I felt hostage to it.
Wanted to get lost in it.
Outrun it all.
Forget.
Or maybe what I really wanted was to remember who I was.
Making a mad dash to find myself.
A familiar neon sign shone from up ahead.
Charlie’s.
It was an old dive bar that we’d played in what seemed a thousand times, back before we’d gotten hooked up with that big-name band that was gonna take us places, and then I’d been taken places that I didn’t want to go.
Swinging open the door, I rushed through it, breaths still heaving from my throat. Inside, it was packed, a crush of bodies dancing at the foot of the stage where a band played, live music the life beat of this place. The round-top tables were surrounded by smaller groups, the plush, darkened booths lining the far-left wall overflowing with obscured faces.
Eyes making a quick sweep, I made a beeline for the bar and slipped onto the one free stool. The young bartender slinging drinks as fast as they were ordered.
The bartender tossed a paper coaster with the Charlie’s logo on it in front of me. “What can I get for you?”
“Two shots of tequila.”
He arched a brow.
I swallowed around the lump in my throat, the nerves and fear and terror that wouldn’t let me be. I wanted to silence them more than I wanted my next breath.
“Make it three.”
I guessed he saw the way I was trembling because he dipped his head really quick and lined up three shot glasses that he rimmed in salt. He poured the bottle over them and garnished each with a lime.
I didn’t take the time to prime my taste buds. I just slammed one back, then the second, then the third.
Fire burned down my throat and pooled in my belly, and my trembling spirit began to calm.
I didn’t care that I looked like some kind of lush.
The only thing I cared about right then was forgetting. The desperate need to feel something different than hopeless, the way I’d been feeling the last three months.
I wanted to reclaim.
Salvage the pieces that had been scattered.
Maybe I was going about it the wrong way, but I had to take a step before I went and lost everything.
I lifted my finger in the air, indicating one more. There was no missing the look of worry that passed through the bartender’s expression. “Can I call someone for you? Looks like you’re having a bad night.”
Humorless laughter rolled out. “I’m just fine.”
Lies.
All lies.
But who was I gonna call? I could call Mel, but then she’d be pissed at Richard, and the last thing I needed to do was get our assistant who was also my best friend mixed up in this. After all, her future was riding on me getting my shit together, too.
All of them were. Reliant upon me.
Oh God.
Another round of regret and hurt and bitterness went stampeding through my senses, and I slumped over, pressing the back of my hand to my mouth in an attempt to keep the sob bottled in my throat from gettin’ free.
The bartender eyed me, questioning his judgement before he grabbed another shot glass. “One more for you, gorgeous, then you’re done.”
Redness clawed. God, ten minutes in, and he thought he needed to cut me off.
Apparently, I needed an intervention, but not the type the guy was thinking.
“Thank you,” I told him with a shaking voice, trying to play it cool, as if I couldn’t feel the warmth of the alcohol gliding through my veins, warming me from the inside out, at odds with the cold, stark loneliness that covered me from the outside.
He slid the glass my direction. “No problem.”
He turned away to focus on other customers.
“You don’t have anyone to call, I’d be glad to take your number.” The slimy pickup line came from the stool to my left, and I lifted my eyes to the guy who was leering at me. Ratty, unkempt beard and stained tee shirt.
Awesome.
“Thank you, but I really want to be alone right now.” I tried to turn away, but he leaned forward, forcing himself into my line of sight.
His brow lifted in suggestion. “Huh, you sure look like you could use some company. Why don’t you come over here and sit on my lap, and I’ll make it all better?”
He grinned a vile, disgusting grin.
Nausea churned in my belly, revulsion and fear flickerin’ through my senses that were barely dulled by the liquor.
Maybe I should have thought better about this.
I was still wearing the dress I’d worn onstage, red and short and cut deep between my breasts. Much more provocative than anything I’d ever pick for myself—my wardrobe was completely in the hands of Mel, considering I’d probably be wearing sweats up there if the decision were left to me.
And God, I didn’t have my phone.
This was stupid.