Chapter 24
Present day
There was a huddle of old men on the far left of the bar.
It was a large corner booth, right beneath a picture of a topless Marilyn Monroe from the very first Playboy magazine every published.
This bar was the official gathering place for the town’s veterans.
Aberlour had sat with them once. They’d tagged him as a Marine during one of his first solo visits to the bar and they’d practically dragged him back to their corner booth like squirrels stashing nuts for winter.
All evening they’d rambled on about the “good ole days” when men were still men, and women knew where they belonged.
Aberlour hadn’t remotely shared any of those views, but he’d been amused by the stories they told.
Mostly because they weren’t true at all.
Telling tall tales was just something they did for entertainment, he supposed.
He'd been to war. He’d been to the hellholes they described.
He’d sat next to dying men and bleeding friends, and not once had he found it heroic.
The reality was, for every tale of bravery and self-sacrifice, there was one of a scared boy pissing himself to sleep—cold, hungry, and praying for his mother.
They never told those stories, however, and yet, to Aberlour, those were the only stories left worth telling.
They were the only truths. He hadn’t sat with them again after that night, and whether sensing he did not want to be regaled by their glory days or because they were wary of his narrowed, cold eyes, they hadn’t tried to stash him into their booth again.
It had been just as well; he didn’t come to the sleazy bar to socialize. That was never the purpose.
The thing about getting old was that, while you got old, some never got the chance.
He’d never really feared his own death, which was certainly no small feat, considering how often he’d looked it right in the eye and smiled.
Aberlour had been a willing idiot. He’d always figured he’d die before he retired.
He’d been prepared for such a thing. Had not welcomed it or anything so dramatic but had certainly expected it.
The part about getting old that no one prepared you for was living while everyone else moved on.
He was too young to be this bitter Aberlour thought, distractedly.
He wasn’t sure when he’d lost the taste for adventure and freedom.
Once upon a time, he’d rolled down the highway, craving the wind and the open road.
He’d been so—happy. Now? He sought out dark bars, where he could hide and disappear, taking comfort in the roll of darts in his hands and the predictability of his aim.
He'd gotten so old. So fucking old for a man who was barely in his mid-30’s. Aberlour grabbed his drink and felt how cold the liquid was through the glass. He swished it around, enjoying the weight of the liquor as it rolled from side to side.
So fucking old. Yet with so many more years left.
Death hadn’t come for him, not literally, but he wondered if perhaps it hadn’t gotten to him anyway.
As though death had chiseled away at him every time it had come for those he loved.
Chiseled until he’d cracked and ended up this shapeless, pointless lump of sharp edges.
He wondered how many more hits he could take before there would be nothing left that he’d recognize.
As if holding the answer, his phone rang again. He watched it buzz but didn’t move to answer it. Not yet.