Page 13 of Hot Mess Express
Pete leans in, grabbing his own glass. “Bridge here, he almost never drinks,” he explains to the guys. “The man’s as dry as a bone most days. Well, except for this moment,” he adds with a chuckle at my very much not-dry shirt and pants. “What happened, man?”
I shake my head. “Just clumsy. Spilled one. No biggie.”
“Clumsy? You?” Pete snorts. “You’re the least clumsiest guy I know. Did you piss off the bartender or something? Look at a girl the wrong way?”
Anthony’s contemptuous sneer is starting to take permanent residence behind my eyelids every time I blink, and I’m not a fan. I realize I’m dabbing my shirt more vigorously than I was a second ago. Cody hands me more napkins. “Nope, no one did anything, I just tipped over a glass is all.”
“Not buying it.” Pete nudges Cody. “This guy, my pal Bridger, teacher’s pet all the way. A perfectionist, by-the-book, iron rod of a man. He’s been my daddy these past few years, I swear, staying sober all the time just so he can watchdog me.”
“Calling me your ‘daddy’ doesn’t sound the way you mean it to,” I say, causing Cody to snort into his beer. “I just like to keep a level head is all.”
Trey smiles, then eyes Pete across the table. “You’ve got a real wise buddy here.”
“If you aren’t gonna drink, at least let me get you a water or somethin’,” says Cody. “Gets hot in this place after a while. You’re gonna wish you had a glass of somethin’.”
I turn to get a look at the bar counter, but my eyes find the jukebox instead. Anthony’s still over there with who I’ll presume is his girlfriend—God bless her for putting up with a guy like that. From the looks of it, I’m no longer a thought on his mind, dancing badly, laughing so loud it cuts through the room, and spilling his drink all over his tank top and loose, threadbare jeans, sagging on his ass.
I find myself wrinkling up my face as I look at him partying it up with his girlfriend. That guy bugs me. Deeply bugs me. To the damned core. But I can’t for the life of me put my finger on what exactly it is.
I mean, other than he’s a waste of space.
Does he remind me of one of the troublemakers I dealt with at the base? Or farther back than that to my high school days? Is it possible that I’m just projecting everything I hate about my past onto Anthony, all of the guys who pushed me around, who stood over me, who played games with my head—the dickheads from my youth who are, more than I’d dare admit out loud, the reason I enlisted in the first place? There were years in the Army I’d stay up later at night than I ought to have, staring at the bottom of the bunk above me, wondering what I was trying to prove to myself, to the world, to the men who’ve made so much of my life hell.
Starting with my old man, the most miserable shit of them all.
Thank Christ my brother and I got away from him.
Maybe when I see Anthony, thoughts of all the evil men in my life come rising right back to the surface like no time has passed at all, undoing the work I have done over the years to neutralize the trauma, like all of that work was for nothing, like all I’ve actually done is practice maintaining a state of denial—as if I don’t still carry damage from the heartless enemies of my past.
Well, either that, or Anthony’s just an annoying jackass who’s freakishly skilled at getting under my skin.
“Why am I hearingTake On Mefor the third time in a row?” asks Pete, interrupting a joke Cody was telling to his husband, who didn’t look too inclined to laugh anyway.
I’m still watching the dancing fool. “Because someone’s being an inconsiderate juke-hog.”
“No big deal. I like 80s mus—Hey, where are you going?” Pete perks up when he realizes I’ve left the table. “Bridge?”
I calmly move through the crowd, politely excusing myself as I make my way. I shouldn’t do this. I should turn back now. But whether it’s thoughts of all those men in my past, of myold man, or just pure vindictive pettiness, my feet keep moving. Others are dancing, too, and I try my best not to knock into anyone with my shoulders, despite the anger crawling out of my heart.
Every note of music is an attack from Anthony.
Every note is a ringing peal of laughter.
Mocking me. Cheering in victory over me.
Pushing me down.
One young woman steps on my foot, apologizes, then bats her eyes when she gets a look at me, in shock. Her date frowns and puts an arm possessively around her, pulling her attention away—a reaction I regret to say I’m used to. If only the insecure, jealous straight dudes of the world would figure out somehow that I’m no competition to steal their lady.
The only thing I’m out to steal right now is all the air from a certain jack-hole’s sails.
The moment I make it through to the other side of the crowd, Anthony spots me. And bless the gods, it’s perfect how my mere presence causes him to stumble on a ridiculous dance move he’s failing to pull off, not having expected me to seek him out. His girlfriend—just like the gal whose foot met mine halfway across the room—stops dancing at once to drink in the sight of me, her bubblegum lips parting and eyes widening in wonder.
Despite the tension twisted up tight in my heart by Anthony, I refuse to be petty and sink to his level of immaturity. I’m only here for one purpose: to liberate the jukebox for my friends. My goal is noble, right? Selfless? Admirable? “Pardon me, ma’am,” I say to the young woman in a sincere, gentlemanly tone, “but do you mind if I put on a different song?”
“You can put on or take off anything you like,” she answers.
I’m not sure I can dignify that with a response, whether on my face or in words, so I just nod respectfully at her, then tap a button or two on the jukebox. Aerosmith’sWalk ThisWayplays—a favorite of Pete’s for whatever reason, something sentimental to him—and I smile to myself. I nod again at the lady, then ignore Anthony as I turn and head back through the crowd to my table.
