Page 88 of What's Left of Us

I get in my truck and drive in the opposite direction of the therapist’s office until I park next to a line of motorcycles lining the side of The Barrel.

Sliding onto the stool at the bar, I don’t bother looking up at the bartender, who’s always here on Wednesdays, and say, “Don’t ever serve me Johnnie Walker again. Even if I ask for it.”

I don’t have to look to know she’s studying me with an inquisitive brow. “On a break with Johnnie Walker?”

We both know it’s not Johnnie Walker I’m breaking up with. “Something like that.”

She hums, pouring an IPA from the tap and sliding it in front of me. “It’s about time you pulled your head out of your ass.” When I try passing her cash, she shakes her head. “That one is on me.”

Tucking the money into the tip jar, I take a swig of my favorite beer. “Thanks, Shelly.”

All she does is dip her chin and continue stacking cups on the back shelf.

“How come you never hit on me?” I ask, sipping the drink. “I’ve seen you hit on everybody else around here.”

Shelly stops what she’s doing and props her hip against the counter. “Baby, I can smell damaged from a mile away. There are some people I won’t touch with a ten-foot pole, no matter how hot they are.”

“You think I’m hot?”

She snorts. “Men like you are heartbreakers. I see it all the time. Even if I hit on you, we both know you wouldn’t have done anything.”

She’s not wrong.

“Plus,” she adds. “A girl needs good tips.”

Her wink makes me chuckle.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Lincoln / Present

There are twomissed calls and one voicemail from an unsaved number on my cell. But I know who it is before I listen to the smooth, professional voice and dial the number after getting home hours later.

“This is Theresa Castro,” is how she picks up.

“Hello, Theresa Casto,” I greet with a slur as I stumble up the stairs. “This is Lincoln Danforth.”

There’s a moment of hesitation. “Have you been drinking, Mr. Danforth?”

“So many formalities,” I muse, kicking one boot off at a time and tripping over one on my way to the couch. Dropping onto my back, I close my eyes and lay my phone down on my chest. “I may have indulged in a drink or two.”

Or twenty. Not sure.

I lost count after Shelly gave me glass number five. She also made me drink water and put a basket of chicken wings in front of me to absorb some of the alcohol. I’m not sure if the food came after drink number nine or ten.

“It sounds to me like you’ve had more than two,” she remarks, her tone almost sounding disappointed. Or was it judgmental?

I ignore the dull ping in my chest. “IPAs are heavy, doc. High alcohol content. You ever drink beer, or are you a fruity kind of woman?”

She doesn’t answer me. I already know the answer. She likes strawberry daiquiris. “You missed our session today. Is there a reason for it?”

Humming, I drape an arm over my eyes and settle into the couch. “Did you miss me?”

“I’m not in the mood to flirt, Mr. Danforth.”

Somebody is testy.Is it wrong that I like when she uses that firm voice on me? Maybe it’s the alcohol making my dick twitch to life, or maybe it’s the fact I haven’t gotten any in a while.

Seeing Georgia today sure as fuck didn’t put me in the mood. If anything, it made me want to find someone at the bar and bring her home. I debated it. But I thought about what Shelly said, and I knew she was right.

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