20. Blake
20
BLAKE
I don’t even know where the fuck I’m going. But after I go home and trade out my truck for my bike, I drive for miles and miles. Flurries start up and slick the roads. The night darkens, growing harsher and more isolating. I push on anyway, riding through the biting wind that numbs my skin. Even with a bandanna draped across my face, the cold’s brutal.
I drive so far, I go straight out of town. I drive without seeing the present before me. My mind’s taken a deep dive into the past.
The saloon’s wilder than it’s ever been. Our biggest night of celebration in years let some of the older guys tell it.
Tom Cutler holds up his beer bottle and the rest of the Kings in the bar room follow suit. We raise our beers up and toast to our latest win for the club. We’ve successfully assassinated a key member in the Madrigal cartel that’s been causing us trouble.
The party goes on for hours. Some guys get so drunk they can’t see straight. They’re collapsing on the bar floor like it’s their bed at home. The club girls gyrate on the pool table and then wind up making out to hoots and hollers from the guys; they do a lot more than that once the guys get tired of watching and want in on the action.
A couple brawls break out. Belligerent fights that have a couple fists thrown before the score’s settled or it’s broken up by somebody slightly less fucked up.
Not that I’m any better. The room’s started turning hazy.
I swagger over to the counter where there’s a shot of whiskey waiting for me. Mace, Ozzie, and a couple of the others already have theirs. I pick up mine and toss it back with them. The burn feels so fucking good in the best way.
A refreshed sigh leaves me, then I wash it down with another swig of beer. Two club girls have cornered Mace, rubbing their asses on him. Ozzie’s climbed up on the bar counter and started screaming about breaking into the town zoo. Nobody takes him up on his offer.
I set down my empty beer bottle and squint at the rest of the saloon in search of the back door. I’m too fucked up to ride my Street Bob home. I can barely stand straight, swaying in place. Hope Mace doesn’t mind if I crash at his house for the night…
Only when the fluorescent lights of a gas station emerge do I brake. I park my bike at one of the pumps, pulling off my helmet and releasing what feels like my first breath in years. The one I’ve been holding in from the moment I turned up at Mom and Bill’s house. It wipes clean of my lungs, but instead of feeling relief, I feel… empty .
Nothing new. Nothing I haven’t felt before.
The cold isn’t what’s numbed me. It’s the deep pit that’s existed inside me since I was a small boy.
An emptiness that’s fucking excruciating to the point I’ll do anything to make it stop. I’ll do anything to feel something good.
I rise up off my bike and follow the bright lights guiding me into the convenience store. The gas station’s deserted, not a single other car or motorist anywhere—why would there be minutes before midnight?
The clerk doesn’t bother looking up when I enter. The store’s as vacant as the parking lot and gas pumps outside. My boots clack with every footstep that takes me nearer to the back of the store. A whole aisle stocked with cases of beer and bottles of alcohol for any occasion. I stop in front of the selection of whiskey, a buzzing noise starting up in my ears.
My fingers twitch. My heart pounds away. A cool sweat breaks out over my skin, and I edge closer like I’m in the presence of an old friend.
It is an old friend—the kind that understands me no matter what and makes me feel fucking good. It makes me forget.
I husk out a rough breath, shoving my fingers into my hair. The itch comes on so strong, it’s all I can do to stand here and keep my hands to myself. It’d be so damn easy to reach out and scratch. Do what I’ve done so many times in the past and give in.
Before I know what’s hit me, I’m blacking out. I’m gripping the handle of a bottle of whiskey and striding toward the counter. I don’t wait for the clerk to ring me up. My money’s slammed on the counter as I walk out into the shivering cold.
I mount my bike, twist off the cap, and stare into the amber contents of the bottle. The scene’s transformed into some warped nightmare where I’m powerless to stop myself. The urge is too fucking strong. I’m too fucking weak.
I blink back the moisture in my eyes and bring the bottle to my lips with a hand that shakes.
The whiskey slips past my lips. Poisonous fire that torches my throat and infects my system. A single swallow that undoes years of dedication.
Years of trying to change. Years of doing better. Being the man I’ve always wanted to be.
The burning liquid slides down my throat and leaves me with a worse feeling than the emptiness I was trying to fill.
The gut punch of realizing what I’ve done. Followed by a dull ache of regret.
I don’t feel any better. I feel a hundred times worse .
The door to the back exit of the bar’s only a couple steps away. Then I’ve gotta make it across the patio and rock pit and I’ll be home free. Is Velma home to let me in? Why the fuck’s it so hot in here?!
I take a couple staggering footsteps toward the backdoor. The room’s started spinning. Walking becomes a difficult task, like the floor beneath me’s shifting.
“CASH!”
My name’s bellowed at the top of Bill’s lungs. A slur even though it’s deafeningly loud.
In a feat that’s truly impressive, he’s managed to out-drink just about everybody in this bar. Including me.
I turn around to find him stumbling in my direction.
“Where the… where you think… hic… you’re going, ehh?”
He jabs a finger into my chest and thrusts his keys into my hands.
I clench my eyes shut and grit my teeth trying to hold it in. Push down the emotion that’s quickly swelling up inside me. But it’s no use—it explodes out of me in a roar that must echo for miles in the cold dark of the night.
I toss the bottle of whiskey. The glass shatters some feet off into dozens of jagged pieces.
Running my fingers through my hair, I’m gusting out heavy breaths that make me feel like my heart might bust out of my chest. I can’t say whether I’m relieved the bottle’s destroyed or if I’m frustrated that I let it get this far. I made such a stupid fucking mistake all because Mom and Bill got under my skin.
Go home, Blake. Go the fuck home. Sleep this away.
I breathe through another explosive urge to destroy something and focus on starting my bike. It rumbles to life and then I’m off, blasting into the night, getting as far as I fucking can. My steel horse takes me away ’til it feels like I’m outgunning the itch that had begged to be scratched.
If I just make it home. If I can just hold on to another day.
Day one.
Starting from the bottom all over again. But if I make it through the night, then I can make it to day two. Day three. Day four and all the days to come after it.
I know I can. I won’t fucking give up.
I glare at the dark road up ahead, my grip on the handles of my bike tight. Thoughts of Korine run through my mind. Just the memory of her beautiful smile and soft touch are enough to keep me straight—I’ve got to be the man she deserves.
At times, the pressures too much than I can bear, but I’ve got to try.
I can’t do what I always do. I can’t fuck this up.
“Bill,” I say, shaking my head. My hair’s in my face. The room’s sweltering. The keys feel wrong even being in the palm of my hands. “I can’t…”
“Drive. It’s a couple… hic… couple blocks.”
We wind up outside the saloon. Nothing’s straight. Nothing’s clear.
The night air feels cool against my skin. Finally relief from the oven that the saloon became.
Bill fumbles over to his truck and slaps a hand to the hood. He’s red-faced, reeking of the liquor he’s been drinking since morning. “Get in. Take me home.”
“Nah. It’s not… we can’t…”
“FINE. Then,” he hiccups, snatching the keys. “Then I’ll do it.”
A couple blocks into crossing the town border, the dark and deserted landscape changes. Out of the blackness comes flashing red and blue lights. The whir of a siren closing in from behind me. I check my mirrors to verify something I already know.
I’m being pulled over.
“Bill!” I yell as the truck starts up and I scramble for the passenger door.
I hop in as he slams on the gas. The truck lurches forward, swinging out of the lot, damn near nicking one of the parked cars.
Bill swerves left and right. His boot never lets up off the gas.
We’re veering across the road… into the wrong lane…
I reach over and try to steer him back. Try to course correct, but he jerks the wheel again and the truck feels like it’s spinning. It’s careening out of control.
We’re headed straight for the trees lining the road.
The earsplitting crack of metal against wood echoes in my ears as police lights flash before my eyes. I tear my gaze off my mirror and pull over to the side as expected.
And though it could be any police officer from the Pulsboro PD, I already know who it is before he even gets out of the car and walks up to my bike.
Both car doors swing open. Korine’s piece of shit ex-husband steps out on one side. His partner gets out on the other.
Tension shoots to my jaw and I mutter, “ Fuck .”
Fuck is right. This ain’t about to end well.