Page 18 of Unhinged

Goddamn it. He knows.

Then again, he doesn’t.

Only Hadley and I know what really happened.

And it’ll stay that way.

It has to.

Chapter 5

A crowing douche nozzle awakens me. I slept better with the drug dealers and hookers serving as one of those sound machines. It was comforting. It was home.

I thought.

Throwing up the window, I yell, “Can it, you feathered fucker, or I’m calling the Colonel!” I know it won’t shut him up, but it’s the principle. The jackass looks at me, momentarily confused or thoroughly entertained. I slam the window shut and dive back into bed as his bitching continues. I’ve lost so much, and the latest is my patience. Jimmy Don’s days are numbered.

Successfully avoiding my mother for two days, I leave Home Depot and head to the bar. Luckily, I don’t see Amos’s dickish Range Rover in the parking lot. As I go toward the kitchen, from behind the bar, Monty says, “You’re late, Rodwell.”

“You’re redundant, Jensen.” Tossing my coat onto the rack in the locker room, I then keep an eye out for the Oompa Loompa reject.

When I take my place behind the bar, Monty says, “All because your aunt owns this bar doesn’t mean you come and go when you please.” She’s only a part-owner now.

“That’s exactly what it means.”

“It won’t fly with me.”

“And Amos will override you.” Damn it. Wrong choice of word. That overfilled balloon riding a bicycle is not a picture I want to burn into memory. Imagining his ham hocks pumping the pedals uphill is worth more than a thousand f-words.

“Amos mentioned changes coming soon. Maybe you’ll be out of a job…”

“One down. One to go.”

Harold laughs, and it sounds like a stuttering donkey stuck in quicksand. “Amos wants to change the name.”

“What’s wrong with Amy’s?”

“He said it sounds more like a lounge than a bar.”

“Vaughn should know.” His look screams washed-up lounge act singing Streisand’s greatest hits to an empty room.

Monty asks, “What’s your history with him, anyway? You friends?”

As I unload the clean shot glasses from the bin, I frown. “No. Just former coworkers.”

“And current coworkers.”

I roll my eyes. “Yeah, yeah.”

When I’m finished, I reluctantly check if any barfly needs a drink or a refill. A group of five younger women giggling too much and wearing too little crowd my end of the bar. Going over, I ask, “What can I get you?” I should ID, but I’ve seen Monty serve them before, and he’s in charge. I won’t be the hassling asshat pretending to care.

The red head tempers her giggles as her eyes fuck me in every way possible. “Five Buttery Nipples.”

“Come again?”

They all laugh, but I’m no professional bartender. What the hell do I know? I can pour whiskey, vodka, and maybe rum. Nobody here drinks rum, though, unless sitting on a curb, drinking straight from the bottle. Nothing but class here.

Red asks, “You don’t know how to make a Buttery Nipple?”

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