Page 10 of Manic

I clear my throat, raising my voice slightly. "All right, listen up. In about thirty minutes, we're gonna have some important guests. I want this place spotless, and I want everyone on their best behavior. Got it?"

A chorus of "Yes, sir" and nods ripple through the room.

The prospects scramble to start tidying up, while the patched members settle into a tense waiting game.

I make my way over to where Starla's sitting, her eyes glued to her phone.

"Everything okay?" I ask, curious about her unusual quietness.

She looks up, startled. "Oh, yeah. Just... just catching up with an old friend."

Something in her tone catches my attention. "An old friend, huh? Anyone I know?"

Starla hesitates, and in that moment, Iknow.

My stomach drops as she confirms my suspicion. "It's Meg. We've been talking a bit lately."

The name hits me like a physical blow.

Meghan.

It's been fifteen years since I've allowed myself to think about her, to say her name out loud.

The wound of her pushing me away eventually scarred over, but hearing her name rips it wide open again.

Starla's voice sounds distant, muffled by the sudden roaring in my ears. "Tor? You okay?"

I force myself to nod, to breathe. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine. How... how is she?"

Starla's eyes are full of sympathy, and I hate it. "She's doing all right. Working all the time. You know how it is."

"That's... that's good. Keeping busy is good," I manage to say, the words tasting like ash in my mouth. "I'm glad she's doing well."

Before Starla can say anything else, I turn away, needing to escape the flood of memories threatening to drown me.

I make my way to the bar, signaling for a shot of whiskey.

It's early, but fuck it.

Some ghosts can only be kept at bay with a healthy dose of alcohol.

As I down the burning liquid, I catch sight of my reflection in the mirror behind the bar.

For a moment, I see the young man I was fifteen years ago, full of hope and dreams of a future with Meghan.

Then I blink, and I'm back to the present, the hard lines of my face a testament to the years and battles since she left.

I set the empty shot glass down with a sharp clink and straighten my shoulders.

Fern’s voice is raised in a mixture of concern and exasperation. "Rev, come on, open up the door," she's saying, her hand resting on the worn wood.

I turn and she’s standing outside one of the club bathroom’s door.

I scoot off my barstool and head over.

"Everything all right?" I ask, approaching cautiously.

Dealing with my teenage sisters isn't exactly my strong suit, but for Fern, I'll try.

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