As I near Trish’s house, a tattered glowing sign in the shape of a beer distracts me. The small bar is set in between a house and an alley. A chill runs through me. It must have been hard for Trish to stay in the same house, so close to the bar her assailants came from to find Ken. Hardin told me once that she simply couldn’t afford to move. The way he shrugged it off surprised me. But, sadly, money is vicious that way.
This is where he is, I know it.
I go up to the little place, and when I pull open the iron door, I’m immediately embarrassed by my attire. I look like a complete madwoman walking into this type of bar in a dress and barefoot, my shoes in my hands. I gave up on wearing them an hour ago. I drop my heels onto the floor and slide my feet back into them, wincing at the pain of the straps rubbing against the raw patches of skin on my ankles.
The bar isn’t crowded, and it doesn’t take me long to scan the room and find Hardin, sitting at the bar with a glass raised to his mouth. My heart plummets to the floor. I knew I would find him this way, but my faith in him is taking a beating right now. I had hoped, with everything in me, that he wouldn’t resort to drinking his pain away. I take a deep breath before approaching him.
“Hardin.” I tap his shoulder.
He swivels the barstool around to face me, and my stomach turns at the sight in front of me. His eyes are bloodshot, deep, red lines mapping across them so fiercely that the white has nearly disappeared. His cheeks are flushed, and the smell of liquor is so heavy that I can taste it. My palms begin to sweat, and my mouth goes dry.
“Look who it is,” he slurs. The glass in his hand is nearly empty, and I cringe at the sight of three empty shot glasses on the bar before him. “How’d you find me, anyway?” He tilts his head back and gulps down the rest of the brown liquor before calling to the man behind the bar, “Another!”
I move my face so that it’s directly in front of Hardin’s, so he can’t look away. “Baby, are you okay?” I know that he isn’t, but don’t know how I should handle him until I can gauge his mood and how much alcohol he’s consumed.
“Baby,” he says mysteriously, like he’s thinking about something else as he talks. But then he snaps to and gives me a killer smile. “Yeah, yeah. I’m fine. Have a seat. Want a drink? Have a drink—barkeep, another!”
The bartender looks at me, and I shake my head no. Not noticing that, Hardin pulls out the stool next to him and pats the seat. I glance around the small bar before climbing up onto the stool.
“So how’d you find me?” he asks again.
I’m confused and put on edge by his behavior. He’s clearly drunk, but that’s not what is bothering me; it’s the eerie calm behind his voice. I’ve heard it before, and it never brings with it good things.
“I’ve been walking around for hours, and I recognized your mum’s house across the street, so I knew . . . well, I knew I should look here.” I shiver at the reminder of Hardin’s stories of Ken’s spending night after night at this exact bar.
“My little detective.” Hardin softly says while raising a hand to tuck my hair behind my ear. I don’t flinch or pull away, despite the growing anxiety bubbling inside me.
“Will you come with me? I want us to go back to that hotel for the night, and then we can leave in the morning,”
Right then, the bartender brings him his drink, and Hardin gives it a serious look. “Not yet.”
“Please, Hardin.” I meet his bloodshot eyes. “I’m so tired, and I know you are, too.” I try to use my weakness against him without bringing up Christian or Ken. I lean closer to him. “My feet are killing me, and I’ve missed you. Christian tried to find you and couldn’t. I’ve been walking for a while, and I really want to go back to the hotel. Together.”
I know him well enough to be certain that if I start rambling about anything too heavy, he’ll lose it and this calmness will evaporate in seconds.
“He didn’t look that hard. I started drinking”—Hardin holds up his glass—“at the bar right across from where he left me.”
I lean into him, and he begins talking again before I can come up with anything to say. “Have a drink. My friend is here—she’ll buy you a shot.” He waves a hand at the glasses on the bar. “We ran into each other at that other fine establishment, but then since it seemed like an evening from the past, I decided to bring us here. For old times’ sake.”
My stomach drops. “Friend?”
“An old friend of the family.” He nods toward a woman emerging from the bathroom. She appears to be in her late thirties, early forties and has bleached-blond hair. I’m relieved that she isn’t a young woman, since it appears that Hardin has been drinking with her for a while now.
“I really think we should go,” I press, and reach for his hand.
He jerks away. “Judith, this is Theresa.”
“Judy,” she corrects him, at the same time that I say “Tessa.”
“Nice to meet you.” I force a smile and turn back to Hardin. “Please,” I beg again.
“Judy knew that my mum was a whore,” Hardin says, and the smell of whiskey bombards my senses again.
“I didn’t say that.” The woman laughs. She’s dressed too young for her age. Her top is low cut, and her flared jeans are too tight.
“She did say that. My mum hates Judy!” Hardin smiles.
The strange woman returns his smile. “Wonder why?”