The Pawn (Endgame 1)

The liquid burns down my throat and then throughout my body, spreading like a flame, and I cough, struggling to breathe. Dear God, that tastes like rubbing alcohol. If rubbing alcohol were on fire. That can’t be how alcohol is supposed to taste, can it? No wonder he had this one shoved to the back.

I can’t deny that as the burn fades I feel a little more relaxed. I suppose that means it’s doing its job. If this is what alcohol does to people, no wonder they drink.

Liquid courage. That’s what it’s called, and I use the courage to pick up the silver phone. Look at that, the rotary circle actually turns. I don’t know the number to the night nurse who’s supposedly there. And our landline was one of the first expenses to go when things turned bad.

Instead I dial Justin, because he’s where I need him to be. It’s almost sweet, if he hadn’t turned his back on me when I needed him most.

“Hello?” His voice sounds the same. We might be meeting up for coffee on one of his visits in town. He might be greeting someone at a party while I smile from beside him.

A pang of regret hits my chest. “It’s me.”

“There you are. God, Avery, I’ve been calling you. What the hell is going on?”

I take another drink and find it doesn’t burn quite as hot this time. The pain is almost pleasant. “Are you still at my house? Did a nurse show up there?”

“Yeah, about the same time as I got here. She was dressed in scrubs or something, and she had a key, but she said I had to wait outside in my car.”

At least Gabriel was telling the truth about getting a nurse for my father. In fact if that timing is correct, the nurse actually showed up before the auction finished. Maybe that was Damon’s doing, preparing for what would surely follow. He wouldn’t have wanted anything to interfere with his percentage.

“I’m going to be gone for a little while. A month.”

“A month? What are you talking about, Avery? And where the hell are you?”

The exasperation in his voice makes me wince. At one time I would have bent backward to placate him, to reassure him that his needs came first. Now I take another drink. “It’s kind of a long story.”

“You sound funny. Are you… You aren’t drinking, are you?”

“It’s so good, Justin,” I whisper as if I’m letting him in on a secret. “So bad but so good.”

He swears, using words I’ve never heard him use. “Are you at an event?”

The museum donor event. A charity dinner that costs a thousand dollars a plate. That’s what he means, and I can’t help the giggle that bubbles up. It doesn’t even feel awful anymore, just kind of funny. “Everyone stopped talking to me around the time you did. We don’t get invited anymore, and even if we did, we couldn’t afford to go.”

I have this random picture in my head of pushing my dad’s hospital bed like it’s a wheelchair, smiling at everyone while we eat our fast-food burgers stashed in my purse. Whatever’s in this bottle tastes like battery acid, but it feels amazing.

“Avery, listen to me,” he says in this exasperated voice that means he’s had to repeat himself. Just for that I take another drink. “Tell me where you are and I’ll come get you.”

Would he really? I don’t even know where the limo drove us, but if he found Gabriel Miller’s address, would he come riding up on a white steed? I don’t know if I believe that he wanted to get back together, or that he still would once he sees inside my house. All those empty rooms. We could have one of those flash raves where they fill the room with soap suds and save on cleaning.

“Justin,” I say in what I hope is my serious voice. I make the n sound last a long time to be sure. “Would you have bid on me? Do you even have a million dollars?”

“What are you talking about?” he says, his voice getting louder.

As if I can’t hear him, which I totally can. I take another gulp, larger this time. That’s my new drinking game—a drink whenever he gets mad. If I’d done this at our last few appearances, I would have had a much better time.

And why did I never notice that he called our dates appearances?

“I’m talking about social climbing,” I say, examining the bottom of the cup. All gone. “You are a social climber. And I am a social faller.”

Then I collapse into a fit of giggles. Somehow the silver phone handle ends up dangling off the end table, Justin’s voice a cartoonish buzz. I picture him as a tiny little man on my shoulder, like when an angel and a devil appear to whisper advice in your ear. Would he be the angel? Candy would definitely be the devil.