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The one where I didn’t stop at grabbing her wrist. Another with Charlee straddling my lap as we sat on my bike. Another with her bent over in front of me. . .
Stop.
By the time I got to Sam’s, the lights were out. The bar had clearly been closed for some time.
The owner, standing behind the bar cleaning a glass, looked at me gratefully. The last time I’d seen Sam, I was under twenty-one and sitting at the corner table opening pistachios like it was my part-time job. He looked like he’d aged a hell of a lot more than just ten years, but the bar business would do that to a person. Especially this kind of bar, with patrons like the one shaking his head at me.
“Oh no you don’t, boy.”
“Time to go, Dad.”
“It’s not time to go,” he slurred. “I just got here. Sam, tell ’im.”
Since this was the same Sam that had called me to fetch my father’s drunk ass, I was pretty sure Sam wasn’t going to be telling me anything of the sort.
“Let’s go.”
I reached out, but my father wasn’t going to make things easy.
“Nope. Not gonna do it. Sam, tell ’im.”
Ahh, fuck. “How often does he do this?” I asked Sam as if my father wasn’t in the room.
“Few times a year.” Sam’s weathered, crinkly gaze held mine. “Usually when there’s something in the news that makes him think you’re in danger.”
I laughed at that. “Okay, sure.”
My father didn’t give a flying fuck if I was in danger. How could he when he was rarely sober enough to know whether I was his only son or the goddamn Easter bunny?
Sam didn’t argue with me.
“So what’s the trigger today?” I was a step away from mocking Sam.
“Damned if I know.”
I could physically put the man in my truck but wasn’t in the mood. “Dad, you gotta come with me. The kitchen sink has a leak, and I can’t find it.”
Now I was speaking his language. He’d worked as a plumber once. A painter. A coach. Even a father for a time. The man had held a lot of roles, but one thing he could never resist? Fixing something.
“Can’t find it? What d’you mean, can’t find it?”
There weren’t many people on this planet who could understand him in this condition. But I spoke drunk Dad, and apparently, Sam did too.
“Go help ’im out, Frank.”
“Come on, Dad. Let’s jump.”
“Ahhhh.” He wasn’t happy about it, but at least the man attempted to get off the stool. Attempted. Key word.
I caught him, slung his arm over my shoulder, and asked Sam what he owed.
“Nothin’. Just get him home safe. Thanks, kid.”
I hadn’t been a kid in a long, long time. It was better than “boy,” I supposed.
Dragging my father to the car, I’d have assumed he would pass out the minute I started driving, but no such luck.
“Everyone’s talkin’ about your tattoo place,” he said. “Friggin’ tossers.”
