I know I’m jaded, but you try sitting through an hour-long conversation with Todd from finance, about how if I don’t have thirty investment properties by now, I must be insane…yeah, ugh.

I’ve flown past the nightlife and clubs, venturing into the industrial area of Havenport Harbour, and I’m about ready to turn around. I never venture this far out. Why would I, when my entire life is work, and it’s a comfortable 3-minute drive from my apartment?

Dim, illuminated lights draped across the facade of a darkened bar. Surrounded by empty, dilapidated buildings and factories, parking lots, and what appears to be an apartment building. The gravel lot in front of the building is the only one with cars out the front. A handful of Utes and some motorcycles.

The Pitch reads on a flashing neon sign, and I can see people moving in the dimly lit bar, drinks in hand, through the window. Not a single suit in view.

Gravel crunches under my tires as I park in the lot. A few drinks sound absolutely amazing right now, and nothing looks more appetising than this run-down bar in the middle of nowhere. Hidden from the city and the people who inhabit it.

The establishments I usually stop at, always for a business meeting of sorts, usually have security who checks my name on a list. The Pitch has a bright red door, glowing against the black exterior paint, strips of red falling off. It creaks loudly as I push it open, allowing the dim light and tinny, crackling music to spill out. Rowdy conversation, the clinking of beers and the hitting of pool balls combined with old music feels oddly…nice.

It doesn’t last long. The door crashes closed behind me, and all conversation stops. Only the music playing through the shitty speaker plays; otherwise, metaphorical crickets are chirping.

Every head in the bar is turned in my direction, and I freeze, my brows drawn together and my mouth slightly parted. They are looking at me as if I have three heads. My head turns to make sure they aren’t looking at something crazy behind me, but it’s just the chipped door.

The people in this bar are exactly as I expected, not even a collared shirt nearby. Beards and tattoos, men with long hair. I feel as if I’m in another world. Maybe that is why they are looking at me like that. Lifting my chin, my heels clack on the sticky wooden floor as I make my way to the bar.

They can stare all they like, but I need a drink.

I say that, but my heart is beating weirdly fast. And awareness prickles on the back of my neck as I perch on a stool that looks like it could give me tetanus.

Another neon sign whirrs above the rows of glass bottles. “Sinner’s Welcome.” Red and bright, casting a glow over the bar and me.

My eyes shoot to the man at the bar, waiting for him to come and take my order. He stares at me with narrowed eyes, blue and clear, as he looks me over. Not in the way Malcolm did tonight, but in a curious way.

“Good evening,” I hum softly at him, my smile firm on my face. “Can I get a wine, please? Perhaps a Pinot Noir?”

His face morphs into one of incredulity as he raises a thick eyebrow at me. “A Pino, what?” his gruff voice replies.

“You know…a red wine?” I’m confused as to how a bartender doesn’t know what a Pinot Noir is, but I drop it. I’m too desperate for a drink right now; the ghost of his taste still coats my tongue.

He watches me, a deep line forming between his brows. For a man of my father’s age, he is weirdly handsome. Salt and pepper hair, a short beard softening his sharp features. Soft blue eyes narrowed on me, as his eyes slide down my clothing.

“Lady,” he hesitates, not moving to pour my wine, to my chagrin. “This isn’t a place where you come to drink a…Pino Noodle, or whatever the hell you want.”

I look around animatedly, perching myself on the old bar stool. The splintered wood catches on my Celine-branded skirt, and I pray to the Gods that it doesn’t embed itself into my skin. Needing a tetanus shot today would be my last straw.

“This is a bar, isn’t it?” I sigh, severely aware of how much of a desperate alcoholic I sound like. “Please…please just give me a drink.”

Chewing on the inside of his cheek, he watches me for another few slow seconds before he lets out a sharp exhale. “One. One drink, and then we are closing,” he grumbles, turning to rummage through the shelves.

He pulls out the dustiest, oldest bottle from deep under the shelves, and I swear I see a cartoon smoke skull in the air as he pops it, but red liquid pours out along with my cares.