Page 57 of Release
Chapter 22
SEBASTIAN needed a stiff drink. For some reason, the house felt more haunted tonight than usual. Alexandra wasn’t here and wouldn’t be again. He was sure of it, and telling her he wasn’t going to see her in Los Angeles seemed like the final nail in the coffin. He stopped at the liquor cabinet in the kitchen. This seemed as good a place as any to kiss it all goodbye. He poured a double shot of whiskey and tossed it back.
He knew what she thought. He didn’t know why it mattered anymore. She clearly had Wilkes. So why did it bother him so much that Alexandra believed he and Kennedy were already in a relationship? Why the hell didn’t he say more when he had the chance to set her straight?
I’m an idiot, that’s why.
She said she could explain this fiasco with Wilkes, but Bash didn’t see the point. He couldn’t. He rubbed the ball of his hand against his tired eyes. “This is not how I planned to spend my summer.” Or, autumn, or the rest of his year. Too much time had already been wasted with Alexandra Storme so heavy on the brain that the weight felt like it has its own gravitational pull. He sat at the kitchen counter with the bottle of whiskey and poured another liberal dose in his glass. With each round, he discarded another idea for how to deal with this situation. His increasingly inebriated mind struggled for a solution.
He decided that forgetting about her was best. Clearly that didn’t work. He failed miserably by moving on too quickly, and to Kennedy, of all people, who right now he should have been thanking. Fate and Kennedy’s ass intervened, because he was not going to phone Alexandra back at all. After a while, Bash gave up analyzing, but keep right on drinking until the alcohol lulled him into a buzzed, dreamless sleep right there at the countertop, and left him wondering exactly how many times one woman could get to him this way.
Yes, drinking myself into a stupor is what my life has come to.
Apounding headachewoke him up the next morning. Bash discovered sometime in the night he had at least made his way from the kitchen to the living room. The acrid taste of bad decisions filled his mouth and glared in his eyes, which he was sure would be bloodshot by now. Taking his time, he went up to the second floor bathroom for a shower. He leaned over the sink and brushed his teeth as he waited for the water to heat up. It was safe to say that after sleeping haphazardly on a barstool, then cramped up on the unopened sofa, he was not in the best mood.
He stripped off yesterday’s clothes and stepped beneath the spray with a disgruntled sigh. “What do you want to do today, Bash?” he said aloud. “I don’t know. What is there to do four days before I go back to work? Nothing. Abso-fucking-lutely nothing.”
He scrubbed and bemoaned the boredom when just days ago he was pretty okay with it. Back when Alexandra was still a definite in his life. He should at least have been ecstatic that he still had a job with the fire department. “Shake it off, Bash,” he told himself. “It’s not all gone to shit.”
By the time he got out of the shower and dragged himself to his bedroom one floor up, he was in a slightly better mood. He found some clothes and headed back downstairs to find his phone, searching for the number the chief told him to call. He would busy himself with getting ready for work next week. That would have to be enough for now. Today was the perfect day to call central and schedule the classes needed to get prepped for his new role.
“Yes sir, Mr. Sullivan. We can get you set up,” said the serious but helpful woman on the other end when he finally made the call. Fortunately, one of the training courses would start in a week. The call was over in less than three minutes. Bash hung up the phone and got to thinking about how to fill the rest of his day. Done with physical therapy and doctor’s visits, done worrying over going back to Tucson Fire Department, the only thing left was to head to the gym this afternoon, search the mall afterward for a couple of dress shirts and business slacks for the new job, and try to ignore these crazy thoughts about Alexandra running around in his head.
First he would eat. He would get breakfast at a diner for a change. Sebastian grabbed a jacket and his wallet and keys, headed out to his Jeep and turned over the engine. His rumbling stomach set him straight, and he had barely made it a few blocks when he spotted the closest diner in the area. He hadn’t been there in a while. He and his firefighter buddies would come here after every serious overnight fire emergency response.
Good. Some routine will help.
He headed inside, and the jingle of the bell over the door brought back old memories. He settled on a round red barstool at the shiny counter.
“Good morning,” a gray-haired waitress greeted him on her approach from the far end of the place. “The menu’s up on the wall. Can I get you some coffee to start off?”
“Sounds good,” he answered, and looked up at the chalk-drawn, handwritten menu for the day. He looked over to his right at two older men chatting quietly. To his left was a gentleman hidden by a newspaper. Turning to face forward again, he pulled out his phone.
“Crazy what they print these days,” the man with the newspaper exclaimed to no one in particular.
When he closed the paper, a surprised half-smile spread across Bash’s face. “Well, good morning, Maxwell.”
His face lit up. “Ah, Sullivan boy! I mean, Sebastian. Funny running into you here. How are you? I was just talking about you to Alexandra last night.”
“You were?” Bash lifted an eyebrow.
“How’s that knee of yours?” Maxwell asked, changing the subject.
“Much better, thanks.”
“Good. I’ve noticed you getting around without your crutches these days. Not snooping, mind you.” He shook his head and laughed. “I just don’t have a damned thing to do, now that I’ve been forced into retirement by a workaholic daughter and the lovely woman who used to be my ally.”
The waitress set a mug of black coffee in front of Bash, with a tiny pitcher of creamer. He thanked her, but was distracted, still wondering what Maxwell and Alexandra were discussing about him last night. Was it before or after all hell broke loose at his house?
The waitress, Beth according to her nametag, asked him, “Did you decide on what you’re having?”
“Try the omelets. They’re unrivaled,” Maxwell Storme suggested.
Bash nodded. “I guess I’ll be having the omelet then, with red peppers, green onion and cheese.”
“Not a problem.” Beth turned, and tacked his order on the raised rotating order rack within the cook’s line of sight before leaving to check on the other customers.
Bash sipped his coffee and turned to Maxwell Storme for what would likely be an interesting conversation.
