11. Chapter 11
Chapter 11
Derek
T he temporary good feeling I get from talking with Faith is immediately ripped from me when I decide to head out to the bar with Wally. What should be a much-needed happy hour with a buddy turns into a fight that's been years in the making. The only thing stopping me from it was the metal prison bars keeping me from ringing the guy's neck.
Wally and I sit on the far end of the bar, Wally facing the door like every seasoned veteran I know who has dealt with a bit of PTSD from their time in the military. Not five minutes after we ordered a couple of beers, our happy hour turned sour by a sight I wasn't ready for.
At first, I don't believe it's him. There's no way. But with every glance I steal, the more I realize it's him. He's not skinny and scraggly like he was the day of sentencing. His once baby-looking face is dawned with tired eyes and a bushy brown beard that matches his shaggy hair cut in desperate need of a trim. He's no longer a stick figure but a decently filled-out man who isn't massive but knows his way around the gym. I need validation fast; I ask Wally if it's who I think it is.
"The guy at the corner stool," I tell Wally when he gets back from the restroom. "Does he look familiar?"
"I'm not sure. Why?"
"Picture him fifty pounds lighter and a shaved face," I say, and suddenly Wally's eyes widen, recognizing the man who killed Chelsea four years ago, Gregory Sampson.
"Holy shit," he sighs. "I thought Mrs. Sampson wanted us to escort him from the jail."
"I guess the plans changed," I say. "I thought he still had another year to serve."
"Good behavior," Wally rolls his eyes. "They trust a criminal when he's staying out of trouble in a controlled environment, expecting him to be able to do the same in the real world. Dumbest fucking thing ever invented."
"If you were charged with manslaughter by drunk driving, would you ever go near alcohol again?" I ask, watching Greg sip his whiskey neat, wondering if that's what he got drunk on four years ago.
"You couldn't pay me to have another sip," he shakes his head. "But Mrs. Sampson told me he wouldn't be allowed to drive for the next two years as his probation."
"Which means we get to be his chauffeurs," I groan, rubbing my temples. "This can't be happening."
"Hey, I can drive the guy around," Wally offers. "I know the boss won't let you change clients, so I'll deal with Greg."
But I'm hardly listening to a word Wally says. All I can focus on is the second glass of whiskey that's placed in front of Greg. He downs it in two big swigs, barely making a face at the burn that coats his throat. It might as well be apple juice for him because not five minutes later, he ordered another.
And I can't take it anymore.
"Woah, what are you doing?" Wally asks when he grabs my arm as I leave my seat.
"Relax, I just want to talk to him," I assure him, and he reluctantly loosens his grip. He watches me pull up a seat next to Greg without asking if it's taken.
"Hey," I say as I rest my hands on the bar. "Do you remember me?"
Greg turns his head and squints at me, trying to rack his memory, but eventually shakes his head.
"Sorry, man, I've been away for a while," he says, taking another swig of whiskey.
"You really don't remember?" I ask, turning to face him.
"No, should I?" he shrugs.
It's fine if he doesn't remember me. I don't expect him to, not when I was the one whose life he ended. I slowly fight the anger inside and calmly say who he should remember.
"Chelsea Peters," I say, and his whole-body freezes before he sighs and drops his head.
"I take it you were one of her friends?" he asks, looking at me with a drunken glare.
"I was more than that," I say quietly, almost a growl only he can hear. "I was her fiancé, and you took her from me."
"It was an accident," he whispers like it will fix anything.
"What's not an accident is you ending up at a bar right after you get out on good behavior," I say, and a mix of shock and fear paints his face. "Oh, you weren't expecting me to know that did you?"
"Okay, what the fuck do you want from me?"
"I wanted you locked up for the rest of your life, but I only got four years of you behind bars," I answer. "I wanted at least one drunk mother fucker off the street so he doesn't take anyone else's life, but here he is, drinking away like nothing fucking happened."
"And I wanted to be left alone once I got out. Looks like neither of us got what we wanted. Now leave me the fuck alone," Gregory snaps, shoving me out of my seat with a rough push.
"We're not done here," I say, shoving him just as hard, forcing him to catch himself on his wobbly feet.
"Look, she's fucking dead. Move on, man," he says, shoving me again, and I feel myself snap.
I especially feel the snap when my left hook connects with his jaw. I clearly caught him off guard, but why do I give a shit? He did the same to me four years ago. "What can't defend yourself when you are not behind a wheel of a car" I snort out, but when I see him struggling to get up, I know I could easily beat his ass into the ground.
I also don't expect him to get back on his feet, but somehow he does. He was quick to reach for his fallen glass, now broken and jagged, to swipe at me, cutting me across my forearm.
Still hopped up on adrenaline, I ignore the warm blood sticking to my clothes and take another swing at him, once in the gut, then another in the face until he falls down again, this time staying down until the bartender gets between the two of us.
"Out now!" He yells, and Wally comes up behind me, pulling me away, knowing I want to go another ten rounds with this piece of shit.
"They already called the cops," Wally whispers in my ear. "Let's get out of here."
Against the urge to stay and make a trip to jail worthwhile, I listen to Wally and follow him out the back, where he drives away, leaving the red and blue lights flickering behind us.
"What the fuck were you thinking?" he asks when we hit a red light.
"That I wanted to fuck his world up," I answer. "I've thought about what it would be like to see him walking free. I know I would still be angry at him for what he did, but when he kept drinking, it just sent me over the edge."
"I can see that, I do," Wally insists. But how far would you have gone tonight if the bartender hadn't stepped in?"
"I probably wouldn't have stopped until I could feel him stop fighting back," I admit.
"Yeah, that's what I was afraid of," Wally says.
"This isn't the way back to my house," I say when he turns onto the freeway.
"No, we're going to the ER," he says, pointing to my bloody forearm. "We're getting that stitched up first."
"I'm fine," I insist, but upon further inspection, a few stitches might not hurt.