Chapter 27
Present day
Scella was about to cut him off. He could tell from the disapproving expression on the young bartender’s face.
He wasn’t even drunk, but since she’d just poured him his third glass of liquor, he was well on his way.
Before she could officially cut him off, Aberlour gave her a smile, grabbed his fresh glass, and walked towards the back of the room to his usual spot.
He came here to throw darts. He liked to drink, too, of course, but it was mainly the opportunity for some quiet target practice that drew him to the place.
No one bothered with the old board at the very back of the joint.
It was discolored and broken, the numbers faded by time and use.
The poorly balanced darts made throwing difficult for most people.
Not for Aberlour.
The reasons he came here were—complex. For one, it was the only place in town that felt familiar outside of his own home and the booth at the fair.
For another, it was the only drinking establishment that didn’t make his PTSD flair up.
The place was old, and whoever had bought the building had obviously paid it off back when owning a bar hadn’t been a multimillion-dollar investment.
It was huge. Big enough that even at its busiest, he never even came close to touching other people.
The board was in a little nook at the back, and when Aberlour faced it, his back was directly to a wall, so he didn’t need to constantly look over his shoulder to see if there was anything or anyone behind him.
And then, of course, there was the game itself.
Aberlour came there often to play. He’d realized one day, after a few too many shots of scotch, that it was because he kept waiting to fail.
Dart, after dart, after dart. He kept waiting for the moment when he aim would be off. All he needed was an inch to the side. Just one, and he’d be—well—maybe relieved.
His aim never failed. No matter how often he tried. No matter how much he drank.
It never failed.