Page 10 of Look What You Made Me Do

He was drinking too much.

Perhaps buying a bar hadn’t been such a swell idea, but what else did washed-up sports stars do? If it was good enough for Sam Malone it was good enough for him.

Still, there’d been plenty of commentary from friends and colleagues over his choice of bar location. They’d all urged him to buy a hip place in the swankier northern suburbs where people with money – him included – lived. But there’d been something familiar about the suburban, southside honky-tonk that had appealed.

That had spoken to him.

Sure, he’d erased all that kitschy shit during the renovation but, according to his father, it was the people that made a bar what it was and, although this neighborhood was a far cry from his current lakeside digs, he felt at home here.

Raising the bottle to his mouth again, Jake took a long pull, savoring the cold bitter taste. As a young rookie, he’d learned the perils of alcohol the hard way and had been practically teetotal for the rest of his career. But with that in the toilet and his father’s genes tightening their grip, his fondness for the amber liquid had returned with a vengeance.

A clatter further down the alley disturbed the peace and Jake turned to locate the cause. A sad-looking excuse of a mutt backed guiltily away from some upended wooden crates, eyeing Jake warily. It was some kind of Jack Russell cross, painfully skinny, its ribs well defined beneath mangy fur that was probably mostly white beneath all the ingrained filth.

“Hey, boy.” Jake slid down the wall, the bricks snagging at his black T-shirt. He reached out a hand and waited patiently for the neglected animal to come closer. “You lost?” he murmured as the dog approached tentatively, a slight limp making his countenance even more pathetic.

The poor animal looked like he’d been kicked when he was down one too many times and Jake could relate. The mutt’s steps grew even more hesitant the closer he got and, in the end, it was Jake who gently bridged the distance between them.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he crooned, scratching the soft spot under the dog’s ear. “What’s your name, buddy?”

Jake looked for a collar, not surprised when he didn’t find one. “Are you a runaway, boy? Are you homeless?”

He cupped the dog’s head, noting the gray muzzle as he looked into those sad, mistrustful eyes. Old and down on his luck. “Yeah, life’s a bitch, ain’t it?”

The dog whined and Jake petted the length of his coat, feeling each dip of his ribcage. “You hungry, boy?”

The door beside him opened abruptly and the bass throbbed into the sultry ripeness of the alley. The dog pushed himself closer to Jake as a low whistle emanated from the doorway.

“That’s one ugly dog.”

The dog moved closer again and Jake petted him reassuringly. “It’s okay, this is Pete. He’s an annoying pain in my ass but he won’t hurt you.”

Pete crouched beside Jake letting the dog sniff his hand. “Some woman’s at the bar bitching about the jukebox and demanding to see the heartless asshole who’s ripped the soul out of her honky tonk.”

Jake sighed as he fondled the dog’s head. Running a bar in Inverboro wasn’t like back home. It wasn’t like TV either.

Draining the last mouthful of beer, he stood. “Well, I guess that’s me.”

Pete stood too, clapping him on the shoulder. “That’s why you’re paid the big bucks,” he quipped before heading back inside.

Jake looked at the dog, who gazed up at him with don’t-leave-me eyes and gave the most pathetic tremble Jake had ever witnessed. “It’s okay, boy. I’ll send Petey out with some food soon.”

3

The monotonous beat vibrated through Jake’s chest as he entered and even he winced at the soullessness. Give him Bruce Springsteen screaming ‘Born in the USA’ any day.

God, he was tired.

He walked past his office and through the back area of the bar, stopping to snag another Corona from the fridge. He cracked the top and took a long drag, not caring how long he made the dissatisfied customer wait.

She could always go find somewhere else to drink.

He frowned as he rounded into the front area. The complaining woman’s raised voice was eerily familiar and his pulse kicked up a notch as he laid eyes on her. Two years since she’d swaggered into Trently and dragged him upstairs and yet the memory was as vivid for him as if it had happened yesterday.

She was different, of course, dressed more conservatively in a white blouse with her shoulder-length hair, the color of his on-tap stout, pulled back into a loose ponytail.

He’d always had a thing for ponytails.

“I mean, just how old are you?” she demanded of Pete. “Obviously not old enough to appreciate a classic. You ever heard of the Stones, the Eagles, Johnny goddamn Cash?”

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