Chapter 37 – Jace
The neon lights washed across my face as I pushed through the double wooden doors, the layout as familiar as breathing.
I could’ve walked this place blindfolded—bar top straight ahead, jukebox tucked by the dartboard, the good booth on the left if you wanted Mandy as your server, the one near the restroom if you were okay waiting forever.
For years, this had been my home away from home.
I slid onto one of the plastic barstools, the cushion cracked from too many nights and not enough repairs. My eyes drifted up to the wall of liquor bottles lined up along the wall behind the bar. I could still remember the distinct taste of each one––whiskey, bourbon, even the vodka.
Harold—who’d worked here since before I was even thought of—set a square napkin in front of me, dropping a menu down, though deep down he knew I didn’t need it.
“Well look at that,” he said, grin tugging the wrinkles around his eyes.
“Haven’t seen your pretty face in a while.
” He pointed to the chalkboard hanging above the taps.
“Fish tacos are the special tonight. Five-dollar margaritas too. Although if my memory serves me correctly…” He gave the bar a slow wipe.
“…that wasn’t your usual drink of choice. ”
“Nope. Whiskey neat, Harold. You know the drill,” I ordered, my hands clenching at the words alone. The angel on my shoulder told me to get up. Leave. Go back to Cassie and pretend none of this ever happened.
But the devil on the other shoulder? He told me to stay.
Order the drink. Drink the drink. Be exactly what the internet said I was—the too-rowdy, too-drunk, too-useless younger McKinley son who was never going to amount to anything.
Amazing how years of rebuilding your life can come undone over a thirty-second clip posted on a platform I’d never even heard of.
Getting older and apparently getting dumber at the same time.
Harold set an empty glass in front of me, filling it with whiskey straight from the bottle.
“There you go, son,” he said, corking the bottle back. “Been hearing a lot about you lately.” He leaned on the bar, giving me a look.
Fantastic. Even the sixty-year-old man with a flip phone knew about what went down at Bennett’s.
“Secret’s out, I guess,” I mumbled, swishing the liquid around in the glass.
“I hate to break it to you, boy, but the secret’s been out for a while. At least for the ones who know you best.” Harold turned his back, organizing the glasses under the bar like he suddenly needed something to do with his hands.
“What do you mean?”
He snorted. “You practically lived here every night. I’d venture to say half your paycheck ended up in that register.” He tapped it with his knuckle for emphasis. “Then—poof. One day you just disappear. No goodbye, no last round, nothing. Two years go by and not a single appearance.”
He paused just long enough to make me uncomfortable.
“Well,” he corrected, “except for that night a couple weeks ago, when you busted through that door and announced to every breathing soul that Cassie was your so-called girlfriend. I thought you were gonna bite that kid’s head clean off.
” He laughed, a deep, wheezy chuckle that rattled his chest. “Damn near scared half the bar.”
“So yeah,” he said, setting down a glass, leaning on the bar, “anyone with half a brain could tell you’d done something to clean up your act.
Don’t know what it was, but the next time I saw you, you looked like a whole new man.
No sunken cheeks, no jittery hands, no sadness hiding behind your eyes.
I might be old enough to remember when your momma was pregnant with you, but I’m no fool—the eyes don’t lie, boy. ”
“If you know I’m sober, why are you giving me this drink right now?”
“Because you’re a grown ass man. You can make decisions for yourself––stupid or not,” he said before walking away to tend to someone else at the other end of the bar that was waving him over.
As Harold walked away, someone I’d never seen before slid onto the barstool next to me.
He wore a thick coat that looked like it had seen better days.
I glanced down, noticing his shoes were just as worn as his jacket.
He smelled of vodka and dirt. This definitely wasn’t his first drink of the night.
He leaned against the bar top, exhaustion radiating off him like heat radiating off the sun.
Harold walked back over, setting a napkin down in front of the guy. “My usual,” the man slurred, pulling a ringing phone from his coat pocket. He stared at the screen for a moment before answering.
“Hey, honey,” he said, his tone softening.
I could tell he was doing his best to sound sober.
“I’m sorry, baby. Daddy won’t be able to pick you up tonight.
I’m busy at work. Maybe this weekend—if Momma says it’s okay,” he said, his gaze dropping, shame written all over his face.
“Love you too, honey,” he added before hanging up.
“Harold, make it a heavy pour, will ya?” he muttered.
“Rough day?” Harold asked, adding a few extra seconds onto his pour.
“Different day, same shit,” the guy said, glancing toward me now. “Haven’t seen you around before. You new here?”
I scoffed. This guy didn’t even know the half of it. “Guess you could say that.”
“Names Daniel, but my friends call me Danny,” he said, sending his drink down in one gulp.
“Jace.”
“Whiskey your usual?” he asked, wiping his mouth of the tiny bit of liquor that had slipped past his lips. He recognized my drink just by looking at it. He definitely spent most of his spare time here.
I nodded, looking down at the glass I’d been holding onto for a while.
“I’m more of a vodka guy myself,” he went on. “But I’ll drink anything, really. Whatever I can get my hands on.”
I hated that I knew exactly what he meant—what he was feeling. How I used to be the same way. It never mattered what bottle was in my hand, only that there was one. The shame I’d felt earlier at Bennett’s started creeping back in.
Would that feeling ever go away?
“My ex is gonna be pissed at me for missing another day with our daughter, but she’ll be even more pissed if I show up drunk, so damned if I do, damned if I don’t.”
Harold gave him a sideways glance as he continued wiping down glasses behind the bar.
“Hit me with another one, Harold,” the guy said, sliding the empty glass towards him. Harold filled the glass up again. Heavy pour just like the first time. Danny drank it down in one gulp again. He puckered his lips this time.
“Damn, sometimes that shit burns,” he said, slamming the glass back on the counter.
The thought of liquor leaving a trail of fire down my throat took me back to the night I thought I lost Cassie––thought I had gotten her killed.
I cried––sobbed––all night thinking I hadn’t gotten us out in time.
That the smoke inhalation would be too much for her lungs.
I felt like the shittiest person on the planet that night.
What kind of man was I if I couldn’t even save the women I loved because I worried about getting my hands on a bottle of liquor more than I worried about life itself?
All the family functions I had passed up, invites I had turned down from friends because what they wanted to do didn’t include alcohol and Jace McKinley without alcohol was a nobody––a loser.
I wondered how many times I had shown up to this very bar, looking exactly like the guy sitting next to me––exhausted, hopeless, sad. I wondered how many times Harold had to listen to me sulk about life knowing I was my own worst enemy. Too nice to tell me to get my shit together.
“You gonna drink that?” Danny asked, glancing at the untouched glass still in my hand.
Harold poured him another while I just sat there, lost in thought.
My phone buzzed in my pocket—another text about what went down earlier. Another link to the video. Another stab to my heart.
The heart I had worked so hard at keeping sober the last two years. The heart I had somehow managed to put back together because I finally got the chance to fall in love with the one and only Cassie Blake.
Now everything was going up in flames because everyone sat behind their keyboards judging me from afar. My hard work, my relationship with Cassie, my sobriety––all of it on the verge of slipping out of my hands any second.
Danny lifted his fresh glass in the air. “Cheers?”
I raised mine, clinking it against his.
“Cheers.”
It was almost midnight by the time I pulled back into the driveway of my cabin. All the lights in the cabin were off except for the porch light. I opened the front door quietly, almost tripping over the welcome mat.
I tiptoed inside, trying not to wake Cassie—if she was even still here. For all I knew, she’d gone back to her house, pissed off at me.
I crept past the living room and down the hall. No sign of her.
Was she really gone?
Kicking off my boots, I shrugged out of my jacket and let it fall to the floor. I needed a shower. I needed sleep. I needed Cassie.
I continued to my bedroom, peeling off another layer of clothes. As I flung my shirt to the floor, scarlet red caught my attention. Cassie’s hair was sticking out from underneath the top of the sheets.
She didn’t leave. She was here asleep, in my bed––our bed.
“Cassie, baby, I’m home,” I said, trying to wake her up gently. Her eyes fluttered open softly. When she realized it was me, she shot upright.
“Jace, why do you smell like the inside of the Twisted Spur?” she asked, her voice tight, fear flickering in her eyes.
I sat on the edge of the bed, shoulders slouched—ready to tell her the truth. There was no backing out now.