Page 4 of Unhinged

With a discerning smirk, she tousles my hair, and I lean away from her. “Get a haircut. It’s curling like your dad’s. It must drive your mother insane.”

“Your point?”

Aunt Amy grins at my insolence. “We’ll talk soon.” Turning, her perfume assaults every sense and then some. As I leave the kitchen, pushing through the door, I nearly run into Monty, who puts his arm over my shoulders. “I’m glad you’re here. I’m heading out.”

“No. Amy said you’re here tonight.”

“I need an extended lunch. I got to be somewhere.” I want to punch the horny grin off his face.

“Why’d Misty quit?”

He shrugs. “Maybe she’s knocked up. You afraid it might be yours?” I could argue that, but I’ve been in that situation in the past. More than once.

“Monty, please stop with the never-ending praise. It’s going to my head, and not the one you fantasize about. Do you know who the new investor is?”

“Maybe. I thought maybe you did.” Monty laughs. “He’s probably an old boyfriend from her hooker days.”

“Hang on. My aunt wasn’t a hooker and only told that to men, so they’d think they were getting a free sample, which oddly made her more desirable. Her word, not mine.” Yeah. Makes no sense, but she’s a Rodwell.

“Not buying it, but neither did they. Anyway, auf Wiedersehen.” Only he could make German sound douchey. No doubt to wet his wick. I hate my aunt.

As he walks away, I warn, “You better be back to help close and to deal with this shill Aunt Amy found at the bus depot.”

Before leaving through the front door, he throws a limp wave to rival his limp dick. “Yeah, yeah. But you know how to entertain people. Show him a good time.”

“Well, if you want me to get naked, I’ll need triple overtime pay with stock options and a company car. You’re the manager. Make it happen.”

“So funny, Rodwell.”

I mumble, “Idiotic dick lick.”

Opening the door, letting in every barfly within a ten-mile radius, he yells, “I heard that!”

“Good.” As Candi stares at me while delivering drinks to a table in the corner, I grab a towel and wipe off the bar. As I go, people move their glasses in a hurry, having learned the hard lesson the first time their beers landed in their laps.

Paranoid, I’m distracted for a while, knowing I’m watched. Probably from a dark corner while the creep jerks it, taking in all the riches that abound here.

I stay on my side of the bar, leaving Milt at the far end, doing a favor not just for the patrons but also for myself. It’s no use complaining to him about Aunt Amy’s business deal since he’s probably grateful no one has reported him as a sewage spill.

With my back turned to the enchanting clientele, I open another bottle of Jim Beam, resigned to another predictable and stupid Saturday night here. I need to figure out something soon, or I’ll murder a coworker with a whole bottle of Evan Williams to the face.

As I snap off the lid, a sudden feeling of dread squeezes me until I audibly gasp, hunching over the black, sticky counter. One of our regulars, Filth, laughs as he taps an open pack of cigarettes on the bar. His name is probably Phil. Of all people, Milt christened him with it. Looking at Filth’s rumpled and stained gray T-shirt, which was once white, and his beard crusted with food from days gone by, he clutches the cigarettes I’ve never seen him smoke. Though he reeks of every smell imaginable. “Something yanking your cock, Rodwell?” That’s why I’m here.

With my head hung over the counter and my eyes closed, I suck in my bottom lip. The past two months swirl around my head—the good, the bad, and the what the fuck did I do? Last Halloween, I set fire to my goddamn world with confessions that never should have seen the dark of night, let alone the light of day. I torched everything in my path and panicked when it all exploded, and then I got the hell out of Dodge.

Desperate to shake off the swift and inexplicable terror rearing its ugly head out of nowhere, I forget the lush’s refill I was seeking and grab a shot glass for myself. Not caring if anyone is watching, I open a fresh bottle of Jim Beam and splash some into the glass, and with each drop that splashes into it, I hate myself just a little more for what I’ve become. All because I couldn’t keep my feelings or my tongue to my fucking self. Setting down the bottle, nearly tipping it over, I take a deep breath before downing the golden liquid I loathe. I’ve always been a beer man if I drink alcohol at all, which I rarely do. Well, I rarely used to. I’ve done many things recently I never thought I’d do.

Flinching from the burn, scorching my throat as I slam down the shot glass, I practically pant. I’m a pussy with hard liquor.

Shaking my head, I irritably grab the bottle and turn around to tend to the refill. When I do, though, the worst thing I could imagine reappearing in my life shatters my field of vision, as well as my night and, most likely, the rest of my worthless life.

“Greg Rodwell. We meet again.”

Speechless, I actively refrain from guzzling the entire bottle of booze in my hand in one gulp. Handing it to Milt, who needed it in the first place, I back up to the counter behind me, leaning against it and crossing my arms. I also refrain from running out the door screaming or committing a bloody fucking murder.

Clearing my throat doesn’t help since I still sound like Peter Brady.

“Amos.”

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