Chapter 5
FIVE | TARYN
The funny thing about alcohol? It’s like one of those teeter-totters my third graders would play on. Piled on one side are all the things you don’t want to think about—the things you want to forget. Then, on the opposite sits the garbage can of junk you threw away a long time ago.
When I drink, the things I want to ignore and everything I believed I had let go of from the past come to the forefront of my mind.
Alcohol numbs certain parts of you but makes you painfully aware of others simultaneously.
Like the fact that I honestly don’t have a family, and my parents couldn’t care less.
Like the reality that I’m entirely alone.
Like the bitter truth that I’m stuck with a year lease in a town that’s already driving me to the brink of madness.
But hey, I’ve got a cute dog at home and a bartender in front of me who keeps handing me free drinks because I think he pities me.
And when you’re like me and want to feel absolutely nothing because the only person to blame for your unfortunate luck is yourself, the only solution is to keep drinking until a point where everything shuts off, and the world becomes dark.
For a few hours, anyway, until you wake up with a massive hangover and feel worse than you did before.
I’m not at that point. But my fingertips are numb, a telltale sign that I’m buzzed.
After Harrison Crock got me a drink, I downed it in less than ten minutes.
He told me about the club downstairs, and I was intrigued.
Apparently, it’s also a part of Crocks, but it’s the hangout spot when the sun goes down, and the locals or tourists want a club-like atmosphere.
I’m glad he pointed me toward the stairs because I need the distraction.
However, no matter how many drinks I consume, I can’t shake the feeling of eyes following my every move.
I’m just paranoid. And drunk.
I twist on the barstool, watching the liquid slosh around in my beer glass as I twirl it in circular motions. It is something so simple, yet it’s entertaining.
The dark-haired bartender with pattern tattoos crawling up his arms and neck reaches over and snatches my glass from my hands.
I stare at him, dumbfounded. Clucking my tongue, I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. “That was incredibly rude. I still had several sips left!”
He tosses the glass into the sink and returns to stand in front of me on the other side of the bar. Up until now, I have only seen the gray Crocks T-shirts, but the one he wears is black.
He presses his hands onto the counter and leans over them, getting closer to me. “I was going to get you a fresh drink, but if you prefer that one…” He pauses, letting me think about it.
Reaching for my phone tucked into the back pocket of my jean shorts, I glance at the time. Eleven.
I roll it over, debating whether I should have another or request an Uber home. Thinking that hard makes me nauseous.
Do they even have Ubers here?
Plus, I left Rossco outside in the fenced backyard, so he should be content for another hour.
“What are you going to give me?” I ask.
He tilts his head back and forth thoughtfully and glides a hand over the back of his neck, giving me a flash of his muscular biceps.
Maybe he would kindly take me home once his shift is over.
I’ve never slept with anyone, but he’s hot and friendly, and I’ve had enough drinks already that my body craves something more than my vibrator.
He eyes me up and down. “How about a margarita?”
I hum in approval. “Sounds great!”
He leaves me and wanders into the back kitchen. A minute later, he reappears, tossing a red apple into the air. I trace its movements, observing it rise and fall into his palm. I’m too wasted to let the sight of it affect me. I can’t be spooked out by the sight of the fruit my entire life.
He places it on a cutting board and picks up a knife, cutting it down the center.
The juices leak out, glistening on the wood from the overhead pendant lights.
Similar to upstairs, there are sconces on the walls, which are turned off to allow the flashing strobe lights to flicker on the dance floor in the middle of the space.
It’s a little classier down here. Around the floor are leather chairs, round tables, booths, and one pool table in the corner, where bikers are challenging each other to a game. A jukebox and dartboard are on the opposite side of the room.
The knife taps against the cutting board as the bartender slices the apple into thin sheets.
I hop off the stool. “I am going to use the restroom quick. I’ll be right back.” The rush of alcohol bolts through my body, impacting my head.
I make a beeline for the bathroom—down a short hallway with the kitchen doors at the end—and reach up to massage the skin on the side of my temple as my brain pulses against my skull.
Damn, maybe getting another drink wasn’t a great idea.
Staring at the floor through slightly blurry vision, I lower my hand, and my face smacks against something hard. A set of hands grip my forearms to steady me as I sway.
Goddammit.
I lift my spinning head enough to stare at the chest directly in front of me, clad in a black sweatshirt. Heat rushes to my cheeks with embarrassment. The warmth from his rough hands sears through my long-sleeved flannel.
He clears his throat, and I swallow.
“Oh my God, I’m so sorry! Excuse me,” I apologize, hurrying away from him to the bathroom to avoid eye contact. I knew it would make me feel worse since I wasn’t paying attention to where I was going.
Exiting the stall in the bathroom, I stride to the mirror and stare at myself. What am I doing? I don’t drink like this when I’ve hit a low. I mean, this is much lower and more problematic than the situations I usually find myself in, but I don’t resort to alcohol.
My eyes sting with unshed tears. I wish I could call my mom.
I wish I had the type of relationship with my parents growing up where I could pour my heart out to them about my issues, even if they were simple, juvenile things that every girl went through.
Where they would stroke my hair and tell me everything would be okay.
Or maybe my dad would offer to kick a few guys’ asses for hurting me.
Sometimes, when I turn my phone on, I long for a text. Or a missed call notification. But always being the first to reach out is exhausting—asking them how their day has been and learning their latest whereabouts even when they don’t seem to care about mine.
I know they trust me. Trust that I’ll make good decisions.
Adulting like adults do. But I wish they wouldn’t just assume I’m okay and put in the effort to ensure I am.
There’s a big difference; sometimes, all we need to know is that someone out there thinks about our well-being.
That someone misses us completely because life would be different if we weren’t a part of theirs.
I want someone to adore me like that. I want a relationship with people who genuinely can’t breathe without me around, and they are a mess if the words between us go unspoken.
Peering at myself in the mirror, I notice the whites of my eyes are bloodshot, the hair near my forehead sprouting out in every direction like unruly, overgrown weeds.
Turning the knob, water pours out of the faucet, and I wet my hands, running them over my face, below my eyes, and up through my hair to slick the bun back to look a little more put together than I feel.
The cool water temperature takes down my body heat a notch and feels refreshing.
My tank top has slipped up a little, higher than usual, to expose more of my tan stomach.
Thank you, Arizona sun. I’m glad I could soak it up while I had the chance.
I still need a ride home, and looking sexy might help.
Not that asking strangers for a ride is the best idea, but I need to get home somehow unless I want to sleep in the back seat of my truck, which wouldn’t be the first time.
A remix of “All Around the World” by R3HAB grows louder as I go back to the bar and situate myself on the stool.
Ten or so sweaty bodies move and grind on the dance floor, my eyes following their movements.
Watching them from the stool raises my temperature as if their body heat radiates from them in heavy waves and soaks into my clammy skin.
Most of them appear to be around my age or a little younger, while everyone on the perimeter chatting and drinking is of various ages.
Since there wasn’t a bouncer to get in, I’m guessing Crocks is a go-to and unmonitored place for younger folks wanting to let loose and throw a couple of drinks back.
My ruby red margarita awaits me when I rotate my stool to face the bar. My mouth waters, the tumbler with a cinnamon sugar rim and apple slice, validating my decision to have one more drink.
The bartender nods to someone behind me nonchalantly. Sneaking a peek over my shoulder, I see dancing individuals, their bodies illuminated in the dark by the green and pink flashing lights. Everything beyond that is black and blurred.
Someone must have waved at him for another round.
My attention finds the bartender again, and I smile. “This looks so good. Thanks for the drink.”
He grins and leans over the bar, holding my eyes. “You don’t have to be so polite here. Most tourists just slap a tip down and get on their way.”
“I’m afraid going on my merry way isn’t an option since I’m here for good.” For a while, anyway.
He raises a brow, and I lift the straw to my mouth, taking a long sip of the apple margarita.
Oh my gosh, that’s so good.
The tartness from the lime and sweetness from the apple perfectly combine to create an explosion on my taste buds.
I suck some more down and drift my finger over the rim.
Lifting it to my mouth, I lick off some cinnamon sugar.
He grips the edge of the counter in his fists while he tracks my movements.
“And I also need to make some friends since I’m not getting on my way and out of Cedar Creek anytime soon.” I give him a single wave. “So, I’m Taryn.”
He stares at me, I think. His attention seems to be barely slipping past me to something else. “Xavier.”
I pick up the glass and tip it toward him. “Thanks for the drink, Xavier.”
He bites back his grin. His lips hold my attention as my brain gets a little fuzzier, like one of those old televisions when it starts to lose connection. Or like radio static clashing with a really good song.
“With a name and face like that, you’re bound to get into some trouble around here.” Registering his words takes a second longer, and I set my glass down.
Propping my elbow on the counter, I hold my weighted head up. When I give him my attention again, it feels like several minutes have passed. Great, I’m reaching that drunk state where I’m blacking in and out.
“Thanks for the compliment.” Or at least, I think it was one. I honestly can’t remember what he said.
I straighten back up, hoping the shift in my posture will feed a little energy and control back into my body.
Xavier’s voice is saying something, but it sounds like an unintelligible noise drifting to my ears underwater.
My breathing starts to slow, but my heart beats faster, the flashing lights spurring my dizzy state.
I think I’m going to be sick.
Peeling my sticky thighs off the seat from the sheen of sweat coating my skin, I move to stand, but I wobble. Stumbling, I force myself to regain my balance.
Air. Yeah, I need some fresh air.
I hurry toward the door leading to the hallway of stairs that goes back up to the main level of Crocks.
The music blares in my ears. The bar to my left and the dance floor to my right begin tilting the moment I burst through the door to the stairwell.
I place my foot on the first step, pausing because I don’t even think I have the energy and capability to crawl up all of them right now.
Alarm bells are banging around in my head.
Something is wrong. Think, Taryn. Think.
The drink. My heart plummets into my gut.
The apple margarita.
I slap my hand against the railing of the stairs, trying to suck air in and out of my shriveling lungs.
I’m on the verge of having a panic attack because I know what happens next.
I have never been slipped a drug. This is what I get for being negligent and stupid. But it doesn’t make it any less wrong.
Hot tears stream down my face, my body weakening at a rapid pace to give itself over to whatever Xavier put in my drink. My knees are about to give out when a hand splays across my lower back, keeping me from falling backward.
Maybe someone has found me, and they’ll help. That thought drifts away with more of my awareness when another hand wraps around my forearm.
They pull me upward. My head lolls back, my watery eyes locking onto a pair of green ones under the shadow of a hood as my heartbeat slows. I try to study their face but my damn eyes won’t focus.
Another arm in a black sleeve worms its way around my stomach. And a fourth hand, a gloved hand, caresses the side of my face tenderly before covering my mouth. I try to inhale air into my lungs, but the leather glove transforms the sound into a muffled moan.
There are too many hands on me.
But I’m too tired to move.
And just as the little sliver of my mind that’s still coherent screams at me to fight, I go limp, and darkness drags me under.