Page 75 of Imperfect Player

Picture in hand, I storm away. Even with the rage in my head, I can hear him calling after me.

“Get him out of here,” I tell Thurston. “Call the police. Call whoever you have to. Just get him the fuck out of here.”

My head is fucking spinning. My heart is pounding in my chest. Everything I shoved down while I stood in front of a man that was a reflection of myself rises in me as the elevator doors close behind me.

I rest against the wall, trying to get my breathing in check, my mind straight.

The doors open, and I drop Baker’s leash and rush into my condo, straight to the kitchen and the still nearly full bottle of whiskey in the garbage can.

I pull the bottle out of the trash. Not bothering to reach for a glass, I put the bottle to my lips and drink.

The burn is welcome, needed.

It tastes good and feels even better.

Another drink.

Warm. Comfort. Familiarity.

One more long pull from the bottle before I finally set it down, before I collapse onto the ground.

For the first time in over twenty years, I was just face to face with my father. A man who deemed me unworthy-of him, of his time, of his love. A man who up and left his son without so much as a glance back. A man who just told me he’s here for his son and wasn’t referring to me but rather to my brother.

Baker plops down next to me, his head in my lap.

My hand reaches behind me, grabbing the bottle I left on the counter above my head.

The memories of my childhood flood my mind, the few that remain prior to my parents abandoning me mixed with the plethora of the ones that occurred after they left. Good foster homes that didn’t want to keep me. Bad ones that abused me. Both ultimately leaving me homeless, parentless, unloved.

I run my hand through my hair, then scrub it over my face. I scream a curse into the empty room.

Empty.

Alone.

That’s what I am, right?

It’s what I’ve always been?

Everly.

The memory of her, this morning, curled in my bed.

I’m not alone.

Not anymore, right?

I set the bottle onto the floor and clumsily rise to my feet, the whiskey hitting harder than I remember it doing before. Two years. Two years without a drop of alcohol. My tolerance is low. My patience thin.

Me: Where are you?

Everly: Heading home. Thank you for the limo by the way, it wasn’t necessary.

Me: Is Chelle with you?

Everly: Just dropped her off. Is everything okay?

Me: Make a detour. Come here. I want you. Naked. Bent over my lap.

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