Page 7 of Unhinged

“Did you fuck a thesaurus or something?” He’s desperate to put it somewhere and would totally slide his dick between the pages of one and rub it out. No online version for him. His mom doesn’t have internet.

I giggle as they both shoot me dirty looks. Ace.

But as much as I want Harold to handle the atrocity sitting before me, Amos is my problem.

Sighing, I ask, “You want a refill?”

“Just water with a twist of lemon. Thanks.”

“What the fuck? This isn’t Club Med.”

“We need to incorporate new things.”

“We? You’ve been here for like five minutes.”

He checks his obnoxious watch that costs more than my life. “I’ve been here for over an hour, Rod.”

“Look at that. You can tell time. Now take your new skill and pass it along to others. Make it your life’s mission. Just not in my life.”

Amos shakes his head and leans forward as I grab a glass and shoot water into it. He says, “I require an explanation, and I’m not leaving until I get it.” I crack a smile as I pour, which Amos knows me well enough to append, “And don’t proclaim I’m at fault. You would have fled years ago.”

Setting down the glass. I pick up three lemon wedges and, holding them over the glass, I squeeze as I look Amos dead-on. I pulverize them into limp rinds before dropping them into his water. “There’s your twisted water. Bottoms up, boss.”

Moving on to the next barfly, I can’t shake the sight of Amos in front of me or the words he shoved into my brain. When I grab the bourbon again, Amos says, “You can’t ignore me forever.”

I turn to Harold, asking, “Did you hear a cat puking?”

“No, why? Is there one here?” I frown at him. The jackass is jerking me around or is dumber than a shoe-wearing pig.

“You think I’ll give up easily?” Amos laughs, shaking his head at the bar. I refrain from slamming his head onto it while hating that Dale’s forklift didn’t put me out of my misery earlier. “Then you underestimated me.”

“No, I underestimated the stupidity of algebra. I’m not surprised you’d sink this low.”

“When do you get a break?”

“I can never catch one of those fuckwads.” When his blank stare grows tiresome, I set the bourbon bottle down with a bang that vibrates through my arm. “I have nothing more to say to you.”

“I beg to differ. You want to talk about it here, then? Fine. I believe it’s because of a certain woman. Or two.”

I lean against the bar, close enough to smell his knock-off cologne amid the sharp smell of alcohol and stale depression. “Your belief would be wrong. I don’t care about any woman. And from what I hear, neither do you.” When Amos frowns at that comment, I frown back. “They could all fall off the face of the earth for all I care. And take you with them.”

He grins, which is more annoying than his prissy odor. “Bingo. We have a winner.”

“I see no winner here.” Especially me.

Pulling out his wallet, Amos motions to Harold to return from gossiping with the yocals. Amos shoves a wad of cash toward Harold, who readily scoops it up, still intrigued. Amos says, “Greg needs an hour break. Now.”

“Absolutely he does, boss.” Harold counts his money with his lips firmly attached to Amos’s ass. I know he’s itching to learn more about my business, which I will give him over my rotten, dead body.

Amos motions to the door, and I cross my arms and dig in my heels if I could. “I hope you’re satisfied with throwing away your money because I’m staying right here.”

Amos again nods, but it’s more of in agreement this time, until he says, “Okay. I’ll go. I want to pay a visit to your mother. I’m sure she has answers for me.”

“The fuck?” I push off the counter and round the bar until I’m in his face, swaying a little. “You stay away from my mother. She knows nothing.”

“I’m sure she knows enough.”

“Less than you.”

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