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The question physically stops me. Not a muscle twitches, not even my lungs, as I run the question through my mind over and over again. Why’re you here? Why am I here?
“I’m checking in,” I hiss through clenched teeth, knowing how fucking stupid I sound. This is why it’s taken so damn long for me to reconnect with Reece, and it’s exactly why I’m unsure we ever will. We aren’t two kids fighting over Legos or G.I. Joes anymore; we’re two grown ass men. We’re hot tempered and stubborn as fuck, and neither of us likes to admit we’re wrong.
Maybe it’s time to start correcting that.
He snorts in response and pours the last of his beer down his throat. “Keep telling yourself that.”
“I had to check on you. Maybe you’re right, maybe you’re wrong, but I haven’t heard gunshots right outside my house—fuck, outside that house—in over a decade. When shit like that’d go down, we used to check on each other, and I guess I couldn’t shake that feeling.” I drain my beer, take two steps, and slam it down on his mantel. “Didn’t make a difference.” I flip the lock and yank the door open. I’m through and about to close it when he calls behind me.
“My door’s always open.”
“Yeah, I can see that,” I respond derisively then pull that same door closed.
As I get in my truck and point it toward town, I let myself feel the truth. It did make a difference. It made a whole world of difference. The shakes stopped, and I’m no longer sweating. Seeing my brother did exactly as I’d hoped it would, but that being said, I’m still not ready to go home.
The drive into town is short, and within minutes, I’m pulling into the alley behind Bar 9. The owner actually did try out bars 1-8 before he was successful, though they weren’t all named after numbers. I’m not exactly sure what happened to the others, but the owner, Tom, calls them “practice.” A better outlook than I would have had. I’d probably call them failures.
I leave my truck in the near-empty parking lot behind the bar. Grabbing my phone from the passenger’s seat, I climb out and hit the locks. As I’m walking in the back door, my phone vibrates in my hand. Tavers Calling…
I hit ignore, and the screen shows two other missed calls from him. I open a message. There’s a seat open near the far corner of the bar top, three from the end, so I head that way as I type out a response.
12:24 a.m. Me: I’m good.
I know my partner enough to know he’s just checking in. I’m sure he got home, and his wife started asking questions about me. She probably convinced him to call me once more, and then when I didn’t answer, she most likely demanded he keep calling until I do. I chuckle to myself, thinking of that woman. She’s a spitfire for sure and keeps Tavers on his damn toes.
When I sit down, Tom catches my eye with a lift of his chin. I hold up three fingers—my index, middle, and thumb—to communicate to him that I want three shots. I’m not ashamed to admit I’ve been here enough that he knows my drink of choice. Usually, he just needs to know the quantity. That’s the way it goes in a small town bar. I might have just moved back to town, but I’ve frequented here enough over the years.
As I wait for my drinks, I check out the bar and find only a handful of people here tonight. A group of young adults in their early twenties hanging out by the pool table. Two guys about my age watching a sports recap on the other side of the bar. To my right and one stool separating us sits a middle-aged man who looks three sheets to the wind. His head rests heavily in his hand as he twists his glass on the bar top.
Whatever. He’s not doing any harm, and I’m off duty. So long as he doesn’t try to stumble to his car, I decide to leave him be. I’m not in the mood for conversation anyway. There’s been enough of that for tonight.
Tom sets my drinks down, and I give him my card. Might as well start a tab.
I toss the first shot of vodka back like it’s nothing but water. Halfway to grabbing the second, my phone vibrates with a text. Fucking Tavers. More like his wife but I can’t curse the sweet woman. She makes the best damn pot roast I’ve ever had, and I’d hate to lose my privilege at her table. The second shot goes down the hatch.
“How’s life, Niko?” Tom asks, stopping in front of me to wipe down a spot on the bar. The man’s as old as my father and looks it too with his salt and pepper hair and the lines around his eyes. He has six kids of his own, but none of them live around here, so he treats his customers like his kids. Kind eyes look down at me from behind the bar, and even though I’ve had one hell of a night, the vodka helps me flash a half grin.
“Oh, you know, same old. Criminals being criminals.” I trail my fingertips along the third shot. The movement draws Tom’s eyes.
“Need another?”
“Three,” I grunt, losing the half grin.
Tom’s eyes widen. He splays both hands on the top of his lacquered bar and looks at me critically. “Something going on, son?”
“Nothing more than usual.”
“I think maybe you should head home. I’ve been a bar owner for as many years as you’ve been alive; I know better than anyone that liquor solves nothing.”
“Quit preaching and bring the damn kid his drinks. While you’re at it, I’m fresh out,” the man on my right snaps. Tom clenches his fist and gives a curt nod.
“It’s nothing personal, Tom. I’ve had a shit couple of weeks.” I slam the third shot just as he places down three more.
Another nod. “Let me know if you need anything else.” He walks away.
My phone vibrates again, reminding me I never read Tavers’ other text.
1:07 a.m. Tavers: You’re good? Shit, you’re not good. Where are you?
