9. Jason
It’s three in the morning, so the only thing open is a seedy fucking dive bar.
Mandi follows behind me, obedient as fuck, because she wants something from me.
What, though?
The hate-fuck I owe her has been building for two decades, so I don’t like her chances of survival. If she wants to die, she can find another way.
I sneak a quick glance at her and feel guilty as hell for thinking it, because she looks almost as suicidal as she did when I first saw her as a teenager.
Fuck it.
I order an orange soda and shove a grease-stained menu in front of her when she joins me at the bar. She’s a tight little tangle of nervous energy as she looks around, and when she glances from the three available choices of fried snacks written on the card next to my soda, the worry lines around her eyes intensify.
“You don’t need something stronger?” she asks with a watery smile.
“I’m driving.”
She closes her eyes in a pained wince and nods. “I remember the rules. It was a stupid thing to say. I’m stupid. I didn’t mean…” She shakes her head, and her chin trembles. Her eyes dart around the room, as if she’s expecting an attack from any direction, and she looks more overwhelmed with every second that passes. She tugs at the collar of my leather jacket and gulps down air. “Is it hot in here? It’s loud. I can’t think straight.”
“Take off the jacket if you’re hot.”
She stills. Slowly, her fingers release the leather, and she lifts her chin, as she strokes a hand down the front of the jacket. “I’d rather not. If that’s okay with you?”
Interesting. Instead of trying to seduce me with her curves, she’d rather keep them under cover. “Suit yourself,” I reply with a shrug. “What do you want to drink?”
She shifts her gaze to the rows of cheap liquor behind the bar and breathes a little faster. “Water,” she blurts out, like she’s in an argument with me.
“Water?” I ask.
The bartender gives her a strange look, and I narrow my eyes and look her over again. “You sure?”
She nods. “Yes. Please.” She’s more nervous than ever, and I get a sinking sensation in the pit of my stomach.
“How long have you been sober?” I ask.
“Two years and three weeks,” she whispers, wiping at the beads of perspiration that have gathered on her forehead.
I took a suicidal alcoholic to a bar. What a fucking asshole. If I was paying closer attention, I might have picked up on it the moment we walked in here, but I’ve been trying not to look at her. Don’t want to fall under her spell again.
I throw ten bucks on the counter, grab her hand, and pull her back outside. I get on my bike, start the engine, and toss her my helmet. “Get on the fucking bike, Amanda.”
She stands on the curb and pulls the helmet on, hands shaking as she tightens the strap. She stands there a moment before she walks over to climb on, and I can tell she’s crying when she sits up behind me. She’s working so hard to keep quiet that the tension is rolling off her. I can practically feel the sobs she’s suppressing, through the bike.
It’s hard not to stop everything, pull her into my arms, and let her know that — no matter what she’s done or how angry I feel — I could never leave her to suffer.
I check that she’s holding onto the back grip and try not to mourn the memory of her small frame snuggled against my back, as I head for home. I’ll feed her there. Give her a safe place to sleep that’s not the cold, wet ground under a fucking shrub.
And in the morning, when she’s feeling stronger, I’ll make her talk.