Chapter 7 (1/2)

“I know.” She gulped.

She did know.

She dragged the warm towel across my face, wiping the excess shaving cream away.

“I’m only an asshole when I drink to try to solve shit, and lately there hasn’t been anything to solve, so I’m fine.” Even I knew that wasn’t an ironclad guarantee. “I don’t want to be one of those geezers like my father who drink themselves stupid and endanger the people around me. And since you happen to be about the only person I give a fuck about, I don’t want to drink around you anymore.”

“I love you,” she’d simply replied.

“And I love you.”

Breaking the oh-so-serious air of the moment, and because I didn’t want to go down this road any further, I stared down at her body perched on the sink. She was wearing one of my white T-shirts, with nothing but black panties underneath.

“I may have to keep you around now that you can properly shave my face. You cook, you clean . . .”

She swatted at me and rolled her eyes. “And what do I get out of this deal? You are messy; you only help me cook once a week, if that. You are grumpy in the morning—”

I cut her off by placing my hand between her legs and pushing her panties to the side.

“I guess you are good at something.” She’d grinned as I slid one finger inside her.

“Only one thing?” I added another, and she groaned, her head rolling back.

THE BARTENDER’S HAND thumps against the counter in front of me. “I said, ‘Do you want another drink?’?”

I blink a few times and look down at the bar, then up at him.

“Yeah.” I hand the glass over, the memory fading as I wait for my refill. “Another double.”

As the old, bald bastard heads down the bar, I hear a woman’s voice say with surprise, “Hardin? Hardin Scott?”

I turn my head to see the somewhat familiar face of Judy Welch, my mum’s old friend. Well, ex-friend. “Yeah.” I nod, noticing that age hasn’t been kind to her.

“Holy hell! It’s been, what . . . six years? Seven? Are you here alone?” She puts her hand on my shoulder and lifts herself onto the barstool next to me.

“Yeah, around that, and, yes, I’m here alone. My mum won’t be chasing after you.”

Judy has the unhappy face of a woman who’s drunk way too much in her lifetime. Her hair is the same white blond that it was when I was a teenager, and her implants look too large for her small frame. I remember the first time she touched me. I felt like a man—fucking my mum’s friend. And now, looking at her, I wouldn’t fuck her with the bald bartender’s dick.