Page 18 of Deceitful Oath
The first thing I do is run to the fridge to see if I was actually hallucinating this morning. I throw open the door and there it is—all the food I could ever want. I grin and practically dance into the bathroom to take a shower.
I thought about this new development all morning and decided not to question it. Maybe it’s the universe’s way of righting all the bad luck I’ve had lately. As I shampoo my hair, I realize I have the rest of the day free.
No more afternoon shifts at Rocky’s, The Velvet Room is closed on Sundays, what am I going to do with all this time?
I run through a mental list of fun activities I could do, then consider more job hunting, but nothing feels right. I towel off my hair and walk into the living room, confirming that the shades are drawn. My next-door neighbors do not need to see all of this for free.
I check my bank account to find that Rocky deposited my last paycheck, plus a little bit extra. My heart warms for him and I’m momentarily sad that he chose to fire me. Then I make up my mind.
I’m going to go get absolutely shitfaced drunk tonight.
The constant stress, exhaustion, and worrying about money, on top of all the weird shit going, has finally broken me. Even though I don’t usually drink, I need to get all this tension out. A cheap, divey bar and some vodka sodas sound like just the thing.
I toss on a band tee and a pair of cutoff denim shorts and pull on my boots. Deciding to let my hair air dry, I contemplateputting on some makeup but scrap the idea. I’m not going out to impress anyone anyway.
The Wild Goose is a crappy little dive bar around the corner from my house. I’ve only been there once when I first moved to the city and had time to explore. I remember it being low-key, with cheap drinks and a bartender that doesn’t talk much.
Perfect.
I stroll down the block, feeling the sunshine on my face, and my troubles seem to disappear a little more with every step. A few drinks to get me nice and buzzed, maybe a shot or two, and then back home to drunkenly cook dinner and pass out.
The bar is dim and almost empty when I stroll in. It’s one of those places that always has sports playing on mute and a couple of regulars at the bar. The wooden floors are sticky, road signs cover the walls, and the shades are drawn on all the windows.
The bartender, a big guy with a handlebar mustache, leans on the counter eyeing me warily. I quickly make my way to the empty side of the bar and hop onto a stool. He raises an eyebrow at me.
“Vodka soda please,” I tell him. “Heavy on the vodka.”
He grunts and heaves himself off the bar to make my drink. I smile to myself as I look around. The regulars pay no attention to me, staring at their beers or the screens instead. I swing my legs, feeling freer than I have in months.
The bartender reappears and slides a glass and a bowl of nuts at me. I take an experimental sip and feel the alcohol burn down my throat. This might not fix all my problems, but it sure can help me forget about them for an afternoon.
I slowly sip my drink, becoming accidentally engrossed in a football game playing on the big screen. I barely flinch when I feel a light tap on my shoulder. I glance down at my glass, realizing I’ve drained the whole thing already.
My head feels vaguely like it’s filled with cotton candy. I feel the tap again and slowly spin in my chair to find the hottest man I’ve ever seen looking down at me.
“Hey,” he says, a grin spreading across his face. “Mind if I join you?”
“You have nice teeth.”
He stares at me for a beat too long and slides onto the stool beside me. “I had a really good orthodontist when I was a kid.”
I shake my head, confused. “What?”
“My teeth,” he says slowly, looking as confused as I feel. “You said they were nice? It’s because…”
“Shit,” I whisper. “That was supposed to be an inside thought. Did I make that an outside thought?”
He laughs and it’s like the heavens have opened up, casting a ray of golden sun on their most perfect creation. Okay, maybe that’s a bit much, but he does look beautiful when he laughs. His dark eyes crinkle at the corners and a single dimple appears in his cheek, highlighting his luscious lips.
I look away, feeling like a creep, but smile anyway. He runs his hand through his dark, wavy hair and calls to the bartender.
“You need another one?” he asks, that dimple making me feel like a giggly middle-school girl.
“Yes, please,” I say with too much enthusiasm. On second thought…
“Actually no,” I correct myself. “Maybe just a water first. I don’t usually drink.”
“No problem.”