Page 97 of Depraved
My vision goes black, giving in to the comfort of my haze of fury as my fist busts straight through the wall next to me.
PUSHING THE HEAVY DOOR OPEN, the smell of stale beer and cigarettes attack my senses. My sneakered feet make a squeak on the floor as I step on whatever sticky shit hasn’t been cleaned off the floor of this crappy bar, but I pull my hoodie down over my face and walk inside.
I stole my new ensemble right out of a suitcase being unloaded from a bus that came from Chicago, and then I stole a car and headed right for Boston. By the time the people in the overnight parking figured out their car was missing, I’d be long gone.
I want to feel guilty, but I don’t.
It took fifteen hours, and I drove it straight because I knew if I stopped and stood still, Dante would get to me. But now my body is surviving on adrenaline and Red Bull, leaving me jittery and unsettled.
It could’ve been worse. Dante could have stopped me. Thank god I still have survival skills—if you can call theft and hot-wiring a car “skills.”
My eyes scan the room looking for the man I’m here for. This bar is the kind that serves as a feeder for anyone who wants in with someone like Declan. It’s a hot spot for wannabes and losers.
A guy sitting at the bar takes a drag of his cigarette as he speaks loudly about his latest fight. He’s throwing money at the bartender, buying drinks, while his arm hangs lazily over a woman who looks as if she’s fifty and still hoping for her prince.
I make my way over to where he’s speaking too loud for the story he’s telling and take a seat on the stool two down, raising a finger to the bartender and pointing to the whiskey on the shelf.
“And then I told him…you better fucking apologize because my boss isn’t someone you want coming for ya.”
The man’s breath gets caught in his throat as he laughs, making him cough like someone who smokes three packs a day. He clears his throat, wiping the back of his dirty hand over his mouth, before reaching to the cigarette that’s rested among another fifty in an ashtray. Putting the smoke to his lips, he takes another drag.
“Because Declan Murphy is a man of his word…”
“Bullshit,” I say aloud, interrupting him, pulling the shot of whiskey toward me.
He coughs again, and I hear the stool move and feet shuffle. “Did you just say bullshit?”
I don’t answer, opting to nod instead.
“Who says I don’t work for Declan? You better watch your big mouth before I break it.”
I slam my shot down on the counter, letting the burn run down my throat, and bring my hands to my hood and pull it back, locking eyes with him. “Hi, Dad. Been a long time.”
He stabs his cigarette into the ashtray vigorously, a sneer spreading across his face.
“Call your fake boss. Tell him I’m here and that I’d like to come home now. Go on,” I coax, motioning to the old shitty phone on the bar top.
I stand and pick up the second shot the bartender puts in front of me. “I’ll be over there in the booth. Let me know when it’s time.”
Walking away, I hear my dad on the phone with my brother, and my eyes stay focused ahead when I hear, “We just hit the lotto.”
I push into the booth and set the whiskey on the table and let my head fall back against the torn, cracked faux leather that’s on the seat, closing my eyes.
It’s almost over.
My peace is interrupted by the smell of my father as he joins me. “When they come for you, you’re going to tell them we found you.”
“Yep,” I answer, unsurprised by his opportunism. I was actually banking on it.
I open my eyes as the smoke from his newly lit cigarette infiltrates my nose. I level a glare at him and pick up my forgotten shot and throw it back.
I place it back on the table and lock eyes with him, noticing the deep lines and worn skin on his face. I wish I felt something for him or had one good memory. But I don’t.
He might as well be a stranger to me.
“Did you ever love me? Not love what I could do for you…but like the love a parent has for a child.”
“No,” he answers frankly, giving a shrug.
