Page 19 of Kings Don't Break
My teeth grind together on their own. I pocket my phone and head straight for the gas station convenience store. The door dings above my head as I push it open and earn a look from the clerk. He’s bored behind the counter, fiddling with his cell phone to pass the time.
Artificial light bathes the store front to back and every aisle’s fully stocked. All the sugary and salty treats you could ask for. Rows of magazines and spin racks of souvenirs and other on-the-go knickknacks, like phone batteries and mini umbrellas.
I go for the far back, where the refrigerators are.
There’s every beverage you could thirst for. A dozen different brands of water. Just as many flavors of soda and juice. But it’s the beer that steals the show.
That forces my gaze.
It happens within a blink of my eye. The hunger taking over. The instant, unbearable hunger that rushes me and makes the scene around me feel like it’s shifted. I’m standing in the middle of a warped tunnel where everything in the store’s a blur except for the refrigerators that tower above me. They’re in perfect focus. The large, untouched, readily available stock of beer.
Bottles of beer. Cans of beer. Cases of beer.
Texas Brew. Pike. Ranger Ale. And every other fucking brand available for sale.
I become someone else. Someone driven by a compulsion that feels inescapable and instinctual. A core part of myself and who I am. So damn integral, I can’t begin to fight it. I’ve fallen too deep into the pit.
Too far down the hole.
I need it like I need air. My legs move me toward the glass door, my eyes wide and pupils dilated.
Just one fucking drop is all I’ll have. One fucking drop can’t hurt?—
“You need any help?” calls out the clerk, ripping me from my sudden trance.
It’s like somebody shining a spotlight on me as I turn stiffly away from the refrigerator and peer at the end of the aisle. He’s fixing one of the snack displays. The way he’s looking at me, he must sense something’s off.
I shake my head once, then twice, then I step away from the refrigerator altogether. “Nah,” I say. “No help needed. Except… get me a pack of the Borvo Lights. And some spearmint gum. I’ll meet you up front.”
He moves on to fulfill my request while I take another few seconds to collect myself. I breathe in and out, throw a parting glance at the refrigerator of beer, and urge myself to walk away.
You’ve done it before. Do it again. Just… walk away, Blake.
“Hey, thanks,” I say once he’s rung me up for my cigarettes and gum.
I rarely smoke cigarettes and I chew gum even less… but in this moment, carrying these out of the store fills a void.
The moment’s a one-off. A few seconds of weakness. It doesn’t mean anything.
I beat that monster years ago.
Throwing my leg over my bike and gripping the handles, it’s what I tell myself. These are the kind of reminders I need to keep going. This is the reason I need to forget.
I spare a moment to pull out my phone and delete the text message Mom sent me. Her number gets blocked.
Then I’m off. My bike rumbles as I drive off into the darkness.
* * *
“Well, damn,” says Chaz, one of the Chop Shop’s veteran mechanics. He wipes sweat and motor oil from his brow. “Who said I couldn’t create a masterpiece like this? Ain’t it a beaut?”
I stand back to admire his work. He’s made a number of upgrades to a customer’s Super Glide. One-ten twin cam power under the tank. Newly installed ultra foam step-up seating for both balance and comfort. Sleek Biltwell handlebars that give the bike a fresh, dynamic edge. LED switch back lights. And the finishing touch—chrome canon mufflers for a solid rumble when coming down the block.
“Well, damn is right, Chaz,” I whistle. “This is impressive. Even for you.”
Chaz flashes a gap-toothed smile at me. “They don’t call me Dr. Frankenstein for nothing.”
“Is that a good thing?”
