Chapter 19
19
Easily, he names the emotion roiling in his gut.
Guilt.
Alcohol tastes vile.
I started with vodka—and immediately spat out the first sip I took. Rum isn’t for me either, I quickly learned. Gin, brandy, beer, wine, I don’t like any of it. Cocktails are so sweet, they hurt my teeth, and so complicated to make, I feel guilty ordering them. By the time I get around to whiskey, I’m not sure if I actually like it, or if my tastebuds are as drunk as I am.
I know I like it a lot more than I like myself right now.
Every sip of throat-burning liquor is accompanied by a wave of equally scorching disgust. Complete and utter disgust that I’m doing something I swore I’d never do; drowning my emotions in alcohol, being that person slumped over the bar, getting drunk enough to forget, becoming him .
But I need it. I need it so bad, bad enough that the overwhelming disdain I feel towards myself isn’t quite enough to make me stop. The carefree oblivion alcohol brings is all I want right now, despite how my hands shake as I bring glass after glass to my lips, despite the shame burning my eyes, itching my skin, twisting my gut.
I should’ve gone further than Bishop’s. I should’ve gone somewhere no one knows me, but I couldn’t. Not with a shocked fog clouding my brain and tears impeding my vision and my entire body aching. So, I came here. The only place I could think of. Where all of today’s issues began—poetic, I think.
A part of me is glad it’s a busy Saturday night, a throng of people flooding the small, dark bar. There’s more chance of being seen, sure, but it’s also easier to blend in. To slip inside unnoticed. To hide, and God, I am good at hiding. Hunched over at the far end of the bar, where it curves and becomes the alcove that leads to the kitchen, shielded by an artistic wall of booze, no one notices me.
No one except the bartender, of course.
I wonder if Tommy is making comparisons in his head. Watching me sit here, unable to remain upright, reeking of booze, face red and eyes droopy, and casting his mind back to the last time he saw my dad here doing the exact same thing. I wonder if this is what Dad does, if this is how he gets away with being a barely functional alcoholic without anyone noticing, if hiding in plain sight has really worked for over a decade—if it really all boils down to no one caring enough to notice.
Like father, like daughter, I bet Tommy is thinking.
I swallow down the bile rising in my throat that has very little to do with a belly full of alcohol. I grasp at my half-empty glass for another swig to wash away the ache only for it to be wrenched away from me.
“What the hell?” My vision spins as I drag my gaze upwards, barely capable of making out Tommy peering down at my slumped form, wearing a pinched expression that makes my stomach churn even more. I hurriedly drop my gaze; if I can’t see the pity, it doesn’t exist, right?
“I think I should cut you off, Line,” Tommy says quietly, and my face scrunches at his tone.
“I think you should do your job,” I quip because apparently, alcohol makes me quippy. And snarky. And tired.
I'm so tired.
Steeling myself against the haze clouding my senses, I force my spine straight, my fingers curling around the edge of the bar to keep myself from tumbling to the floor. I attempt to scan the myriad of bottles staged on the shelves behind Tommy, but even through squinted eyes, I can’t make out a damn thing. “What else can I try?”
“We have a wonderful selection of water.”
I snort as I steal back my empty glass, rattling the ice cubes inside it. “What about tequila?”
“You won't like tequila.”
“Why not?”
“Because no one likes tequila,” Tommy jokes dryly. “You drink tequila to get wasted, not because you like the taste.”
“Sounds perfect to me.”
And there comes that frown again. “Caroline, are you okay?”
I don’t answer; I don’t have an answer.
“You don’t get wasted.”
“Well, tonight I do.” I lift my chin indignantly. “Either you give me a drink, or I'll find somewhere that will.”
I thought that might snap him into action, and I’m proven right. With a resigned sigh, he reaches for my glass with one hand, the other stretching out towards me, palm-up. “Keys.”
As I oblige, I wonder how often he’s had this same interaction with my dad. I wonder if he’s wondering the same thing, comparing me to him again, thinking about how the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.
Tommy stashes my keys somewhere beneath the counter, fingers tip-tapping against the wood as he glances worriedly over his shoulder. “Do you want me to call someone?”
Absolutely not.
At the shake of my head, he does it again, looks behind him at something I can’t see—something I probably couldn’t see, even if I tried. “I can get—”
“Tommy, please,” I sigh, groan, beg ; quiet and defeated and drunk. “I just wanna sit here for a little while, okay? I’ll be quiet. I won’t be a problem. I promise.”
Again, I think about my dad. Wonder if he promises to be good too in the hopes of another drink. Wonder if he feels this bone-deep need for something strong to wash the pain away. Wonder if Tommy folds to him as easily as he does to me.
Wonder if I’m not the only one who needs to learn to say no.
Tommy was right; I despise tequila.
That doesn't stop me from drinking it, though. I knock back a shot the way he shows me, with salt and lime, and then he fixes me a margarita that I think I like, but my palette can’t exactly be trusted. He leaves me alone after that, and I can’t tell if it’s because he thinks the distance will stop me from ordering another, or if it’s down to me being less than desirable company—what with all the hiccuping and sniffling and general drunkenness.
Maybe I'm embarrassing him , I snicker to myself as I throw back the last of my drink, shivering as it burns a path all the way down to my stomach.
I'm still gagging from the taste when I feel someone come up behind me, their presence registering a split second before a husky voice sends another shiver up my spine. “I thought I brought you home.”
I need to stop thinking about him. It seems that every time, every single damn time, thoughts of Hunter pop into my head, I conjure up a physical appearance.
A physical appearance that, despite the enormity of it, I ignore. I pretend he isn’t there, favoring rising up on wobbly legs, leaning over the counter, and snagging the bottle of Patrón Tommy foolishly—or maybe purposely—left within arm’s reach. I keep pretending as I pour what’s probably way more than a shot.
If I acknowledge his presence, I’ll start crying again, and I’m so damn sick of crying.
The glass just touches my lips, another round of tequila on its way to dull the pain in my chest, when my actions are foiled.
Snatching the glass away, Hunter slides it down the bar. “I’m talkin’ to you, Caroline.”
His accent gets stronger when he’s angry, I notice, right before I flinch at said anger. I flinch hard, almost throwing myself off the stool I’m precariously perched on. Warm hands grab my hips before I hit the floor, and I hate that such a simple, saving touch makes me flinch once more.
The hands disappear immediately. They grab the stool instead, careful not to touch me as wood scratches against tile, as I’m spun until my back hits the bar. Then, they settle on either side of me, gripping the counter and erasing any chance for me to fall.
The urge to meet the eyes I know are seeking out mine is overwhelming, but I refuse. I keep staring at his chest, but I swear I feel those eyes narrow. “You're drunk.”
I snort. Thank you, Captain Obvious.
“You don't drink.”
“Can’t a girl change her mind?”
When he tenses, I internally cheer. I assume my snide comeback caught him off guard. Surprised him. Showed him I’m capable of wit and snark and—
My triumph dies. He cradles my chin and tilts my head upwards, and it evaporates, replaced by the pure panic I’ve only felt once before, mere hours ago. I flinch, wince, cringe , jerking away from him, but not quick enough that he doesn't have the chance to stoop down and sniff my freaking breath.
“Jesus, Line.” He swears and drops his hand. Shakes it off like it’s dirty. Curls it into a tight fist. “How much have you had?”
It’s a rhetorical question, clearly, because he doesn’t wait for an answer. He swears again before leaning around me and using those long arms to grab a glass from the other side of the counter and fill it with water.
“Sorry,” I slur, dodging the beverage when he tries to tip it towards my lips. “Am I embarrassing you?”
Hunter stops his efforts. He says nothing, and I wonder if I glanced up, what expression I’d find. A furrowed brow, for sure. No doubt some kind of blazing, hazel intensity. Probably anger or disappointment or pity, since everything I do seems to inspire one, or all, of those three emotions. It's pure wishful thinking, hoping for anything else.
“Line,” he says slowly, and I really hate that even a rock-solid armor of every alcohol known to man can't prevent my heart from thumping erratically at the sound of my nickname falling from his lips. “You better not be here because of me.”
And just like that, my heart pounds for different reasons. “You wish.”
No, I wish.
I wish that the worst part of my day was Hunter being mean to me.
I wish that the worst part of my day was just my feelings getting hurt.
I wish it was simple, mundane boy troubles that drove me to have my first drink ever.
A bitter laugh escapes me as I shake my head before forcing it to lift, forcing my gaze on a slow upwards path. My thoughts, his words, or maybe just the alcohol—one of those things incites something bold in me, inspires me to give him a piece of my mind. I have no idea what I'm going to say, and I don't get the chance to figure it out because the moment my eyes meet Hunter's, I forget every word in my vocabulary.
I was partly correct. He is frowning, his dark brows knitted together and deep groves lining his forehead. Blazing intensity, I do find. But he doesn't look angry, nor disappointed, and not even pitying. He looks...
Sad.
Really sad.
And sad is a devastating look on Hunter.
I'm so caught up on that one single emotion that I almost miss the other ones lurking, the guilt dulling his gaze and something else, something soft that I can't place because I'm too focused on the immensity of those first two.
I wait for all that emotion to disappear, for him to slide a mask in place to hide what he’s really feeling like he tends to do, but no such thing happens. If anything, it gets stronger. Heavier. And suddenly, it's not just the alcohol making me feel dizzy.
Neither of us say anything. We both refuse to look away first. Sober Caroline would've folded already. Sober Caroline would've taken one look at that fierce expression and dropped her gaze, skin flushed and heart thumping and mind whirring and tongue tripping over an evading subject change.
Drunk Caroline is a separate entity entirely. Drunk Caroline would rather freaking die than back down. God, I can see, in a sick way, how people get addicted to this, to the unshakable confidence. The fearlessness. The utter conviction that I could do anything, without care or consequence. It’s that mindset that urges my mouth open, presses my tongue to form words I’ll likely regret when I’m sober. But once again, whatever empowering rant is brewing gets cut off, a clearing throat the culprit this time.
I try to turn towards the sound, but Hunter steps an inch closer. He makes any movement impossible, allowing me to look only at the broad expanse of his chest. Scowl at it, more accurately. The same way he’s surely scowling at whatever’s behind me—even though I can’t quite see his face, that scowl of his is a tangible thing.
“Hey, Hunter.” I recognize Tommy’s voice, recognize the nervous jump in it as easily as I recognize the twitch of Hunter’s jaw as annoyed. “Can I get you guys something else?”
A frown claims my features. Something else, as in, he’s already ordered something? He’s been here long enough to order something? You guys , as in he’s here with other people? So consumed by his mere presence, I didn’t even consider why he’s here—beyond him having a special knack for finding me at my worst. I definitely didn't jump to the ' he's just here for a casual drink with friends ' conclusion.
For one horrifying moment, I can only think of a couple of people Hunter would voluntarily spend one-on-one time with. A pair of siblings I would very much prefer not see me like this.
My concerns are quickly put to rest. All it takes is a quick peek around a bulging bicep, and a fight through the wave of dizziness that movement—and a hand settling on my lower back to steady my wobbling—incites. I vaguely recognize the men gathered around the pool table in the corner doing a godawful job at pretending they’re not looking over here, but I’m too far gone to put names to faces—too rapt by Hunter willingly being here with people who don’t pay him for his presence.
“You have friends?” I can’t help but ask, eyes wide with genuine, innocent awe.
“Besides you?” Hunter murmurs quietly, and my traitorous little heart flips. “A few.”
Hours ago; it was hours ago that he was saying awful things. And now he’s teasing me. Sweetly calling me his friend. Holding me upright and forcing water down my throat.
Sighing, I shake my head. “That’s not fair.”
“What’s not fair, honey?”
“You’re not even nice. It’s not fair that you have friends.”
I knock away the hand on my back, confused and flustered and needing space, but it doesn’t go far. It lands on my thigh instead. As hot and discombobulating as the one that sweeps my hair back before cupping my neck. He holds me gently, both thumbs tracing soothing circles, so freaking tender—such a stark juxtaposition to the way he barks at Tommy. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
I hear the rustle of fabric, and I imagine the bartender wringing a dishtowel between nervous hands. “I’m just doing my job.”
“She can barely sit up straight, you fuck—”
“Stop it.” I poke a rock hard pectoral muscle. “Leave him alone. Leave me alone. Go away.”
Hunter tips his chin to peer down at me. “You're mean when you're drunk.”
“You're mean all the time.”
The words just slip out. I don't mean them, not entirely, but the drunken, defiant part of me is twistedly proud to say them. It likes the idea that I could hurt him with my words like he hurt me with his. But the part of me that registers Hunter tensing, his expression shutting down and his hands dropping, desperately wishes I could take them back. The weak part of me, maybe.
I suddenly feel very tiny, very cold, very exposed as Hunter steps back. He deprives me of the eye contact I suddenly long for, instead favoring glaring at my purse as he scoops it up off the counter, smacking down a wad of money in its place. “I'm taking you home.”
I clumsily snatch my bag from his grip. “No, you're not.”
“Caroline.”
“ No. ”
“I can take you home,” Tommy pipes up, only to be slapped down by a withering glare.
“Fuck off.”
“Hunter!” I slur a reprimand, drunkenly slapping at his chest. He catches my wrist before I can connect, cradling it so gently as his thumb swipes over my pulse point. It takes actual, physical, borderline painful effort to snatch it back. “I'm not going home.”
I don’t have a home. I have an angry, hateful house and a cold, empty attic, and I don’t want to be in either.
“Honey—”
Shaking my head, I spin to face the bar again, subsequently inciting a wave of nausea. I don't know if I physically wobble or if Hunter just makes an educated guess, but steadying hands land on my shoulders, fingers sweeping across my skin. I barely even register Tommy cautiously backing away from the situation, way too entranced by the soft press of a hard body against my back.
“Please.” I shiver when the word tickles the nape of my neck. “Please let me take you home.”
“No.”
Damn it. Not quite as convincing as earlier.
I'm achingly aware that if he dug his heels in, it wouldn't take much more for me to fold. He must know it; he must hear it. Yet, to my surprise, he gives up. “Okay.”
When his hands drop and I feel him step away, I glance over my shoulder with a frown. A weird sense of disappointment washes over me as he strides back over to his friends. They all act like they weren't just watching our every move, suddenly finding their game of pool a lot more interesting than it was a moment ago. When they dissolve into rapid conversation, I look away.
A minute later, I jump in surprise when a hand curves around my waist again, lingering for a moment before stealing my purse. Hunter doesn't even give me a chance to question him as he lifts me up and off the stool, settling me down on unsteady legs.
I grip his forearms for balance for a split second before I remember myself and rip my hands away. “I said I don’t wanna go home.”
Yet as he guides me to the door, I don’t put up all that fierce of a fight.
And when fingers intertwine with mine, gripping tightly, I don’t fight that either. “I'm not bringing you home.”