Page 7 of Rookie Recovery

“But officer, I’ve only had two drinks.” Bowman’s grin slipped back over his face again, the cocky one. “I’d still be a good shag. Really good.”

I bet he would.

But I had to be the better man. And not find out.

Fortunately, Aaron chose that moment to realize his new linemate was propped up on the bar trying to flirt his way into the pants of a crotchety old guy. “Bowie! There you are.”

“He probably doesn’t need to drink anymore,” I noted as Aaron and Zac engulfed Bowman in a two-sided hug and forcibly dragged him off his stool. They kept hold of him, which was good, since I was starting to doubt Bowman’s ability to support himself. His legs looked suspiciously … sloshy.

“Yeah, if he’s trying to pick you up.” Zac grinned over his shoulder as they led their inebriated new friend away. “He can do better.”

I needed to not stick around to see if those words came true. Bowman could do better than me—with any number of men at this bar. No, it was time for me to go.

I reached for my wallet, flicked a few bills onto the table. Had Bowman even paid for his drink? Wasn’t my place to ask.

I turned away from the counter—and ran headfirst into Katie. “C’mon, J. Stay.”

“Nope. Got work to do.” I was already in go-mode, bee-lining for the door, and she knew it. Didn’t try to stop me this time.

No, I stopped me. “Watch out for the newbie, will you? He’s in rough shape.”

Then I walked out into the clammy night.

Chapter 2

Bowie

My body chose violence when it woke up that morning.

I peeled my eyes open one at a time. My brain pulsated in my skull. My throat had apparently tried to lubricate itself with my own blood, and my stomach roiled, threatening to evict its occupants … again.

A memory of the previous night flashed through my mind. Me, standing outside The Lounge, painting the pavement—sorry sidewalk—with partially digested meat-feast pizza pie, craft ale, rum and cokes, and shots shots shots shots. And while the vomiting never seemed to end—because I still hadn’t wrapped my brain around the portion sizes here—my new teammates stood around and … cheered.

“Welcome to America,” one of them said. Aaron or Zac maybe. Those two were inseparable. Maybe they were a couple. They were probably a couple.

“He’s one of us!” the other had said.

Which, okay, was what I wanted to hear. What I craved.

To be part of the team. To belong. To be accepted, even though I’d already lived in this country for four years. It just wasn’t the method I usually employed to hear it.

My insides lurched again. This was why I didn’t drink.

Why I should definitely never drink again.

And why I should listen to myself next time.

Another memory surfaced …

Oh, God.

No. That didn’t happen. I could just pretend it didn’t happen. Right?

Please, sweet angel Jesus in the heavens above, tell me I didn’t bawl like a baby in front of the guys. Tell me I didn’t pour my heart out to one—or more—of my new teammates.

I attempted to shake up my memories, though not literally because shaking my head could be catastrophic for my duvet. There had only been one other person by that point. But someone had stayed behind with me. Had rubbed my back as I redecorated the exterior wall of my new team’s favourite bar.

“That’s it,” they’d said. “Let it out. Let it all out.” Which might have been in reference to the vomit or the tears. “Project beer, not fear. Every rookie has felt this way at some point.”

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