“Bad day?”
“Fuck you.”
The man had snorted, shrugged, then poured the shots again. “Hope you choke on them.”
“Me too.” He picked one up, knocked it down, then put his elbows on the bar and his head in his hands.
How had it come to this?
Alex was the first to admit that nothing in his life made much sense. Hadn’t since he hit adulthood, really. There was a myth that everybody’s life proceeded according to a larger plan. Where he’d gotten that idea, he wasn’t sure, one of those things picked up in childhood, along with the idea that love lasted forever and that the good guys won and that it was never too late to change everything. It was a lie, all of it. Your buddies didn’t come in at the last second to save you. Things didn’t work out. People weren’t happy. Or if they were, that was just so that when unhappiness hit, it stung worse.
And yet the fabric of the lies was so dramatic, so interwoven into every facet of his life, that he didn’t know where to begin to untangle it. Every story his parents had read at his bedside, every teacher in every school, every sermon he’d ever heard, they all taught that life made sense. That if you tried to live well, and if you looked hard enough, there was a pattern and a plan.
But here he was. Here they all were, he and Jenn and Mitch and Ian. Four people of good health and no major handicap. They should have been happy. Content. Hell, just satisfied. He’d have settled for satisfied.
But was Ian, with his flashy suits and expensive apartment? Mitch, with his won’t-harm-a-fly mentality and quiet daydreams? Jenn, hoping purpose would just land in her lap? They had everything going for them and nowhere to go.
It was close to one in the morning by the time he hailed a cab, drunk, tired, and desperate for comfort.
SHE’D BEEN AFTER the maintenance crew to fix the lock on the foyer of her apartment building for months, but Alex was glad to see they hadn’t yet. He pushed through, climbed the stairs, hesitated in front of Jenn’s door, then rapped three times, hard. He was wobbly on his feet and in his heart, and he just wanted to burrow deep into soft sheets warm from her body, breathe in the smell of her, and let himself fall into the abyss. He banged again. Waited a few moments, and was about to knock a third time when he heard footsteps.
The door swung open. Mitch stood inside, wearing jeans and no shirt.
Alex stared. Spun, glanced around the hallway. Had he somehow given the cabbie the wrong address? What was-this was the right place. He turned back to the door. Mitch said nothing, just crossed his arms. There was a hint of swagger in his pose, bare chested and with messed-up hair, the guy clearly wanting him to do the math.
The corner of Mitch’s lips curled into a slight smile. “What’s up, Alex? What do you want?”
Comfort. Safety. A fresh start.
The life I imagined.
“Nothing,” he said and turned away.
CHAPTER 21
SHE WASN’T MUCH USE AT WORK, but she went. Didn’t really see a choice. So while Mitch was in the shower, she’d gone through her closet, looking for an outfit that didn’t take any effort. Settled on a calf-length black skirt and a fitted tee, thrown lipstick on, skipped the mascara, and told Mitch, over the hum of the water, that she had to run.
Last night had been unexpected. She hadn’t planned to spend it with him, not again, not so soon. But after they had found the chemicals, something had snapped in her. She hadn’t wanted to be alone. If she was alone, she might think about what they had done, and she didn’t want that. It wasn’t a rational thought, but then, the last few days hadn’t been rational.
Again their lovemaking had been intense, the two of them moving well together. In the middle of it, when she’d been on her knees on the bed, she’d cocked her head and looked back at him, a patented move that always drove guys crazy. But when their eyes locked, for a second they’d both stopped. It had been a bad moment, as if all the fear and shame had poured into the room like fog. By unspoken accord they’d both started up again, more furiously than ever, knowing what the alternative to action was. Together they had blotted out the world, screwed it away until they collapsed in exhaustion and sleep seemed possible.
And half an hour later, Alex had come to her door.
“Who is that?” Mitch went bolt upright, his eyes darting.
She knew, from the first knock, but couldn’t think of a way to tell him without explaining more than she wanted to. So she’d shaken her head, said she didn’t know. He’d gotten out of bed, pulled on his jeans, and gone to answer.
When he came back a few minutes later, he said, “Alex.”
“What did he want?”
“He didn’t say. I think he was drunk.” His tone giving her an opportunity to add something. But she had just said, “Huh. Hope he’s OK,” and turned over, wrapping the sheets around her. After a moment, Mitch had lain back down, and they’d drifted into the awkward fugue of bodies not used to sleeping next to each other.
Her workday morning was a blur. She answered e-mails and checked airfares and talked on the phone in a daze. Twice her boss asked if she was OK.
Around noon, she finally made a decision. Yes, her life had gone crazy. Yes, the sky was falling. They had killed someone, and the police were looking for them, and they had a gallon of liquid heroin stashed in a stolen Cadillac. But there were two options. She could either curl up under her desk like some useless soap-opera chick. Or she could deal with it.
So she’d headed home, retrieved her share of the money, and gone to the bank. A politely bored assistant manager had walked her through some forms, then led her into a back room. He handed her one key, and then took one from his own ring, and they turned them together to unlock a safe-deposit box the size of a shoe box.
“You can take it over there,” he said, gesturing to a small alcove screened off by a curtain. “When you’re done, put it back and lock it, and you’re good to go.”
She’d thanked him, then waited for him to leave. She set the box on a small desk, opened her bag, and took out the money in its Ziploc. Hiding it felt right, gave her a sense of moving forward. One item checked off a list. That good feeling lasted until midafternoon, when Mitch called to remind her they had to go to Johnny’s bar tonight.
Ready or not, the Thursday Night Club had to ride again.
WHEN HIS CELL PHONE RANG, Bennett was sprawled on his back across the bed with his head hanging off the edge, the world upside down. His hands were laced over his chest. His phone pinged quietly, a sound like a depth charge. He glanced at the caller ID, then answered the call. “Johnny Love, Johnny Love.”
“Yeah, hi, Benn-”
“Don’t say my name.”
“Why?”
“This is a cellular phone.”
“But you said my-”
“So I had a chat with our mutual friend yesterday.”
“Yeah, I…” The man sounded winded. Nervous, maybe. “I heard about that. I don’t know what he told you, but, kid, you gotta understand, I didn’t give you up.”
“Why, Johnny, I never said you did.”
“Good. I’m glad to hear it.”
“But now that you mention it, you fat fuck, I think I might tear your spleen out.”
“No, hey, wait-”
“Just kidding. He told me he asked you pretty hard.”
“Well, you know, I hope you know that I would never sell you out. I told him you were involved, that’s all.”
“You didn’t mention anything about me running a burn on you both?”
“Well.” A pause. “I mean, what do you want me to say? He was going to throw me off a ten-story building.”