Prologue
Beau
Go home at 2 with an 8, wake up at 8 with a 2.
One Year Ago
“This is the seventh night,” the very grouchy voice warns.
“I’m well aware,” another equally grouchy voice counters.
“This is the last night he does this shit here; you got that?” More gruffness, more anger.
Maybe these two voices could use a drink. Could help with the grouchiness. Maybe I’ll offer because the situation feels pretty…tense.
“Hey, why don’t we share a round and relax?” I offer with a broad smile.
Or, that’s what Iintendedto say.
When I opened my mouth, I truly believed those were the words that were going to come out.
Instead, the moment my dry lips part, the grouchy arguing voices come to a screeching halt. I don’t know if I actually heard their heads turn or just felt their eyes on me, but I’m pretty certain once that river of vomit left my lips like an open fire hydrant rocketing water, I hadeveryone’sattention.
“Jesus, Atti, you better fucking help me clean this shit up!” The very grouchy man’s voice is louder now. Loud enough to be heard over my remaining wretches, getting out the last of what tastes very much like vodka-flavoredregret.
“It’s not shit; it’s puke,” I counter, my head turning into a merry-go-round the moment my eyes open. I close them again hastily. A heavy hand claps down around the back of my neck, squeezing.
“Come on, let’s clean you up.”
Loud murmurs and angry voices sound off behind me as I grip the edge of the bar, attempting to get to my feet slowly. The barstool seems to be holding my ass because getting off is fucking hard.
The hand on the back of my neck seizes me, helping me off with a quick lift. “Look at me,” the owner of the hand says. I blink a few times, hating how the world whips around me in fast, dizzying circles. But I narrow my focus and take a breath until the man in front of me steadies, all of his pieces sliding into place.
“Atticus.”
He nods.
“Atti, you gonna clean this up or what?” The other voice questions, sounding very fucking pissed off. With his hand now on my shoulder, Atticus’s green eyes narrow on me.
“Go to the can. Wait for me.” He starts to turn but stops, gripping my shoulder tightly. “Down the hall on your left. Donotfucking lock the door.”
I follow his orders, unable to ignore his“I said I’d fucking clean it up, now give it to me”that he snaps at the man behind the bar.
That’s right.
I’m in a bar.
I forgot about that for a few minutes.
Andoh yeah. It’s coming back to me now. I came to the bar to forget. It worked so well that I even forgot where I was. They should really advertise that outside.“Come to forget; you’ll do it so well you won’t even know where you are!”
I drag my fingers down the uneven textured drywall; the old country song playing vibrates up through the floor, sending a rattle through my legs as I walk. The hall is dark and cool, a stark contrast to the heat I was feeling under the amber bar lights, with people stuffed in the seats around me like sardines.
The air smells like piss and the sole of old shoes. Pushing into the bathroom, I find myself gasping for another breath only to realize, nah, I’m just getting ready to puke again.
Emptying my stomach—and surprisingly, there seems to be plenty left—into the porcelain, I step in front of the rust-laden sink, turning on the water.
Rinsing my mouth out, I splash water on my face but don’t seem to feel it at all.