"Yes, Dean, if you want to put it like that, I am dumping you. We both know it was never going to be forever. Time to move on."
"But..."
Dean was angry, somewhere inside of himself, he knew he was angry. He was just not feeling it. Instead, he watched Meaghan dress herself as he lay on the bed, unmoving. She stared at him, despair in her eyes and turned to the door with a sick kind of detachment, numbness. Shock. Meaghan said something that sounded like goodbye, but Dean didn't register it. Meaghan left with Bain and Danny, leaving her apartment to him, Dean still stared.
Dean Wesson just got his heart broken.
*****
"She said she loved me, Smith! You don't say that when it's not forever! Why did she say that, Smith?"
Smith had been listening to Dean rant for about an hour now; Dean constantly going in circles, trying desperately to come up with an answer as to why the woman Dean was willing to give up his life for, just walked out as if it meant nothing. Smith always thought Meaghan was a risk, but Dean seemed so happy with her, so he let it go. Dean deserved to be happy.
Only now, Meaghan proved Smith right and Smith was stuck with a heartbroken and confused Dean. Who was still ranting away about Meaghan. He was wearing dirty, gray sweatpants Smith was sure he hasn't washed or taken off in at least three days. At least it matched his dull, dirty hair? Smith made a mental note to force Dean into the shower at some point today.
"She just... dropped the bomb then left with her gay best friends. Was it me? Did I do something wrong?"
Smith sighed. There was nothing he could say or do to make Dean feel better; he didn't have any answers to Dean's questions, no matter how much he wished he had. Instead, he made sure Dean ate, drank and finally showered. He wrapped Dean in a blanket and parked his ass on the couch in front of the TV. Dean would probably have been better off somewhere where evidence of Meaghan’s presence wasn’t everywhere. She hadn’t collected any of her stuff from his apartment so there were bits of her everywhere. Her shawl hanging next to Dean’s jacket on the coat rack near the door; her World’s Best Doctor and What’s Up Doc mugs were sitting on the kitchen counter ready for coffee when she stayed over. Her bunny slippers were still sitting beside his next to his bed. He dared not suggest that Dean move back to his parents’ mansion though. He was just as mad at his mother as he was with Meaghan.
He went into the kitchen to grab a few beers, but the sight that greets him stopped him dead in his tracks. When was the last time Dean's cleaning lady had been in? Dirty plates and glasses everywhere, old pizza boxes with stale pizza leftovers in it, empty tubs of ice cream - gallons of it - empty beer bottles on every surface and a stack of spoons in the sink. Smith shook his head and steeled himself as he opened the fridge, slightly scared of what he would find in it.
It was empty. Nothing in there, save for two bottles of beer. He checked the freezer part of the fridge. Two tubs of Ben & Jerry's Strawberry Cheesecake ice cream. Oh boy.
When Smith returned to the living room, Dean had stopped his ranting and was staring at the TV, which was set to the Hallmark Channel, some romantic drama movie playing. Smith tried to hand him a beer, but Dean shook his head. His voice was sad when he asked Smith for the ice cream in the freezer.
"Just grab one of the spoons from the sink."
Smith didn't think Dean has ever sounded this sad and dejected. It actually broke his heart a little and he decided then and there to help Dean get over this. Asshole Meaghan. He rinsed a spoon off and returned to Dean with a fresh tub of Ben & Jerry's and the spoon. Dean took it from him without tearing his eyes away from the screen and dug in. Smith sighed again and settled in for another long day.
*****
It was after Ice Dreams - Fourteen years after a tragic accident, former Olympic figure skater Amy Clayton agrees to coach a young student, embarking on a journey of self-healing - that he asked Dean if he wanted to go out and get some coffee at the coffee shop down the street.
"No. It reminds me too much of Meaghan. I used to get us coffee there sometimes during my morning run. Aldis will ask me about her, I know. He always does."
Fairfield Road - Noah McManus finds out his new boss in Washington can no longer employ him and that his girlfriend has been cheating on him. Devastated, Noah travels to a quaint Cape Cod town and unexpectedly finds himself at home - prompted Smith to try and coax Dean into at least changing into something else than the sweatpants.
"Nah, these are comfy."
Smith knew for a fact they used to be Meaghan's.
By the time Duke - A homeless Terry needs help for his aging and ill dog Duke, so he reaches out for help at a nearby veterinary clinic. Will Duke be able to help Terry reach out again to try and reconcile with his estranged daughter? - was finished, Smith had tried everything from threatening Dean to drag him up and out of the house to actually physically going through with it. It had earned him nothing but a few sad head shakes and strange looks from Dean's neighbors.
It isn't until the sixth episode of Perry Mason - after five episodes of Murder, She Wrote - that Smith knew what to do. He left Dean to the current Perry Mason case and hid in the kitchen with his laptop. It took him two more episodes to get everything sorted out and ready to show Dean. He was actually proud it was not too much of a stretch; he won't have to persuade Dean too much.
"Hey Dean?"
Dean hummed from the bottom of the tub of ice cream - his third that day, Smith had gone out to buy more when Dean's dejection levels were falling halfway through Desolation Canyon - but didn't look up. Smith shoved his laptop under Dean's nose forcefully and decided to forgo his prepared speech.
"Hey, look whose out and about with Dr. Conrad Shelley; looks like you were right about them."
Smith knew it was low, but he was running out of options to get Dean up and moving again. Meaghan was not worth this much agony and brooding. He knew Dean had thought more than once that Meaghan left him for someone else and if he could get Dean up by using that, then so be it.
The spoon froze mid-air before dropping back into the tub. Dean didn't even look at the screen; he just got up, threw the blanket to the side and started tugging off his shirt and sweatpants.
"Let's go have some fun."
*****
He wanted a beer. A BEER. Not one of those lagermeisterhammerstein-bullshit-whatevers Smith thought was the bee's knees. He wanted a Bud. Budweiser DRAFT – the working man’s water. One step out of the trailer park from PBR. Hell, he’d even drink a Michelob. Meaghan thought there was such a huge difference between them. Huh. He could do dive bars with the best of them.
But he didn’t want a bottled beer. He wanted it pulled from the tap. Wanted a little foam on his lip. He wanted his palm curled around a straight-sided pint glass; not a highball glass, not a mason jar, not a heavy-bottomed mug. There was a specific need, and he needed to meet it as soon as possible. Now. It was a gotta have amid all the don’t haves and he was seriously going to crack if he didn’t get it.
It was twenty seven days since the whole…break up thing and Dean had been drunk for twenty four of them. He’d taken a leave of absence from work – medical reasons – and just buried his sorrows in the deepest glass of alcohol he could find.
He had twenty seven missed calls from his mother, one for each bottle of beer he’d drunk. He just couldn’t with her right now. It was at least ninety per cent due to her attitude that Meaghan felt they couldn’t work and Dean didn’t think he would be forgiving her…ever. If she’d messed up his chance for real love because of some outdated notion of class differences…he was just unable to even look at her, let alone talk to her.
The bar was a squat little square cinder block joint in the middle of a dirt and gravel parking lot. There were seven or eight vehicles parked around the bar; half of them pick-ups, all of them beat to hell. Primarily American made.
The Lamborghini jumped with a squeak when he pulled into the lot and the brown, muddy puddle turned out to be deeper th
an he’d thought. He made a mental note to have the shocks checked before he drove it again.
The ‘M’ was burned out, but as he got closer he could see what the neon was trying to say; the name of the bar was The Embers. He was pretty sure by the end of the night he would know the story behind the name. This was that kind of place. Just the kind of place he was needing.
The smell hit him, and the reminiscences falling in right behind. It was like tripping back through time, and the memories of his younger days swirled around him like the cigarette smoke in the air. But that was why he’s come, wasn’t it? To get lost in memory lane. He was pissed as hell with Meaghan, but God, he needed her with such an ache.
He took a seat, easing down on the worn, black naugahyde stool. Hooked his boot heels on the highest rung so his knees were pressed against the cool wood of the bar.
“What can I getcha?”
He leaned in, steepling his fingers in front of him, arms resting easily in the grooves of time and past presence along the padded edge of the bar. “Whatta ya have?”
“I got whiskey, I got rye. I got Coke and soda water. Bud and Bud Light on tap.”
He nodded and grinned at his new best friend. “I’ll take a Bud.”
The bartender looked to be in his late fifties, stout-chested with a belly not quite gone to pot. He was sporting a gray-blond buzz cut, and his forearms were dappled with the blue of decade-old tattoos. There was a bulldog among them, and the legend, ‘Semper Fi 1970-1974’.
When the wonderfully cloudy, bar-rag-scratched, straight-sided pint was set in front of him - half inch of snow white foam topping piss-poor yellow - he jutted his chin at the barkeep’s ink. “They drew my dad’s straw twice. Corporal, Echo two-one.”
“Good battalion.”
“Yes, sir. One of the finest, my dad would tell ya.”
“Where’s he, nowadays?”
He taps the bar with his index fingers, drawing out imaginary rays from the perimeter of his beer. “He’s laid up. Stroke.”
“Sorry for that.”
“Me, too,” he said, and brought the glass to his lips to save them both from the conversation.
When he set down his beer, he was offered the man’s hand.
“Name’s Fred, but most people call me Dutch.”
“Dean,” he said, giving the meaty paw a pump.
“Good to know ya,” said Dutch, and then sauntered down to fill the empty shot glass of one of the other patrons.
After three beers, Dean learned Dutch’s wife, Helen, was a real nag. Never let him sit around on Saturday mornings past ten in his underwear. Always needed something fixed around the house.
Beer number five, Dean found himself leaning over the bar, eyeing a bramble of pink and white flesh that sat like an ungodly pomegranate on Dutch’s back, just north of his left hip.
“Sonsuhbitches dropped a pineapple inta the hole with us. Got punched through right here when my rifle exploded. Coulda been worse; buddy right next to me lost both legs. Guy next to him lost everything else.”
Middle of beer six, and Dean made his way back to the bathroom. The lighting was terrible, and the small room smelled like piss and Lysol. He guessed the floor probably got generous moppings of both on any given night. He worked his dick out of his jeans, leaned his left hand against the cold, cinderblock wall to steady himself, and released his bladder.
The stream of urine stuttered and stopped suddenly when the déjà vu uppercut him: he had done this a hundred times. Stood just like this; happily buzzed, some backwater joint, dick in his hand, carefree; Smith at the bar talking shit to somebody. Escaping from their world into this anonymous despair. It was the happiest times of his life; being just another drunk in a bar. That was until Meaghan…
He let loose his breath when he realized those days were probably over once and for all. And he suddenly felt a little sick. He shook off and tucked in, working the buttons on his fly while a blush rose in his cheeks. Gone, man. You keep forgetting, but that was not gonna bring her back.
He washed his hands at the sink, working the grit of the powdered soap across his palms and through his fingers. He leaned forward and scrubbed his hands over his face, eyes squeezed tight to keep out the grainy foam, keep in the tears. He rinsed and blotted dry with a handful of paper towels, and headed back out to the bar.
He had figured out this pattern; kind of a circle, winding down on itself like the swirl of a Maori koru. If he drank a little, he could forget about it for a while. Hadn’t quite figured out that line between the forgetting and the suddenly remembering and hurting and aching. It was a pretty thin line.
But he had also figured out that a few more drinks would push him past the hurt into a just-bearable state of melancholy. And if he could maintain in that place for a while, stabilize the buzz, he could catch himself before he crossed that next line. The one between melancholy and anger. But that was an awful damn thin line, too.
He dropped back down on the stool and downed the rest of the beer he’d deserted. Called to Dutch for another, plus a shot. Dutch drew the Bud and walked it over. Gave Dean a hard eye. “You sure about that shot?”
Dean cocked his head, gently acknowledging the man’s concern. “Just the one,Dutch. I won’t ask you for another. I swear.”
Dutch pursed his lips once, like he was kissing an ugly aunt, and then reached under the bar. He poured Dean a shot of well whiskey and returned the bottle to its slot.
“You ain’t a surly drunk, were ya, Dean? Couldn’t abide a surly drunk in my bar.”
“Now, Dutch,” Dean said, smiling his very best and brightest, “Do I look like the kind of guy who would start a fight in a fine establishment like this?”
“Yup.”
“I got a long drive ahead of me in the morning. I’m not looking to make it any longer.” And then he winked. He did indeed have a long drive. The bar was in New Jersey and he’d booked himself into a boutique hotel for the night. He had to get back to Manhattan in the morning for a board meeting someone had apparently called. Even ‘medical leave’ couldn’t get him out of that one.
Dutch smiled. Lifted his chin at Dean. “I bet you had some good fights.”
“I got a couple stories.” And indeed he did. Him and Smith got in their share of scraps in their college days…maybe even after. Nothing anyone needed to know about.
His fingers curl around the amber-filled shot glass and he threw the whiskey back. He set down the glass and chased the shot with a few swallows of beer. “There was this place called the Tattle-Tale Room, just outside of Warsaw, Wisconsin…”
And then he was charming and engaging and hilarious. Using the tricks of the trade. Magic his father taught him. How to communicate with other people and get from them what you need: a sense of camaraderie; acceptance, forgetfulness. Something that feels normal and good. By the time he was replacing the celebrity three way gone wrong in Aspen, Colorado with a trailer trash three way in Boulder, Colorado, he had half the bar hanging on his every word. With an inch of his eighth beer left, he caught movement at the end of the long bar and stopped himself from looking.
Because it won’t be who he wants it to be.
He fished his wallet out of his pocket, slapped down three twenties.
Dutch’s lips blow another air kiss. “That’s too much, Dean.”
“Nah, Dutch. Listen,” he dismissed, rising from the stool, “The rest of that’s for you. I appreciate your company, tonight.”
“Weren’t a thing, Dean. Had a nice time myself. You tell a good story.”
Dean gave him half a smile. “Thanks. I had a really good teacher.” He adjusted his coat and stumbled out from behind the stool, righting himself nearly instantly.
But it didn’t elude the man behind the bar. “You driving far?”
“ A mile or so. I’ll be fine. I’ll roll the windows down.”
Dutch cocked his head, pulled his large skull back, beckoning. “How ‘bout a coffee.”
Yeah. I should.
I should. But he wasn’t ready to be sober yet. He could almost feel the brush of Meaghan’s shoulder against his own. He needed to go. It was going to be too much any second now.
“Come on. One coffee. I’ll tell ya the story of how this place got its name.”
And he knew he would stay.
Chapter 9
There was no actual attempt to be quiet. He was going to wake Smith up on purpose, anyway. He did try to be pleasant about it. He dropped a dirty t-shirt over the lamp before he switched it on, blocking out most of the glare.
Smith was snoring, slack-mouthed, one arm curled protectively around his middle.
Dean nudged him lightly on the shoulder, careful not to shake too hard. “Smith.”
No response.
“Smith.” He dropped into a crouch between the bed and the bedside table, shaking Smith with a bit more force. He’d been staying with Dean ever since…Dean appreciated it; most of the time. Right now though, he needed to have a conversation and Smith was here even though Dean knew he wasn’t feeling well.
Smith’s face squished and a hand came up to shuffle through his hair, palm grinding against his eyelids. “What’s wrong?”
“Smith. You remember Milan?”
Smith’s response sounds fuzzy and cotton-mouthed. “What?”
“Milan,” said Dean. “Summer of ’96.”
There was a shallow grunt of pain as Smith scoots up and propped himself on his elbows. “Dean, are you drunk again?”
“Yeah.”
“What the hell, man? What time is it?”
“It’s really late. Do you remember Milan, Smith?”
Smith gave him a confused look. “Milan, the wannabe drug dealer? Did a stint in rehab when we were seventeen?”
“Yes!” Dean nods and rockets his finger in Smith’s direction.
“I remember that night he sold Samantha those drugs. Man she was high; drove off in your car. She crashed it right?”
Dean watches as a half-asleep, doped-up smile pulls at the corners of his friend’s lips.
Undercover Lover (BWWM Romance Book 1) Page 20
