I’m eight or nine bears in and rip-roaring drunk. But I don’t care. The alcohol is making me feel better.
It hasn’t taken away any of the pain or the loss. But it’s masked it well enough that I feel like I can change my trajectory.
I can prove myself and go back to Dublin one day.
I can see my family.
I can see Saoirse.
Somehow, some way.
“Another one!” I yell out sloppily.
This time, the bartender makes eye contact. He walks over emptyhanded, his lips pursed. He’s a brawny guy, lean and tough, and at least ten years older than me. Maybe more.
“I think you’ve had enough, pal.”
His English is slightly accented. Something vaguely Eastern European. I don’t know how I missed that until now.
I raise my eyebrows. “Fuck you, mate. I’ll decide when I’ve had enough.”
“Actually, since I’m the bartender, I’m the one who gets to make the call.”
“I’ll come back there and pour it myself then. You do a shit job anyway.”
“If you come back here, it won’t end well,” he rumbles. “I can get you a glass of water. That’s it.”
“What are you, my fucking mother?”
“There are people who want that stool,” he says, eyeing my spot.
“Jesus. City of Angels, my ass.”
I force myself off the barstool and stumble away from the bar. I’m heading to one of the booths in the back when someone bumps into me.
Usually, something like that would roll off my back. But I’m looking for a fight tonight.
I’m looking for something that will make my adrenaline flow and stave off the unwanted feelings coursing through me right now.
I turn and shove the guy away from me. “I think the word you’re looking for is ‘sorry,’ gleas.”
The man stumbles back, but he manages to steady himself almost immediately. He’s wearing elaborately ripped jeans and an Ed Hardy shirt with cutaway sleeves.
He’s also got a big, ugly eagle tattoo inked across his neck.
“‘Sorry’?” he scoffs in a Polish accent, his eyes bulging with rage. “Who the fuck do you think you are, ya mick?”
I’m intensely glad he’s decided to go racist on me. It’s the perfect justification to swing.
And that’s exactly what I do, with passion and enthusiasm.
Or at least, it’s what I intended to do.
Except that I’m pretty fucking drunk and the punch doesn’t quite connect the way I’m intending it to.
I clumsily graze the side of Eagle Tat’s jaw. Which really only serves to piss him off further.
He, quite reasonably, lunges forward with fresh rage and proceeds to beat the shit out of me.