Unhinged: Unraveled Renegade, #2

By Ren Alexander

Love and hate collide when Greg Rodwell spills his secrets to two women, torching all three worlds.

 

Yeah, I did it. In pouring out my heart to my married best friend, fate handed me an opening along with my unzipped fly, and I flung it all against a wall before setting it on fire. What I did… I should regret it, but the only lesson I learned was I should've done it sooner. That reality hurts like a… Still, I know this will haunt Hadley and me forever.

 

On the other hand, living with Simone's betrayal—mocking me and setting me up just like they did to me over a decade ago—I'm a live wire of animosity. My darkness was never supposed to see the light of day, but she gift-wrapped it for the world to tear open. She trashed our friendship. I hope that fact haunts her forever too.

 

Ditching Richmond, that life-changing night, and both chicks, I try to restart or take a breather—something my sister never had before she died. Unfortunately, and uninvited, I'm not the only passenger on this displeasure cruise. My recent screw-up is a roadblock in every way imaginable until I discover her weakness: guilt. I grab on to that sucker because to ease her conscience, she wants to make it right with me. Which she will. To rebuild my life, I need a tour guide to show me the ropes, in a bedroom and a woman. While I lack the experience, she's skilled in that department. And before I cut her loose, she'll make me one too. She owes me. Restraint be damned.

 

 

WARNING: This book contains profuse graphic language, explicit sexual content, violence, and dark content not suitable for sensitive audiences. Reader discretion is highly advised.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ren Alexander
• Release date: Jan 13, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201045326

Ren Alexander

Ren Alexander writes steamy contemporary romance, including the Wild Sparks series, Unraveled Renegade series, and contributed to K. Bromberg's Everyday Heroes Series. Writing her romance novels with a hefty dose of reality, the good and bad, Ren embraces the gritty and raw with a side of funny and crazy. No matter what, there is always an explosion. You never know what you'll get in her mixed bag. Relocating from Detroit, Michigan, Ren lives in Kentucky with her husband, two daughters, and two cats. For all Ren's latest news, giveaways, and exclusive content, subscribe to her Key Notes. https://www.subscribepage.com/renalexkeynotes

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Unhinged

Unraveled Renegade, Volume 2

Ren Alexander

Published by Ren Alexander, 2022.

Unhinged

By Ren Alexander

© 2022 Ren Alexander

Copyright License Notes

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without permission in writing.

This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

NO AI TRAINING: Without in any way limiting the author’s exclusive rights under copyright, any use of this publication to train generative artificial intelligence (AI) technologies to generate text is expressly prohibited.

Cover design by Sarah Kil Creative Studio

www.sarahkilcreativestudio.com

Acknowledgments

THIS HAS BEEN A ROUGH year with my family moving to another state in the winter, during Covid, and in the middle of a schoolyear while writing this book. I want to thank my husband and two daughters for putting up with the extreme madness of it all. Without you, I probably would’ve written this book faster. Just kidding! I love you.

To my alpha-in-crime, Trin. Thank you for listening to me whine about my deadline and writer’s block. Until the next one!

Megan, thank you for being one of my biggest cheerleaders and for making me laugh. We still could be in-laws someday. Keep the faith!

Shelli, thank you for the late-night laughs and chats. No one sends me crazier videos than you. Thank you for that!

Karen L., thank you for your pep talks! They got me through times I wanted to quit. Without you, this book would’ve taken even longer!

To my Fishies. Thank you for taking the time out of your holidays to throw your Kindle at a wall. You know how to make a girl cry!

Thank you to my Renegades for waiting forever for me to finish this book! I’m so sorry it took a while, but I did make it extra long just for you! Thank you for cheering me on and potentially yelling at me after reading this book. Take a deep breath. It’ll be okay.

Thank you to all of my readers, new and old! I didn’t mean to keep you waiting this long, but I hope it’s worth the torture!

Forever my crutch, Diet Dew. You tried. Thanks anyway.

For Wendy.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

More Books by Ren Alexander

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WARNING: This book contains profuse graphic language, explicit sexual content, violence, and dark content not suitable for sensitive audiences. Reader discretion is highly advised.

Chapter 1

DEAR E,

Deep in the heart of every man is a soul that doesn’t give a shit anymore.

Pure gold right there. They should throw that onto a damn bumper sticker or a T-shirt. I have my moments, but even you know that.

If I told you I did it, you’d only assume the worst, and I’d tell you to aim lower. I’ve done lost my mind over a mistake that I’d sell my damn soul to redo.

I messed up. Bad. Horrendously, unbelievably bad. So bad the Brawny fucker won’t even touch this level of fucked-upness. You weren’t here to stop me. You weren’t here to bash me with a cinderblock. You weren’t here when I needed a voice of reason. If only you were my guardian angel like that chick had in Grease, then maybe none of this would’ve happened. Maybe I’m blaming you for this. I know whose fault it really is, but I already hate myself enough. It’s your turn to burn. If you aren’t already.

Yeah. I wanted it. Her. At any cost. I had already been so close. I just needed to seal the deal. But crummy reality tore apart the asinine fantasy. Now I’m stuck in hell’s halfway house, and I have no fucking idea how to escape. Not that I want to because the reality I had, I blew sky-high to smithereens. There’s no fixing that shit. What did I accomplish?

Not a goddamn thing.

I lost it all. Technically, I didn’t lose Hadley because she wasn’t mine to lose.

It’s colder than a witch’s titty out here, but I’m not lying in a casket six feet under, made up like a seventies’ call girl, either.

Sighing, I rest my head against the granite and look up at the gray sky littering my face with fat snowflakes. From this vantage point, my sister’s name, immortalized in stone, grinds against my skull. My inept mother went all out, selecting a tombstone that is both tall as it is tacky, with pigeons and hearts all over it. Eden should haunt her just for this atrocity alone. I fought for the Hello Kitty bitch, but Mom thought this looked more dignified for a grown woman. Just proves how well she didn’t know her daughter. I still paid for it, though.

I guess I should head to work. While it’s been gratifying for you to kiss my ass for the past hour, I’ve run out of shit to say. This is dangerously close to Elena Gilbert writing in her diary in a cemetery about her dead parents, for fuck’s sake.

Greg

Tucking the book under my arm, I stand and brush snow off my coat and jeans while shaking the drift out of my hair. Turning, I take another glance at the headstone behind me. It feels like yesterday that I was standing at her open grave, glaring at her white casket adorned with flowers Eden would’ve detested. Pastel pink, white, and yellow. Not her style. She was more into black tulips and dark pink roses. No in-between. Poison ivy, even. My sister was one of a kind, to say the fucking least. If from beyond the grave somewhere she saw the travesty that my mother turned her funeral into, Eden would haunt her.

Trudging through the snow, I get to my truck in no real hurry, not wanting to deal with the same old shit at work. Yet, when I’m on the road, I drive like I ate an Ex-lax burrito, regardless if ice coats the pavement.

By the time I slip through the automatic doors of Home Depot, I already know it’ll be a shitty night. I need you to help unload the pallet of water softener salt.

As I tie my apron, I ask, No ‘How’s your day?’ or ‘I missed your sweet ass?’ I grin as the Hardware department head, Kip Dingle, my boss, blankly stares through me. With his tall, thin build, and white-blond hair, he’s the human equivalent of a bitter Q-Tip in an orange tampon wrapper. Dingleberry is all of twenty years old and makes my damn schedule and my life miserable.

He finally cracks a smile. Oh. A joke. What a relief. I thought since you were eleven minutes late that you had left your junior-high anecdotes at home.

Not a chance. Kip’s stiff smile melts fast, and I walk past him and head for Plumbing, where Dale is on a forklift. I check my watch, and I’m positive the minute hand is DOA, not that it matters. I still have a long night ahead of me.

Sighing, I walk over to him and try to forget that fact.

EARNING PAROLE FROM my orange prison, I escape like Meatloaf and fly out of there faster than his bat out of hell, squealing tires as I leave the wet, newly paved parking lot. I don’t have far to go until I swerve and swing a hard right into the gravel lot. Record time, but now that I’m here, I’d give my left nut and kidney not to be.

As I throw open the door, my speed puts a hooker on BOGO Tuesdays to shame. Monty shakes his head. You’re late, Greg. Story of my life. What’s the point of being early to anything? Nobody cares if you’re on time for the party. You only exist when you’re late or crash it. From now on, I need to slip through the back door here.

Like a period. I roll my eyes at Monty, my second jack-off boss of the evening. Still, he’s not as bad as Kip. However delusional, Monty thinks he’s suave and good-looking like Denzel or cool like Jimi. Sadly, he’s more like Will Smith during his Fresh Prince years.

Misty quit. I falter slightly in my step, but I refuse to show it bothers me. He’ll smell my irritation like blood in the water.

Cool, I say, not making eye contact with him as I go behind the bar, shrugging off my coat. Fuck. That’s all I need. Less help on a busy Saturday night. Of all damn days.

I look over at Milt, the afternoon bartender, as he gapes at me. With the breath of a rotten corpse, he’s either teeming with shocking wisdom or probable maggots. Thankfully, he’s a quiet man. Freddy Kruger could win a beauty contest next to this dude. When he was born, every doctor and nurse in the hospital must have beaten him with an ugly stick. I shiver to think of the hole from which he emerged. Regardless, he’s one of the nicest people you’ll ever meet if you get past his troll face and dumpster stench.

I hang up my coat on a rusty hanger in the locker room with three lockers for all employees. Next to the door is a yellow rotary wall phone from the eighteen-hundreds, probably. Our remaining waitress, Candi, immediately grins when I return to the kitchen. She’s forty and isn’t horrendous to look at if I had a mute button. This chick never shuts the fuck up. If I were deaf, horny, and had zero standards, I may have considered her in another life. And it’s well known how I have a thing for older women.

Why’d Misty quit?

She shrugs one shoulder like she’s auditioning to be a half-assed dancer at a five-and-dime strip club. Misty? Beats the shit out of me.

Son of a bitch, I mutter under my breath. When do you leave?

Her eyes drop to my crotch. A half-hour. So, if you need me...

I ignore her invitation, remembering what I saw her do outside last week. Shit.

Milt said he’ll stay for an extra hour. Amy has been in and out today. Monty and Harold will be here.

"Harold. Great. So I’ll basically be winging it alone. Lovely."

Oh, come on, Greg. It won’t be so bad. It’s not like this is the most happening place to be on a Saturday night.

Are you serious? Durham’s elite wouldn’t have it any other way.

Candi laughs with a side of confusion. Why are you here? Who cares if your aunt owns this bar? You don’t belong in a place like this.

Why not? I mean, you’re here.

I have two teen sons to feed. I need to be here. She again studies me so hard I need a shower and an ice pack for my balls.

There’s my favorite nephew! a familiar voice trills off-key behind me.

Rolling my eyes, I reach for a striped hard candy mint in a bowl on the counter. I’m your only nephew.

A hip bumps against mine, but I don’t acknowledge it. Come on, boy. Let’s rumba.

Isn’t that a vacuum? She pulls my arm away from the counter, and I argue, No, thanks. You kind of have a bar to run.

Not tonight. Got a date.

I glance at her before Candi leaves the kitchen, giggling at my misery, as everyone usually does. I turn back to Aunt Amy. You? A date?

I still have some hitch in my giddy-up. I need a cowboy to tame this wild mare. I envy Great Uncle Stan. A noose, vodka, and a horse-pulled sleigh delivered his mangled ass to his grave, which is now a Denny’s.

That ruins my year.

Come on, boy. You know what I’m talking about. Sowing the wild Rodwell oats.

I don’t.

I’m sure you’ve bedded many a woman. You’re a good-looking young man. The truth would blow her mind and her fake eyelashes off her face.

What circle of hell did I wander into? I move to the other side of the counter. Why’d Misty quit?

Aunt Amy adjusts the always-present floral headband in her hair. Who’s Mitzy?

"Misty, the woman who’s supposed to waitress tonight?"

Oh. Is she the one Colt dated before running off to the military? she bitterly asks as she digs through her purse. My cousin Colt thought it’d be a hoot to join the army, not realizing the job requirements or that he couldn’t just up and leave. The army has Private Jerk Off by the balls for four years, and Mommy can’t bail him out.

He wishes. So, why did she leave?

How in the hell should I know?

You own this place!

Well, ask Monty. She probably wanted more money. No can do. This bar has sucked me dry. She glances at her watch. Which reminds me of my date. Oh, my. I shan’t be late. Aunt Amy giggles. Look at that. I made a poem.

"More like a limerick for a public bathroom stall, and no one says shan’t without expecting a shameful end to a crummy life."

Finding a stick of gum, she pops it between her horrendous beige-painted lips. Greg, Greg, Greg. You’re an unhappy camper. Find a young lady who will show you her boobies and a good time tonight. Our good man Monty knows plenty. His choice of women is questionable. Like I want to date a seventeen-year-old who claims to be an eighteen-year-old but looks like a fourteen-year-old.

Not even if Jensen and I were conjoined twins.

You need to wet your wick now and then, or it’ll shrivel up and die. Great. I didn’t need the Baby Ruth I ate for lunch. The counter may as well have it.

Hey. You don’t know what I do when I’m not working.

Aunt Amy wriggles into a furry coat to kidnap Dalmatians. You sit in your room and pout.

I see my mother has a big mouth.

If so, your dad wouldn’t have divorced her. And there goes my Pop-Tart from breakfast too.

Thanks for that searing image. And there’s my punishment for beating off so much. Not that I have in months.

Aunt Amy shrugs. Lucky guess. You’ve been moping since you moved back home. By the way, why did you?

I turn to the door, praying for an armed robbery. My membership expired. Turns out Virginia isn’t for lovers.

You had a membership at your job? For fuck’s sake.

Sure did. But the annual vending machine membership got out of control. Screw Doritos. I roll my eyes, but she stares at me. I swear I hear a dial tone like the old wall phone in the locker room.

Aunt Amy pursues her own theory. You missed your family.

Like syphilis.

She puts her hand on her hip while lugging her Mary Poppins carpet purse onto her other shoulder. Okay, I’m off.

Yep, you are. Wait. What about Misty?

Aunt Amy waves her hand. Her? She quit.

Come on! What do I do tonight without her?

I guess you’ll need to wear her apron and a friendly smile.

Not even if I sprouted wings.

Monty and Harold will close with you. Candi and Milt will be here for a little longer. Now, don’t make me late.

I follow her out of the kitchen, but reaching the swinging door, Aunt Amy abruptly turns and smacks the side of her head with her hand. I wish it had been with a baseball bat. Silly me! I almost forgot! I have an investor! That’s why I’m celebrating tonight!

Someone will give you actual money to run this bar?

Isn’t it grand? It’s something all right. The investor should stop by tonight to look at our operation.

You make it sound like we’re chopping stolen cars. It’d be nice to upgrade from hellhole.

She wags her mustard-yellow nail-polished finger at me. Use your manners. Don’t scare him away.

I’ll try not to pick my nose, burp, or bay at the moon in front of Lord Money Bags.

Good boy.

I cross my arms, watching Candi through the service window, watching us. Who is this schmuck?

Now, now, Greg. All in good time.

"Like now."

With a discerning smirk, she tousles my hair, and I lean away from her. Get a haircut. It’s curling like your dad’s. It must drive your mother insane.

Your point?

Aunt Amy grins at my insolence. We’ll talk soon. Turning, her perfume assaults every sense and then some. As I leave the kitchen, pushing through the door, I nearly run into Monty, who puts his arm over my shoulders. I’m glad you’re here. I’m heading out.

No. Amy said you’re here tonight.

I need an extended lunch. I got to be somewhere. I want to punch the horny grin off his face.

Why’d Misty quit?

He shrugs. Maybe she’s knocked up. You afraid it might be yours? I could argue that, but I’ve been in that situation in the past. More than once.

Monty, please stop with the never-ending praise. It’s going to my head, and not the one you fantasize about. Do you know who the new investor is?

Maybe. I thought maybe you did. Monty laughs. "He’s probably an old boyfriend from her hooker days."

Hang on. My aunt wasn’t a hooker and only told that to men, so they’d think they were getting a free sample, which oddly made her more desirable. Her word, not mine. Yeah. Makes no sense, but she’s a Rodwell.

"Not buying it, but neither did they. Anyway, auf Wiedersehen." Only he could make German sound douchey. No doubt to wet his wick. I hate my aunt.

As he walks away, I warn, You better be back to help close and to deal with this shill Aunt Amy found at the bus depot.

Before leaving through the front door, he throws a limp wave to rival his limp dick. Yeah, yeah. But you know how to entertain people. Show him a good time.

Well, if you want me to get naked, I’ll need triple overtime pay with stock options and a company car. You’re the manager. Make it happen.

So funny, Rodwell.

I mumble, Idiotic dick lick.

Opening the door, letting in every barfly within a ten-mile radius, he yells, I heard that!

Good. As Candi stares at me while delivering drinks to a table in the corner, I grab a towel and wipe off the bar. As I go, people move their glasses in a hurry, having learned the hard lesson the first time their beers landed in their laps.

Paranoid, I’m distracted for a while, knowing I’m watched. Probably from a dark corner while the creep jerks it, taking in all the riches that abound here.

I stay on my side of the bar, leaving Milt at the far end, doing a favor not just for the patrons but also for myself. It’s no use complaining to him about Aunt Amy’s business deal since he’s probably grateful no one has reported him as a sewage spill.

With my back turned to the enchanting clientele, I open another bottle of Jim Beam, resigned to another predictable and stupid Saturday night here. I need to figure out something soon, or I’ll murder a coworker with a whole bottle of Evan Williams to the face.

As I snap off the lid, a sudden feeling of dread squeezes me until I audibly gasp, hunching over the black, sticky counter. One of our regulars, Filth, laughs as he taps an open pack of cigarettes on the bar. His name is probably Phil. Of all people, Milt christened him with it. Looking at Filth’s rumpled and stained gray T-shirt, which was once white, and his beard crusted with food from days gone by, he clutches the cigarettes I’ve never seen him smoke. Though he reeks of every smell imaginable. Something yanking your cock, Rodwell? That’s why I’m here.

With my head hung over the counter and my eyes closed, I suck in my bottom lip. The past two months swirl around my head—the good, the bad, and the what the fuck did I do? Last Halloween, I set fire to my goddamn world with confessions that never should have seen the dark of night, let alone the light of day. I torched everything in my path and panicked when it all exploded, and then I got the hell out of Dodge.

Desperate to shake off the swift and inexplicable terror rearing its ugly head out of nowhere, I forget the lush’s refill I was seeking and grab a shot glass for myself. Not caring if anyone is watching, I open a fresh bottle of Jim Beam and splash some into the glass, and with each drop that splashes into it, I hate myself just a little more for what I’ve become. All because I couldn’t keep my feelings or my tongue to my fucking self. Setting down the bottle, nearly tipping it over, I take a deep breath before downing the golden liquid I loathe. I’ve always been a beer man if I drink alcohol at all, which I rarely do. Well, I rarely used to. I’ve done many things recently I never thought I’d do.

Flinching from the burn, scorching my throat as I slam down the shot glass, I practically pant. I’m a pussy with hard liquor.

Shaking my head, I irritably grab the bottle and turn around to tend to the refill. When I do, though, the worst thing I could imagine reappearing in my life shatters my field of vision, as well as my night and, most likely, the rest of my worthless life.

Greg Rodwell. We meet again.

Speechless, I actively refrain from guzzling the entire bottle of booze in my hand in one gulp. Handing it to Milt, who needed it in the first place, I back up to the counter behind me, leaning against it and crossing my arms. I also refrain from running out the door screaming or committing a bloody fucking murder.

Clearing my throat doesn’t help since I still sound like Peter Brady.

Amos.

Chapter 2

I DIDN’T EXPECT THAT kind of welcome. He laughs and sighs simultaneously as he taps his fingers on the bar. Amos Goddamn Vaughn. I never thought I’d see my former boss’s bald head and smug face again. Reluctantly studying him, I see he has adopted George Michael’s Faith beard, complementing his small hoop earrings and a black T-shirt. I’m sure he’s wearing jeans and his black biker boots, so all he needs are the aviator sunglasses to complete the look. I don’t know if that should impress or offend me on behalf of George Michael or gay men everywhere.

Amos leans forward, his tapping fingers morphing into a fist. He tightly says, I’ve been speculating how you’ve been since you took off with only a rushed phone call to me, quitting your job after the Halloween party. He smiles at the surrounding drunks and then smirks at me. I see it was purely a climb up the corporate ladder.

I shake my head, still trying to grasp the gravity of the garbage pile in front of me. You just can’t help yourself. Your snide comments are exactly what I don’t miss.

A more truthful ditto.

Rolling my eyes, I ask the Alcoholics Anonymous flunkie next to Vaughn what he wants to drink. I try to concentrate on what he says, but Amos’s stare is heavy and unnerving. I have to ask twice what Otis from Mayberry wants to drink.

When I reach under the counter for the bourbon, Amos says, I knew you’d be here.

As I open the bottle, my hands shake even more. How’d you find me? Here? At this bar? It’s not exactly my emergency contact, I ask on the edge of despair, not really wanting to hear the answer to that. I have a feeling I know the answer already.

You know, you could have made it a little more challenging than running home to your mother.

Surprised, my mouth falls open, and I stammer, I didn’t do that. My dad’s house is too loud with estrogen. It also makes me feel closer to my sister and not hate myself so much.

Apparently noticing the tug-of-war happening in my brain, Amos says, You can’t run from me anymore. Or anything else.

I side-eye the drunk to the left of Amos, who is engaged in our conversation or hallucinating that he’s at the Copa Cabana and wondering when the showgirls are taking the stage. I shrug as panic escalates when neither says another word while staring at me. Does it look like I’m running?

Since you’re up, grab me another beer, Otis from Mayberry sneers.

To get away from Amos, I go to the cooler behind me and take my time, grabbing another beer.

Are you brewing it? Otis complains. When I return, handing it to him with a frown, he complains, Good thing it’s not an import.

I roll my eyes. Yeah, because your liver’s passport expired. Make sure you mention that to your probation officer next time you piss into a cup. With the mention of a probation officer, I think of Nico Ferrera, an almost-friend and probation officer back home in Richmond. Well, I guess it used to be home. Hell. Maybe it never was. Just thinking of that place sends jolts through me, and not any kind I’d wish upon even Amos. Maybe.

Grabbing another shot glass, slamming it down, I pour another one. As I swallow, Amos asks, Drinking on the job? I didn’t know you to drink much off the clock either.

I guess you didn’t know me then, I lie, avoiding eye contact as I shove the glass away and move to the next lush.

With Amos ogling me, I turn to the three college girls squealing their orders. The redhead takes her time as her gaze undresses me, and with Amos in proximity, I wish she would imagine me in snow gear and double-wrapped in a tarp. What the fuck is it with the women in this bar, eyeballing me like I’m the last man on earth?

All three then giggle as they watch me. I mean, shit. I’m not interested in another one-night stand yet, but I’m not fucking dead. Still, I’m done associating with college brats.

Amos clears his throat loudly. Maybe you should slow down with the drinks.

I make a face. What the fuck are you talking about? That’ll only piss off people.

I meant yours.

You can leave now, Amos.

He shakes his bald head with the Members Only beard. Nope. I have planning to do.

For your exodus? Have a pleasant trip. If you go now, I won’t cry too hard. Maybe laugh a lot.

Business plans.

Pouring a drink for a man who could pass as Captain Morgan’s twin brother, minus the pirate garb but keep the missing teeth and the scurvy, I splash bourbon all over the counter. Grabbing a towel, I glare at Amos as I pray to Moses on the Mount or in a Walmart parking lot I misheard him. What the fuck does that mean?

I’m pretty sure you know what it means, Rod.

Stopping at the bar, Candi laughs. "Rod? Did he just insult you?"

In a thousand ways.

We stare each other down, me more so than him. Amos grins like a great white, which he barely passes as a roadie for that useless band.

Don’t say it.

His grin is genial but taunts me. Your aunt is a fine woman, and by chance, we met on a recent visit here. This bar has a lot of potential...

What in the actual hell, Vaughn? No! Goddamn it! I stomp my foot and throw the literal towel in, hitting Milt’s face, which is a favor to humanity.

Candi leans on the bar. Enough. Mr. Vaughn is here to help.

I laugh. "Mr. Vaughn. I then glare at Amos as he observes my meltdown. Are you fucking kidding me? Are you telling me you’ve invaded my life again?"

Well, if you put it that way...

I hate my life. And yours. I cross my arms, but noticing I’m mirroring him, my hands go into my hair as I ponder life’s mysteries and fuck you moments.

You’re throwing a tantrum. Don’t be so dramatic.

You ain’t seen nothing yet. Unfuckingreal. I’m not bending to your every whim. I shake my head, feeling like an M. Night Shyamalan movie has sucked me in, and not even a good one. You’d like that, though.

That’s enough, Rod.

Why in the hell are you even in here, Amos?

He shrugs his boneless hams. "It’s the home of Duke University. The Civil Rights Movement. They filmed Bull Durham here. Why not?"

"I meant this bar."

I was in the neighborhood. He shrugs again, and I’d strangle him if I could get my hands around his throat.

This ain’t Applebee’s, I snap. This day and I have gone straight to hell.

I really was in town. I’m also working out of our sister firm here. I wanted to visit you, so I called your mother. She told me you’re working here.

So, you make a jump to investing time and money into this dump?

Amy needs help.

From a qualified professional, but my parents won’t even touch that mess. Still in shock and no awe, I argue, You’re in my face, at my job, and in my life again. I moved here to get away from you. 

Yeah. I don’t believe that.

Believe what you want. I’m grabbing a restraining order.

Having nothing else civil to contribute, I back away and continue to serve the best and brightest of this fair city. Still, Amos refuses to stop staring at me with his beady eyes. I try to focus on everyone else but him, which does the opposite. His focus bores into me harder, and I reach for the whiskey more than I ever have. Thus, an hour later, I barely remember my own name. Whichever one.

Eventually, Candi and Milt finish their shifts, leaving me with something you’d find in a century-old, water-logged coffin. I’m also stuck with Harold, who arrives thirty minutes late on the regular and barely does shit.

As Harold squeezes behind me, he greets, Hi there, Amos.

I groan, So you’ve met?

A kiss-ass, Harold laughs. Absolutely. I’m excited to see where he’ll take the bar.

I mutter, Either into bankruptcy or straight to hell.

Harold clicks his tongue, and I want to smash glass in his perennially sun-burned face. That’s no way to talk. Be compassionate and optimistic.

Did you fuck a thesaurus or something? He’s desperate to put it somewhere and would totally slide his dick between the pages of one and rub it out. No online version for him. His mom doesn’t have internet.

I giggle as they both shoot me dirty looks. Ace.

But as much as I want Harold to handle the atrocity sitting before me, Amos is my problem.

Sighing, I ask, You want a refill?

Just water with a twist of lemon. Thanks.

What the fuck? This isn’t Club Med.

We need to incorporate new things.

"We? You’ve been here for like five minutes."

He checks his obnoxious watch that costs more than my life. I’ve been here for over an hour, Rod.

Look at that. You can tell time. Now take your new skill and pass it along to others. Make it your life’s mission. Just not in my life.

Amos shakes his head and leans forward as I grab a glass and shoot water into it. He says, I require an explanation, and I’m not leaving until I get it. I crack a smile as I pour, which Amos knows me well enough to append, And don’t proclaim I’m at fault. You would have fled years ago.

Setting down the glass. I pick up three lemon wedges and, holding them over the glass, I squeeze as I look Amos dead-on. I pulverize them into limp rinds before dropping them into his water. There’s your twisted water. Bottoms up, boss.

Moving on to the next barfly, I can’t shake the sight of Amos in front of me or the words he shoved into my brain. When I grab the bourbon again, Amos says, You can’t ignore me forever.

I turn to Harold, asking, Did you hear a cat puking?

No, why? Is there one here? I frown at him. The jackass is jerking me around or is dumber than a shoe-wearing pig.

You think I’ll give up easily? Amos laughs, shaking his head at the bar. I refrain from slamming his head onto it while hating that Dale’s forklift didn’t put me out of my misery earlier. Then you underestimated me.

No, I underestimated the stupidity of algebra. I’m not surprised you’d sink this low.

When do you get a break?

I can never catch one of those fuckwads. When his blank stare grows tiresome, I set the bourbon bottle down with a bang that vibrates through my arm. I have nothing more to say to you.

I beg to differ. You want to talk about it here, then? Fine. I believe it’s because of a certain woman. Or two.

I lean against the bar, close enough to smell his knock-off cologne amid the sharp smell of alcohol and stale depression. Your belief would be wrong. I don’t care about any woman. And from what I hear, neither do you. When Amos frowns at that comment, I frown back. They could all fall off the face of the earth for all I care. And take you with them.

He grins, which is more annoying than his prissy odor. Bingo. We have a winner.

I see no winner here. Especially me.

Pulling out his wallet, Amos motions to Harold to return from gossiping with the yocals. Amos shoves a wad of cash toward Harold, who readily scoops it up, still intrigued. Amos says, Greg needs an hour break. Now.

Absolutely he does, boss. Harold counts his money with his lips firmly attached to Amos’s ass. I know he’s itching to learn more about my business, which I will give him over my rotten, dead body.

Amos motions to the door, and I cross my arms and dig in my heels if I could. I hope you’re satisfied with throwing away your money because I’m staying right here.

Amos again nods, but it’s more of in agreement this time, until he says, Okay. I’ll go. I want to pay a visit to your mother. I’m sure she has answers for me.

The fuck? I push off the counter and round the bar until I’m in his face, swaying a little. You stay away from my mother. She knows nothing.

I’m sure she knows enough.

Less than you.

Amos’s eyes widen some as I narrow mine. Really? Well, maybe it’s in your best interest to have a chat with me, then.

Awesome. Such an upstanding citizen, you are. I look around the dank bar, watching Durham’s best and brightest street urchins whooping it up. I’m not going outside with you. You have one question and five minutes before you hit the road, Jack. Go.

Amos runs his hand over his jaw as he contemplates that. Okay. Why did you leave the firm, your ambitions, Birdy...and Hadley without saying goodbye? Motherfucker.

I return to my post behind the bar as I grip the counter. Inflation. Now, I need to get back to work.

That’s not a real answer.

That wasn’t a real question.

Your leaving turned a lot of lives upside down.

I measure my answers in my head, even though my mind is foggy. A lot of lives turned me upside down.

I see that.

You don’t.

Rod, Richmond misses you. He eyes me with suspicion as he licks his bottom lip like a swamp frog. Hadley misses you.

I grab my shot glass and pour more, just to get past the thought. So?

Does she have to do with your leaving?

Your five minutes are up.

As I move down to the next wino, Amos asks, Do I even have to ask what happened?

You already wasted your one question.

You didn’t give me an actual answer.

I slam the bottle onto the bar, jarring a half-sleeping Cletus. I left because Richmond bored me.

In the middle of the night?

I guess when the mood strikes...

That’s not you.

I’m pretty sure my driver’s license says I am. I don’t even know who I am and have multiple names to support that.

I move around, trying like fuck to ignore Amos, but his eyes are laser beams into my skull, and the more he stares, the more I drink until I forget what the hell my first name is.

As do most people.

Chapter 3

Amos

AMOS FUCKING VAUGHN.

Watching Greg Rodwell deteriorate right in front of my eyes is not a welcomed sight. These past two months have been difficult for many people. Something significant happened on the night of the party. I just can’t pinpoint with whom and what he did. I only know that the ramifications are far and wide.

After he didn’t show up for two days without a call, I went to his apartment, but he didn’t answer the door. After speaking to the building manager of my concerns and handing him a fifty, he told me Rod moved out in the middle of the night. And unlocking the apartment, it was apparent he was correct.

Figuring out he was in Durham was effortless. So was connecting with his mother, Dr. Lizette Abramson. She confirmed Rod had shown up in the middle of the night without explaining his sudden appearance. I stayed in touch with her, and we agreed to keep our conversations undisclosed, hoping one of us could shed light on his departure from Richmond. She even invited me to Durham to observe him discreetly. I suppose it was spying, but I had a valid reason to be in Durham. Though, I felt he need not know.

When I went into the establishment one day to touch base with Rod, Monty informed me he had the day off. From there, I sparked an interesting conversation with the owner, Amelia Rodwell. With her business floundering, I offered my assistance and investment money, a silent partnership primarily, which also bought her silence from telling Rod anything. She was an agreeable accomplice to this arrangement.

Setting down my beer, I watch Rod helping customers. Maybe helping is a strong word. Mostly, he refilled drinks and stole liquor from behind the bar.

His hair is bushier than before he left, and he’s gained more muscle in his arms from unloading trucks at his day job, Home Depot. Otherwise, he appears relatively the same. But his actions speak volumes because he keeps to himself when he’s not arguing with me. Though he’s around family.

Hadley. I believe she’s the key to this. However, she won’t speak of him, which is a major red flag.

As I nurse my beer, I steadily observe him slowing down and tripping over himself more. For as long as I’ve known Greg Rodwell, I’ve not known him to be a drinker, including work-related social gatherings.

When he stumbles into the counter for the third time, I sigh, watching his defeat.

What, Vaughn?

Not having the words, I only shake my head. But if there’s one thing in which I excel, it’s revealing truths. And I know Rod is hiding one or two.

He frowns at me, now somewhat pale, with his hair sticking to his forehead. Rod looks over at me, and for a moment, shame is evident. Over his drinking? Something with Hadley? Unsteady, he turns in haste and exits the bar for the kitchen.

Pushing my beer bottle away from me, I notice business is sluggish tonight, even for this place. I tell Harold, Let Monty know Mr. Rodwell wasn’t feeling well and went home.

He nods, watching me with uncertainty. I suppose it’s warranted since I’ve only recently acquired a stake in the bar. It will take some adjustment. For all of us.

Proceeding through the kitchen, I notice the back door open as the cold air blasts the room. Stepping through the threshold, I check the vicinity when movement catches my eye next to the dumpster. I see Rod hunched over upon closer inspection, swaying back and forth until he falls over. When he doesn’t stand, I go to him, seeing him lying on the ground. Rod, come on. I reach down and pull on his arm, but he’s dead weight. Exerting more effort, I pull him to his feet, holding onto him before he falls.

What do you want, Amos? Haven’t you infected my life enough? Why here? Why now? Why ever?

Hold on to my arm, I instruct as I slowly turn him toward the side of the bar, not inclined to parade him past the other patrons. Take small steps.

"Take a hike! he objects but continues to walk. I don’t need your help. I’m not a damsel, and you’re no prince."

Keep walking. He’s surprisingly quiet after that, and when I reach my Land Rover, Rod doesn’t fight me when I help him into the back seat. I let go of his arm, and he falls over, sprawling out. Forgoing the law and safety tonight, I shut the door and drive the six miles to his mother’s house on Medford Road.

Pulling into the driveway, I turn off the car and, twisting in my seat, I watch Rod for a few moments, contemplating if I did the right thing, coming here. He’s a grown man, but from what I’ve seen tonight, I arrived just in time.

I open the rear door and shake his arm since he’s apparently asleep. I try whispering, Rod, wake up, but he doesn’t stir. Therefore, I take the initiative, go to the passenger side, open that door, and pull on his legs. He kicks at me and irritably sits up, rubbing his eyes.

What the fuck?

Without an answer, I again grab his arm, and as before, he doesn’t fight me until we reach the front porch. Are you out of your idiotic mind?

Yes. Though it’s late, I ring the doorbell, realizing I should have called Lizette to warn her of our arrival.

As Rod jerks his arm away, the porch light illuminates, and the door swings open. What happened? Dr. Abramson’s brown eyes scour Rod, searching for injuries, handcuffs, or a weapon, perhaps? Recognition falls upon her, and her spirit slumps. You’re drunk, Greg.

His grin is sloppy, and his eyes dazed. And you’re boring, Lizzie.

I thrust my body into his side, making him lose balance somewhat, which is deserved for his disrespect. I’m sorry, Dr. Abramson. Your son had a few drinks, and it hit him harder than he anticipated.

Well, thank God you drove him home. And please, it’s Lizette. She steps back, still watching Rod like he’s an unstable patient. Please. Come in. He should go to bed.

Not tired, he argues, but I push him toward the doorway, which again, he stumbles.

Shutting the door behind us, Dr. Abramson clasps her hands together, holding them close to her chest. Drinking? On the job? Really?

Perks.

Would you like anything to drink, Amos? Coffee? I can make some. She glares at Rod. Some of us need it at one in the morning.

Rod swats at nothing as he giggles. I don’t like your coffee.

I nod toward the hallway. I’ll see he gets to bed. Which one is his room?

His mood swings to petulance. "You will not, and none of your damn business, Vaughn!"

It’s the first door on the right.

Rod bobs his head as if he’s also getting directions. He then goes without prompting, albeit slow as rush hour traffic. I follow him down the hallway filled on one side with pictures of Greg Rodwell throughout various times of his life, from chubby baby to rail-thin man in college. The other side is a pale blonde girl, often displaying colorful streaks in her hair, which I know is Eden. Even sick, she was a striking young lady.

Rod stomps into the room, swiping his hand on the wall but missing the light switch four or five times before I reach in, flipping it on. He snaps, I had it.

I see that. I shut the door, and he staggers around like a newly caged bird. However, doing so, he falls to the bed. Lying there, he pries off his sneakers, using the opposite foot as leverage. He then moves up the bed until his head lands on a pillow.

Seeing a chair in the corner, I sit and watch him for several minutes. As he silently lays there, most likely near sleep, I observe his room. Music posters, an old tube TV on a dresser, suitcases and duffel bags, and the bed with the blue plaid comforter complete his vagabond style.

Dr. Abramson peeks into the doorway. Worry traces her face, and it’s obvious Rod got his dark hair and eyes from her. She whispers, This isn’t like him. He doesn’t drink like this.

I shake my head, at a loss, as well. However, I’m inclined to think it has everything to do with the party and a certain married woman. I wish I knew, I tell her, omitting those details. They’re his to tell, and I don’t know the facts. Yet.

Thank you for bringing him home.

Of course. Rod stirs on the bed, and I move his shoes so he doesn’t trip over them in the morning.

Rod mumbles, The fucking light.

Dr. Abramson sighs from his language but turns off the light, and Rod says more incoherently.

I ask, What is it, Rod?

He slurs, It’s all shit. Why?

I look toward his mother’s quizzical expression and smiling, I nod for her to leave me with him. She glances at Rod before backing out of the room and closing the door. Removing my coat, I deposit it over the end of his dresser, next to the TV. Leaning against the wall, I cross my arms. The movement rouses Rod, and he blinks, looking at me as if I’m a stranger. Why are you in my room still, Mr. Peanut? You can tap dance right the fuck out of here. Don’t forget your baton.

It’s a cane.

Fuck you and the cane.

No, thank you.

Rod fidgets frustrated and restless, but instead of yelling at me, he shakes his head against the pillow. Go back to Richmond. I’m beyond help.

I don’t believe that statement. You shouldn’t either.

You weren’t there.

Where? He doesn’t elaborate, so I ask, Did something occur at the Halloween party?

No. Almost. He sighs, and his blinking eyes water as he whispers, Yes.

I nod to keep him going, but he doesn’t. I must tread lightly, or he’ll shut down. I abhor that I’m having this conversation with him. He’s inebriated, but he’ll never share the truth sober, and it’s imperative I know what I’m up against in my quest to help him. Despite his boorish exterior, Greg Rodwell is a brilliant young man with analytical thinking and reading people. He’s destined for greatness if he gets out of his own way. I have plans for him.

I saw you dancing. Is that what you’re referencing?

Rod laughs, but it turns into moaning. Dancing. If only.

You danced with Ali. Did things go further?

A little. But she made me do it. His face and voice harden. "I’m used to