Page 111 of Retribution

The music in the room grows louder as the drinks continue to flow and the conversation follows.

By the end of the night, I am drunk up to my eyeballs and can barely stand, following suit with Everett and Blake.

“Where do you live?” Everett shouts over the music, spilling his drink on himself in the process.

“Buckhead.” I inform him.

He jabs a thumb into Devon’s chest, resulting in a deathly glare from him.

“Mr. designated driver here can take us all home!” He sings and begins swaying his arms to the music whilst Blake looks like he’s staring off into the rest of the bar.

“Hey, I’m gonna go talk to that chick, she’s been eyeing me up all night.” Blake points at a dark-haired woman, and he gets up from the table.

Staggering, he salutes me. “Until next time, Reed.” his voice slurs.

I laugh loudly and readjust myself in my seat.

“Good luck.” I salute him back, merging my words together to the point they’re almost indecipherable.

Everett slumps forward on the table and Devon pulls him back by his collar.

“Alright, I think that’s enough for one night, buddy.” He stands up and hooks Everett’s arm around his neck.

“You want a ride?” He looks down at me and I nod, not caring that I’m leaving my car here.

I’ll deal with it in the morning.

We pass by Blake on the way out and as he put it, “I’m in boys, you shall go on without me!” as he returned to kissing the scantily clad woman.

Devon throws Everett down on the backseat of his Range Rover and he mutters a few words that sound like ‘cheeseburger’ and ‘rabbit tree’, whatever the hell that meant.

I climb into the passenger side of the car and pull my phone out to turn it on, but it flashes with a red battery, and I groan, putting it back in my pocket.

Devon climbs in and sets the GPS on to Everett’s address in Brookhaven, the city where Indie used to live, only a short ride from Buckhead.

The beginning of the journey is awkward enough to sober me up to the point I remember the fuck ton of turmoil inside of my head.

“How long has it been since you relapsed?” Devon’s question catches me completely off guard.

“What?”

“How long have you been since you relapsed?” He repeats.

I take a moment to form an answer, my confusion evident on how he knows.

“Six weeks” I confess shamefully.

“What caused it? Is it the situation with your daughter?” His gaze remains fixed on the road and he drives with one hand on the steering wheel, one wrapped around his jaw.

“My wife died.” I confess and he turns to me with wide eyes.

“Shit, I’m sorry, these guys are so insensitive.” He gestures to Everett passed out on the back seat, triple buckled in with the seat belts making him look like he’s been caught in a web.

“No, it’s fine. It’s not my current wife,” I explain, but probably only causing more confusion.

His lips part as I can see the wheels turning in his brain, trying to figure out the timeline here.

“Oh, so you were like a widower and then got remarried?” His question not coming across as judgmental, more as understanding.

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