Avenging Angel (Pounding Hearts 5)

ring?” Jamey said.

Stunned, I just stared at him. I couldn’t quite grasp what the hell he said at first, but Tommy sure as fuck did.

I’ve never seen Tommy as mad as he was right then. He bolted toward Jamey with a fucking purpose. Bad thing was, though, Tommy wasn’t an MMA fighter.

Jamey swiftly gave him a two-punch combo that had Tommy dropping to the mat.

“Holy cow, what in the hell’s going on there?” Marshawn yells over the screaming fans. His voice is struggling to be heard over the sudden roar in the arena.

Usually his voice breaks through crazy moments, but not that time. On the screen, the camera shows Tommy laid out flat on his back.

Hitting the power button on the TV, I watch as the screen goes blank. I zoned out while watching that little by-play.

Shaking my head, I hear the end of the voicemail.

“I’ll be there soon, brother. We need to get your dumb ass sobered up. You still have a rematch clause in your contract. There’s no fucking chance in the world you won’t be using that bitch. You need to put Jamey in the fucking ground.”

Setting the phone down on the couch, I push the power button on the side and watch it turn itself off. No use in keeping it on.

I really don’t want anyone fucking calling me tonight.

* * *

How the fuck I ended up out on my back porch is a blur. I don’t remember parking my ass out here with a blanket around my shoulders. The almost-finished bottle of rum cradled with my good arm tells me I must have hit the booze harder last night than I planned.

I guess it’s not that unusual though, I’ve done this before.

Yawning in the late morning breeze, my mouth tastes like what I imagine a freshly warmed-up skunk’s asshole must taste like.

Pulling the cap off the top of the bottle, I take a long swig of the almost sweet burning liquid. A little bit of the dog that bit me, I guess. I don’t really get hungover anymore. I guess I’ve killed off the body parts that alcohol seems to affect the most.

Shit. Today isn’t going to be a fun day. I don’t want to face the world, but I can’t get a good delivery service for my drinking needs.

It’s almost like a punishment. I want to drink to stay out of the world, but I have to go out into the world so I can get the damn drink.

My black Jeep sits in the hot sun, and I can see the heat shimmering off the hood from here. Fuck. I don’t want to go out into the heat today. I’d rather just sit in the cold air conditioning of my shitty house and not see people or deal with anything human.

Shit, it’s good that I don’t have a pet. Given that my entire yard is dead, it’s obvious I can’t take care of anything besides myself.

And I’m barely doing that.

A fucking headache starts to throb behind my eyes. They’ve have been plaguing me for the last couple of months. I’m pretty sure I’ve pickled myself with all the alcohol in my system, but the headaches don’t go the fuck away.

They’re not the hangover kind, either. Just this incessant pounding behind my eyes. Even when I drink to numb them, I can feel them on the periphery, waiting in the corners to come back in full force.

I drive over to the liquor store and have to keep adjusting my baseball cap and sunglasses. I need food as well, but that can come after I’ve secured my priorities.

Even shopping is an exercise in caution for me today. Despite growing a beard and getting pudgy, I still have a recognizable face in this city. My ugly mug has been on enough TV screens and billboards that every now and then I get the random fan who wants to talk to me.

Shaking my arm out a bit to remove the tension in my shoulder, I try to just focus on my day and take it one step at a time. I know that shit’s from one of them rehab mantras, but it works for us drunks too.

One bottle at a time, one pickled liver away from finishing myself off.

As I’m lifting up a second case of shitty beer to put in my cart, I hear a loud laugh.

“Jesus, it’s fucking Emmett. Where the fuck do you get a beer gut that fast?” a gruff voice asks, and it’s about all I can do not to toss the case of beer at the fucker’s head.

Not bothering to turn my head to respond, I growl out in what I was hoping would sound tough, but comes out more tired than anything else, “Nice to see you too, Brett. It comes from shit food and drinking. Try it out, you’ll love it.”