Page 34 of Escape into the Night

The shithole was a complete dive. Just far enough from the center of DC to be forgotten, more or less untouched by the smoke and mirrors of federal agencies and political figures making a mockery of democracy. Here, the mirrors were covered in grime and the smoke was simply a lingering cigarette smell from the patrons who got away with ignoring the No Smoking sign and the staff who didn't care to enforce it. A whole bunchof people who simply didn't have any fucks left to give. That was pretty much what he was aiming to achieve.

Taz bellied up to the bar, placed his order, and dragged a palm over his face with a sigh. Lately, he'd been feeling like he was just one bad day away from slipping back into dangerous old habits, habits he wasn't even all that far removed from. Not sleeping, barely eating, working himself to the point of collapse, and even worse—the insidious urge to hurt himself for a mere moment’s peace. He didn't want to slip. He didn't want to break his promises. So there he was, trying on a new unhealthy coping mechanism. At least this one was more socially acceptable. Tons of people drank to quiet the demons. Why not him? Which is precisely why he was here. A bar instead of a knife. A whiskey neat instead of another all-nighter. Not exactly a solution, but the pause would help. It had to help.

One drink wasn't enough. He was the cheapest of cheap dates, but one definitely wasn't enough. If anything, it made the noise in his head even louder and the weight on his shoulders even heavier. Desperate times called for desperate measures and standing on the precipice of a fucking mental breakdown seemed pretty fucking desperate to him. Deciding that whiskey was gross, he switched to vodka, but swiftly discovered that vodka was just as disgusting as whiskey and probably not something to be drunk “neat”. He’d only ordered it neat because he always heard people say “whiskey neat” in movies and television shows. In hindsight, none of the protagonists of those movies ever ordered vodka neat. He choked it down anyway, even as he suspected that he was quite possibly more of a fruity drink guy than he'd care to admit. Caleb was going to have a field day with his hungover ass at brunch tomorrow.

He was just about to order a tequila neat to see if that went down any better when his rapidly dulling senses became aware of a presence beside him. Turning his head too fast had himclutching the edge of the bar to avoid slipping from his rickety stool. The world spun in thirteen different directions at once as the liquor hit, but he was still clinging to enough awareness to notice the alarm bells going off in his head as his eyes reluctantly focused on the face of the man beside him. Luke had described this face. Caleb and Elias, too. All the bits and pieces of the puzzle slowly coalesced and his panic rose swiftly as a result.

He recoiled on impulse and collided with a brick wall of muscle, which stymied his epic tumble from the stool. Huge hands, giant catcher’s mitts really, steadied him from behind as he gawked at the man now casually perched on the stool where he’d previously been sitting before fear and gravity caused his crash landing into Mount Muscle. His eyes lifted, squinting at the dark haired, pale skinned, brooding beast holding him upright.

“What the fuck? Don't fucking touch me!” Taz struggled, stumbled, and slammed into the bar, clutching at the sticky surface to prevent another embarrassing tumble. The hands disappeared, taking with them his ability to balance. He swayed and tried to make his scowl extra scathing as he glared at the stranger. “You.”

“Wi, cher. Me. Fancy meeting you here.” He shifted in the seat before nodding to the adjacent stool. “Sit, sweetheart. What are you drinking?”

Taz glared harder. The man smiled sweeter. His muscle bro remained stone-faced and silent. Despite every intent to say something scathing, Taz opened his mouth and pure bullshit flowed freely. “Tequila neat.”

Mellow, melodic laughter escaped from the man’s chest, rumbly and deep as his smile broadened. “Nah, sweetheart. You aren't a straight liquor man.”

“Pssh, you don't know me!” Taz bit back, crossing his arms over his chest with a scowl that felt more like a pout.

“Nope. I don't. But I'd like to.” The darker skinned man flashed another bright white smile and paired it with a wink before flagging down the bartender.

A gentle nudge drove him closer to the vacant stool and he went without protest before his senses kicked in long enough to make him flail his hands at the broad, stoic companion of Mr. Suave. “Stop touching me, trog. Fucking gross. You're gross. Don't touch me.”

Nevertheless, in spite of his protests, Taz sat down. It was safer than standing. Especially since he had vastly misjudged his own ability to hold his liquor. The larger man eased closer on surprisingly silent feet, settling his bulky frame on a stool that looked ready to off itself beneath the man’s weight. A giggle slipped from Taz’ lips at the visual—splintering wood and a death knell of cracking before the beast ended up sprawled on the floor. None of that happened in reality, but his imagination was nothing if not vivid.

The bartender returned with three drinks and Taz instantly widened his eyes in surprise. Whiskey neat for Mr. Suave. A bottle of beer for Mr. Muscles. And the fruitiest, gayest drink he’d ever seen for himself. He tried to tamp down his excitement, but the cherries floating on top of the colorful concoction gave him more joy that he cared to admit. He was blaming the gross drinks from earlier for his lowered inhibitions as he pulled the glass closer and snagged the cocktail straw with his lips. This. This was definitely way better than that bullshit he’d been fucking around with before.

“Tequila Sunrise, sweetheart. In case you were wondering.”

“Piss off.” Taz mumbled the words around the straw before taking another sip.

“Mais, non. We’re getting to know one another.” Mr. Suave clinked his glass against Taz’ and nodded toward the man on the other side of him with a smile that confused him. This wasmore of a real smile, even if the other ones had seemed genuine enough. This smile crinkled his dark brown eyes and softened his features. Taz glanced toward Mr. Muscles and snickered under his breath when he found the mountain’s porcelain complexion turning rosy.

“What the fuck is this, some sort of weird invitation to be your third? Dad—Luke does not share. I don't either.” Taz took another larger sip of pure sunshiney delight before trying in vain to capture a cherry with his fumbling fingers.

“Oh, sweetheart.” Mr. Suave snagged a toothpick from the holder on the edge of the bar and presented it like he’d just invented the damn thing. Taz rolled his eyes but snatched the tool anyway. He wanted those damn cherries. He also wanted a hell of a lot more of this warm, floaty, disconnected feeling.

“Speaking of your Daddy—didn't think I'd find you out here drinking all alone.” Mr. Suave flashed an effortless wave to the bartender and pointed toward their rapidly disappearing drinks.

“Usually don't drink, period.” Taz squinted in concentration as he attempted to spear a cherry with his toothpick. It was a lot harder than it looked. Giving up, he settled for drinking more of the sunshine through the straw in between licking the stickiness from his fingertips.

“Huh.” Mr. Suave leaned against the bar, his intense gaze never wavering. “What’s so special about tonight?”

Sarcasm and deflection sat right on the tip of his tongue as he stared at his drink and the taunting cherries floating in the swirling liquid. It would be so easy to snap, shout, make a scene, but he was tired. He was so fucking tired. “Trying not to work myself to death.”

“A common issue?” Buttery smooth, the man’s voice seemed to magically soothe his prickled defenses.

“Used to be worse. Used to be a different problem entirely.” Taz sighed softly and recaptured the straw, slurping down thelast of his sunrise and mourning the cherries now stuck at the bottom. Determined to salvage this small pocket of joy, he wielded the cocktail straw with a vengeance, stabbing at the ice and cherries before finally snagging one. He wiggled in delight and wiggled again as his second drink appeared before him.

No one said anything for a while, not that Taz was any good at judging the passing of time. It could have been five minutes, or twenty, or fifty. Sitting there with two creepy stalkers in a shitty dive bar was one of his worst ideas to date, but he didn't try to leave. It would have been easy as hell to call someone, make a scene, yell, scream, flag down the bartender or simply get up and walk away. He didn't do any of that, though. Maybe they’d eventually drag him into an alley and end his misery. The thought was tragic, a little terrifying, entirely plausible, and yet he couldn't find the energy or willpower to do anything other than chase cherries with a cocktail straw and drown himself in the delectable beverage.

By the bottom of his second tequila sunrise, Taz could no longer trust his thoughts, tongue, or limbs. A squat little glass full of cherries appeared alongside a large glass of ice water with a straw and that was just perfect. Heavy-lidded, he oozed in the barstool until he caught his chin in his hand and nearly laid across the bar. Mr. Suave started murmuring some bullshit in French to Mr. Muscles, who still hadn't uttered a single sound. The words were pretty. Probably involved planning his murder, but that didn't really inspire any fear. Play stupid games, win stupid prizes. A tear escaped, running hot down his cheek, as he thought about Luke. Caleb. Bella. Theo. They’d be sad. He didn't want to make them sad.

“Jus’ make it quick, mmkay?” Taz snagged another cherry and popped it into his mouth. “Daddy’d be sad. M’not gonna make it worse, ‘kay?”

“Oh, cher.” The talkative one reached out to swipe the tear from Taz’ cheek with the pad of his thumb. “For what it's worth, I don't buy it.”

“Huh,” Taz mumbled, squinting to try and make sense of the expression on the other man’s face.

---