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Tonight’s not about being sensible.
Before I can change my mind, I grab my keys and jacket, lock up after me, and then I drive away. My tires screech on the asphalt underneath as I take a corner too fast. Not that it matters. Tonight, the only thing that matters is that I get away from here. Away from expectations, shattered dreams, and old wounds.
It doesn’t take long until I’m at one of the clubs Soren and I used to frequent whenever we wanted easy pussy. Inside, it’s a cacophony of noise and drinks, a sanctuary for the reckless. The moment I step in, I’m hit with the stench of sweat and spilled beer, the sound of laughter and clinking glasses. I barely make it to the bar before puck bunnies circle like sharks, their eyes hungry, fixed on me.
“Hey, Mick!” one calls out, her voice slicing through the chaos.
“Looking to score tonight?” another teases, batting her eyelashes.
I force a smirk. “Just here for the drinks, ladies.” But their eagerness claws at me, a reminder that I’m just a game to them—a notch on their bedposts. And what am I? A guy trying to drown his demons in a bottle of whiskey.
“Hit me with your hardest shot,” I tell the bartender, slapping some cash down. He nods, accustomed to my routine.
The first sip burns, a liquid fire that promises oblivion. That’s what I need—to scorch away the images of Simone and Jared, the sting of betrayal, the gnawing fear of fatherhood. Each gulp is another brick in the wall I’m building against reality.
“Come on, Mickey, lighten up!” a puck bunny pouts, trying to curl against me. I shrug her off, my buzz growing, but my tolerance for bullshit is tanking fast.
“Sorry, doll, I’m not much company tonight,” I say, but she doesn’t back off.
“Is it true what they say about hockey players?” she purrs, undeterred.
“Depends on what they’re saying,” I reply, my words slurring just a bit.
“Big sticks, rough play…” Her hand drifts dangerously close, but I catch it before she can explore further.
“Only on the ice,” I lie, knocking back another drink.
“Such a waste,” she sighs, finally retreating as I order another round.
The alcohol is doing its job, blunting the edges of my thoughts, turning sharp memories into hazy regrets. My head spins, and I lean back, letting the noise wash over me. It’s better than silence—better than facing the truth waiting for me outside these walls.
“Maybe one more,” I mumble, signaling the bartender again. One more, and then maybe, just maybe, I’ll forget why I’m running in the first place.
The glass hits the bar with a thunk, cold and empty. I signal for another, the burn in my throat less than the turmoil twisting in my gut. Each swallow is a brick in the fortress I’m erecting around my heart.
“O.M.G. Mickey!” I go to turn around as someone screeches my name, but I’m stopped as a body is suddenly plastered to mine. “I never thought I’d see you here again,” the woman purrs. As I try to move away, she wraps her arms around my neck, not-so-subtly pushing her tits against my chest as she arches her back.
Fuck! This is… umm… can’t remember her name, but I do remember the way she screamed mine and Soren’s names as we made her come all night long last year. “Hi,” I say, trying to convey my lack of interest.
“They said you were here, but I didn’t believe them,” she giggles, gesturing to a group of women behind her. “I thought my eyes were deceiving me when I saw you standing here alone. You’re not usually lonely.” Not waiting for an invitation, she slides onto the stool next to me, her thigh brushing mine.
“Loneliness is a myth,” I retort, the words spilling out with the bitterness of cheap whiskey. “It’s just space waiting to be filled.” With booze, or bodies, or bullshit—it doesn’t matter.
“Then let’s fill it up,” she purrs, flicking her hair over her shoulder, exposing more skin than modesty allows. She leans forward, offering a view down her top that I don’t take.
I nod at the bartender again, and he knows the drill. He slides another over, the golden liquid sloshes dangerously close to the rim. I catch it before it spills, my reflexes still sharp despite my brain going soft. I knock it back, hard, letting the drink obliterate the shadows lurking at the edge of my vision.
“Don’t you remember me?” she suddenly asks, and I shake my head. All I remember is that she gives one hell of a blow job, but not her name. “It’s Trish.”
I don’t acknowledge her words, instead I push her hand off my thigh for the third time. I’m not here for her to paw at, or to stare at her barely covered tits. I’m here for the whiskey, damnit.
“Come on, live a little,” the bunny coaxes, but her eyes are on the VIP door, where the real action happens.
“Already dead,” I quip, standing up with an unsteady swagger. I’ve got plans—and they’re beyond the prying eyes of the main floor.
“Where are you going?” Trish calls after me, a hint of desperation threading her voice.
“Upstairs,” I say, and it’s all the invitation she needs.
