Page 42 of Rock Bottom

“Where are you?”

He took a deep breath. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry… I fucked up again…”

I closed one hand tight around the steering wheel. “Dante, tell me where you are right now. I’m coming to get you.”

“You can’t. I…I gotta go.”

“Dante! Dante wait!” The line went dead, and I immediately called the number back. It rang five times before an unfamiliar voice answered.

“Tappy’s Tap Room. What can I get started for you?”

I hung up without answering, flung the phone into the passenger seat, and stomped on the gas. Rocks flew and my tires screamed enough that I knew they’d soon need replaced, but none of that mattered. All that mattered was that Dante needed me, and I was going to be there.

Music throbbed in the air while I sat in my car, trying to find the courage to go inside. It was playing so loud I could hear the bass line even with my windows up. Walking into that bar was going to be like walking into my worst nightmare, but I didn’t have a choice. Dante was inside, and he needed me.

I took a deep breath and mopped more sweat from my forehead. It’s just a bar, Church. Not a holding cell. There are multiple exits and you’ll probably be the biggest guy in there.

I’d been the biggest guy in that Syrian prison too, for what good it did me.

I shook the thought away and blew out a breath before slapping the side of my face. Come on, soldier. Get your shit together. Your man needs you. You can either sit out here cowering from the enemy while he’s in there hurting, or you can suck it up and be the man he needs you to be.

“I can do this,” I said out loud. “I will do this.” I slapped myself again, psyching myself up, before I threw open the door and marched up to the bar.

The second I opened the door, music blasted out of the dank, dark little beer hovel. It vibrated over my skin like fast moving needles, searching for a point of entry.

I can’t do this. I shut my eyes, fighting the waves of nausea. My hand tightened on the door handle.

“Hey buddy!”

I opened my eyes and found a group of bikers in patched leather vests staring at me.

“Did your mamma raise you in a barn?” the old timer in front growled. “In or out!”

I stepped into the bar and the door swung shut behind me with all the finality of nails driven into a coffin lid. A cacophony of notes assaulted my ears, making it impossible to focus, but I tried, scanning the room once, twice…

And then there was a man standing in front of me, his arms crossed over his thick chest. A spotted blue bandana hid a bald head, but my eyes zeroed in on the tattoo of dog tags on his left forearm. On his left was an empty pair of boots and a helmet resting on the butt of a rifle right next to an American flag. “You lost, friend?”

“Afghanistan or Iraq?” I asked.

He blinked and uncrossed his arms, putting his hands on his hips. “Excuse me?”

“Where did you serve?”

“Afghanistan. Army.”

“Syrian-Lebanon border. SAS.” I stuck out my hand stiffly. “Name’s Pope.”

All the hostility in his posture disappeared as he squeezed my outstretched hand in a vise grip. “Jenkins. Buy you a drink for your service?”

“Another time. Tonight, I’m here looking for a friend.” I got the picture of Dante out of my wallet. It was supposed to stay with his file, and I kept meaning to put it back, but it was a good thing I hadn’t yet. “Have you seen him tonight? He might be wearing a hat or sunglasses.”

Jenkins pinched the photo between two fingers and leaned in. “Yeah, I seen him. He was drinking with that weird kid. The one with the glasses. What’s his name, Crush?”

“Oscar something,” replied one of the men behind him.

I nearly crumpled the photograph in my fist. “Are they still here?”

“I think they just left,” said Jenkins, letting go of the photo. “Went out the back.”

---