Page 21 of Bourbon Truths
While I waited on my drink, I tugged on the brim of the hood that hid my features from the public. I didn’t need anyone recognizing me. I also enjoyed the blinders the hood gave me, like a damn mule in the Quarter, blocked from seeing anything around me, just the mission ahead, and my mission was to continuously bring the glass in front of me to my lips until I couldn’t feel anymore. I was almost there.
“Do you really think that’s going to help?” someone said behind me.
Jett. Without turning around, I said, “It’s been your go-to. Thought I would give it a try.”
Jett took the seat next to me without an invitation. He motioned to the bartender to bring him what I was drinking and positioned himself on his stool. He was going to be sorry to see I wasn’t drinking his precious bourbon.
“Do you want to talk about it?” he asked, resting his arms on the bar.
“Does it look like I want to fucking talk about it?” I asked, trying to control the anger that wanted to seep out of me.
“For what it’s worth, I know you couldn’t do anything like that. There has to be an explanation.”
There was an explanation, but no one other than Jett Colby was going to believe me. “It doesn’t matter,” I answered while lowering my head. “It’s all over.”
Silence fell between us, and we both casually sipped our drinks, not engaging in conversation or any kind of emotional bullshit. That wasn’t how we rolled. We sat and we drank. It was the one thing I could count on when it came to my best friend.
Thankfully the bar I chose didn’t have any TVs in it. I knew what would be running on them right now.
“Kace Haywood: Positive for Human Growth Hormones.”
“Pumping Juice to Get Ahead, the Real Kace Haywood.”
“Haywood Hung on Hormones.”
Shaking my head, I pressed the glass tightly to my lips and sucked in its contents. I’d never felt so helpless before in my entire life. For once, I wasn’t in charge of my destiny. I wasn’t able to control my own future. The only control I possessed was how many times I brought a tumbler of pain-lessening liquid to my mouth.
“Want another?” Jett asked as I tossed back the rest of my drink.
“Yup,” I responded, directing the glass away from me and pushing myself up, trying to stretch out my back from the tension that was taking over.
I rolled my sleeves up to my elbows and adjusted my hood so it was more secure. The heat of the alcohol started to consume my body, but I wasn’t about to take off my sweatshirt. It was the only barrier I had from the real world.
“Can you believe this?” the rowdy guy from earlier said as he held his phone out to Jett. “Did you see this article? Local hero goes and fucks everything up because he’s too lazy to put in the real work to be the best.”
Jett nodded politely, because that was the way he’d been raised, and then turned away from the man. I sank farther into the corner, trying to separate myself from the loudmouth, trying to drown out his words.
“Fuck, I can take steroids and beat the shit out of people too. What makes a great boxer is talent. Muhammad Ali didn’t sit there injecting himself with growth hormones so he could win title after title. No, he spent hours upon hours in the gym, working on his craft.”
“Do you mind if we just sit here by ourselves?” Jett asked politely, holding his hand up to stop the man.
From the corner of my eye, I saw the man back off for a second and then nod at me. “Who’s that? Your boyfriend? If you fairies want some private time, go to a gay bar.”
Raising his voice and projecting his temper, Jett said, “I suggest you learn some decorum and shut your fucking mouth.”
“Oh, I get it, you motherfuckers really want some time together. That’s fine. Hey, buddy,” the guy called to me, but I didn’t move, not wanting to engage. “Hey, I’m talking to you,” the moron repeated.
“I suggest you drop it,” Jett warned.
Getting out of his chair, the man shot back, “You don’t fucking tell me what to do.” From my view, I could see that he was a broad man, slightly built, still had some fat on his bones, but he was one who could hold his own, and that was why he most likely felt confident enough to confront both of us.
The man brushed past Jett and pushed my shoulder. “Hey, dickhead. I’m talking to you.”
Not turning to face the man, I said over my shoulder, “I suggest you leave me the fuck alone.”
The bar was empty of witnesses besides the bartender, so the room was silent except for the faint sound of jazz spilling through the speakers. The bartender stood to the side, taking in the whole scene, probably wondering if he was going to have to intervene at some point.
“Oh, you think you’re a tough guy? You can’t even face me? You’re just hiding behind your stupid hood and cowering….”
