Seated on a concrete bench in the small courtyard outside the hospital, Jack lowered his head to his hands, scrubbed his face hard, and took a deep breath. After a full minute of deep breathing to slow his racing heart, he patted his breast pocket in search of cigarettes and came up with the one cigarette he carried in case of an emergency just like this one. A small sign in front of the bench read “Smoking is prohibited on hospital property”. Fuck that, he thought and lit up anyway. It had been almost a week since his last smoke. The tobacco tasted good on his tongue; the nicotine went straight to his head and left him dizzy. After a few glorious inhales, the panic began to lessen and the shaking in his hands calmed.
How the hell did this happen? It was a stupid question; the same one he’d asked Chelsea in her hospital room. He knew how it had happened. Even though he’d been drunk off his ass and the details were a bit fuzzy, he remembered the important parts. Like drinking entirely too much bourbon at his friend’s bachelor party and finding a naked Chelsea waiting in his bed afterward. As much as he wanted to hold Chelsea responsible, he had known exactly what he was doing and had been a willing participant. The next morning, he’d awakened with a headache the size of Hyde Park and a five-foot eight inch shackle with black hair and exotic blue eyes wrapped around his leg.
Yes, that had been a mistake of epic proportions. Chelsea had taken their little roll in the hay as a sign of reconciliation. She’d begun to chatter on about moving in together and all sorts of crazy shit that made his skin crawl. When he’d made his opinions on that subject very clear, Chelsea went off the deep end, throwing shit and screaming about his lack of humanity. The neighbors, alarmed by the racket, called the police and of course, being the man, Jack had gone to jail. He’d been so pissed off at himself and her that he’d filed for divorce the very next day. It was something he should have done years earlier, but it hadn’t really seemed important before then. Chelsea would disappear for months at a time. They hadn’t lived together for years. And somehow the knowledge that he was anchored to someone – anyone – had brought him a false sense of security in a life rife with uncertainty.
The day had begun with so much promise. Despite the little altercation with the Leather Jacket guy at Felony, he’d managed to rake in a profit last night. Not enough to get ahead or to support a family, but enough to show his efforts were effective. With a little more time and some hard work he might be able to pull the place out of debt before the end of the year. The best part of the morning had been waking up with Ally nestled beneath his chin, a pleasure that was much sweeter than anticipated. Her introduction into his life had been a welcome surprise and one that he had no intention of deserting.
Chelsea is pregnant. One small sentence had altered the course of his life forever, had turned his life back to shit again. He couldn’t think of a curse word foul enough to do the situation justice. No matter how many times he said the words, he just couldn’t wrap his mind around them. Neither he nor Chelsea was equipped emotionally or financially to deal with a child, let alone a lifelong commitment to someone else’s well-being. Hell, he had trouble enough committing to a daily drink special for Jameson’s Pub. The thought made him snort with wry amusement as he tossed the spent cigarette to the ground and crushed it out with his toe.
He was so freaking screwed.
An hour later, he parked himself on a barstool at Felony and watched as Randy disassembled and cleaned the long-suffering marguerita machine. The sight of his friend going about the mundane task of bar maintenance set the world right again. Randy was a walking contradiction with biceps the size of hams and a pair of delicate wire-rimmed spectacles perched on his nose instead of his usual contact lenses. The tight black t-shirt that stretched over his broad chest had a picture of a soulful-eyed puppy surrounded by butterflies silkscreened on the back of it.
Randy took one look at Jack, raised a ruddy eyebrow, and continued his work. Jack knew that Randy wouldn’t ask for details. He’d wait for Jack to offer up the information.
“I see you’re spending some quality time with your lover.” Jack nodded toward the machine. “Want me to come back later so you two can be alone?”
“Very funny,” Randy said but he smiled. “I hate this damned thing. I don’t understand why you don’t get rid of it. We shouldn’t be serving wussy drinks like this anyway. Just beer and hard liquor.”
“Said the man with butterflies and a puppy on his shirt,” replied Jack.
Randy grinned, showing big even white teeth against his sunburned skin. “They were giving them out at the animal shelter. You want one too?”
For all of his brawn and tough guy demeanor, Randy had a soft spot for people in need. Apparently that penchant stretched to animals as well. He was always volunteering for one charity or another, donating his time and muscle to help those less fortunate. His family had been homeless for a spell during his childhood, moving from shelter to shelter, and living off assistance from various organizations. Now, he saw a chance to give back. Jack admired him for that.
“No thanks.” Jack stood up and reached behind the bar to grab a glass and a bottle of bourbon from the shelf.
“That bad, is it?” Randy asked.
“You have no freaking clue,” Jack replied. “I’m in shit up to my eyeballs and I don’t see any way out of it this time.”
“You’ll come out alright,” Randy said with a shrug. “You always do. I don’t know how, but you always do. You’re like a freaking cat that always lands on its feet.”
“Not this time.” He sighed and tossed back a shot. It was cheap bourbon and burned down his throat like battery acid. He sputtered and poured another shot. “Chelsea’s pregnant and she says it’s mine.”
Randy dropped the screwdriver in his hand. It fell onto the floor with a clatter. He didn’t bother to pick it up, just stood there staring at Jack with shock on his face.
“My sentiments exactly,” Jack replied.
“Shit.” Randy shoved a hand back through his auburn hair. “I knew it was bad but I had no idea it was that bad. How did this happen?”
Jack raised a hand to stop him from going further. “You remember Forrester’s bachelor party? It was that night. It’s the only time we’ve hooked up in the last three years.”
“Dude, you were trashed that night. I told you to stay away from the tequila. Bad things always happen when you drink that.” Randy frowned then bent to pick up the fallen screwdriver. “Are you sure it’s yours? Chelsea’s not the most reliable person when it comes to telling the truth. Didn’t you wrap that thing up?”
Jack hung his head in his hands and groaned. “Hell if I know. I can’t remember a damned thing about that night except waking up with her in my bed. Your guess is as good as mine.”
Randy shuddered at the idea. “So what are you going to do? When’s your divorce final?”
“It won’t be final for another thirty days. It should’ve been finalized a month ago, but Chelsea kept dragging her feet over the settlement. Now I know why.” The bourbon had begun to do the trick, numbing his emotions from the inside out. “I guess I need to call my attorney and find out about child support and visitation and shit like that.”
“You can’t let her raise that child, Jack,” Randy’s voice was soft but it cut into Jack’s thoughts like a knife. “You know that, right? She’s a fucked up mess. I’d hate to see how many ways she could screw up a kid.”
“I know. I know.” The thought had tormented him ever since he found out about the pregnancy. The poor child was screwed from before birth and his heart ached for it. No kid deserved a druggie for a mom or a promiscuous barkeep for a dad. “You and I both know that I’m not cut out for fatherhood. I can’t very well raise a kid from your fold-out couch.”
Randy closed the lid on the marguerita machine with a sigh and tightened the screws before he spoke again. “Well, as I see it, you’ve got a couple of choices here. Either you take the kid or you don’t. You’ve got five or six months to figure it out
. Hell, maybe it’s not even yours and all this worry will be for nothing. In the meantime, I think you have no other choice than to get shitfaced drunk.” He pulled a second bottle of bourbon from underneath the counter and set a glass on the bar for himself.
“You going to join me?” Jack eyed the second glass with a raised eyebrow. “Or am I going to be two-fisted?”
“Of course, I’m going to join you,” Randy said as he took a big gulp of the liquor. “What kind of friend would I be if I let you suffer alone?” He tapped his chest with the side of his fist. “I’m here for you, man.”
As he spoke, Tasha came in through the side entrance and walked past without a word. Something in the stiffness of her shoulders triggered an alarm in Jack’s subconscious but he was too preoccupied to pay much notice. However, when she threw her purse behind the counter with a huff and stormed into the hallway without a backward glance, pink pigtails swaying, it was enough to rouse him from his misery.
“What’s up with her?” Jack wasn’t really interested but he needed something – anything – to distract him from his thoughts.
“Uh…yeah…I was meaning to talk to you about that.” Randy studied the bourbon bottle in front of him with intense interest.
“Jesus, Randy. Didn’t I tell you to stay away from her? Shit! Don’t tell me she wants to quit.” His head began to thump with a ferocity that made his brow furrow. He rubbed at the crease.
“She’s pissed,” Randy admitted sheepishly. “I slept with someone else. I don’t know how she found out about it.” He scratched his head as if still puzzled. “It’s not like we’re exclusive or anything.”
“What did I tell you about that? You should never shit where you eat, man.” The throbbing grew, intensified, until his head felt like it might burst wide open. “We’ve got a big weekend coming up and I can’t get through it with no waitress. Hell, even one waitress won’t be enough.”
“I don’t need any lectures from you. You’re life is ten times more fucked up than mine.” Randy’s eyes flared with temper. “I’ve got this. You go take care of your own shit and let me handle Tasha.” With that, he sauntered into the hallway and left Jack alone on the barstool.
Although he hated to admit it, Randy was right. He was in no position to give advice to anyone about relationships. His relationship with Chelsea had been an epic failure from the start and after today, he and Ally were headed down the path of failure as well. The thought of her soft green eyes filled with hurt as he confessed his transgressions made his chest ache with unfamiliar remorse.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“Hey, Jack. It’s Ally again. I just wanted to make sure you’re okay. I’m sure you’re busy but give me a call back or text me.” The day had passed without any word from Jack. She hung up the phone and drummed her fingernails on the kitchen counter. She was beginning to feel like a stalker and didn’t like it. Still, she worried about him in a way that she’d never worried about anyone before. There was vulnerability beneath Jack’s machismo that brought out a new tenderness within her and a sense of responsibility toward him.
Despite her concern for Jack, there was no time to stress over it. Her nerves hummed as she prepared for dinner with her father. He’d called her up out of the blue an hour earlier and asked to see her. They had been close once, but she hadn’t seen him since moving to the city. Their weekly phone calls had dwindled to monthly and even though he lived less than an hour from the city, they never saw each other. The idea of sitting across from him in a restaurant made her palms sweat. To know that he had deliberately sought her out didn’t help matters. Michael Taylor had a reputation as a hard-nosed businessman, rough around the edges, and as unyielding as the steel beams he installed in his buildings. His method of parenting was just as cold and unforgiving. That he loved her she had no doubt, but he had never in word or gesture given any hint of emotion behind his blue eyes.
Although he had assured her on the phone that the motives behind his visit were purely altruistic, she suspected that he meant to break some sort of devastating news to her.
As Ally stepped out of the shower, the doorbell rang. Shit. It was way too early for her father; he was such a stickler about punctuality. In a panic, Ally wrapped her wet hair in a towel and trudged to the door. Without checking the peephole, she flung the door open.
“Nice towel.”
“Jack? What are you doing here? Is everything okay? Shouldn’t you be at the hospital?” She was so relieved to see him that she nearly flung herself into his arms. As always, her heart soared at the sight of him, but the flood of endorphins was followed by immediate panic. With bearded stubble darkening his square jaw and rain drops glistening on the shoulders of his t-shirt, he looked like her father’s worst nightmare. Mike, conservative and narrow-minded when it came to his daughter, would never approve of Jack’s long hair and disheveled rock star chic appearance.
“Nope. I’m right where I should be.” One black eyebrow cocked in amusement as he lounged against the door frame, a yellow rose clutched in one hand. She let out a sigh of exasperation. Jack ran a hand through his wet hair and grinned. It was so hard for her to be irritated at him, with his dimples flashing and his eyes twinkling. With one hand clutching her towel at the breast, she used the other hand to grab his shirt and pull him over the threshold.
He stumbled, laughed, and lurched into the foyer with uncharacteristic awkwardness.
“This is for you,” he said and waved the rose in front of her with a flourish. The sweet scent mingled with the smell of rain. Delicate pale yellow petals were tipped with pale pink, dotted with drops of water that glistened like diamonds. It was a hybrid tea, a peace rose, her favorite. She knew the name because her grandmother had grown them in her garden and Mrs. Hinkle, the old biddy who lived next door, raised them as well.
“Jack, where did you get this?” She took the rose from him, careful to avoid the thorns, and took a sniff at the delicate petals.
“There’s a bunch of them next door,” he said. “You want some more? I can get them for you.”
“Uh, no. But thank you.” Despite her mortification, she smiled at him. If Mrs. Hinkle caught him in her prize rose bed, there would be hell to pay for both of them. The sweet gesture warmed her however.
“Jack?” As he walked by her, a whiff of whiskey burned her nostrils.
“Yep?”
“Are you drunk?”
“Nope. I passed up drunk around lunchtime. I think the proper term is shitfaced.” He pulled off his boots one at a time, listing to one side like a sinking ship, stepped out of the foyer and took in the living room with brazen interest.
In all the times she had seen Jack, he’d never once shown signs of intoxication. He must have been pounding them down to get so drunk. Ah, well, boys will be boys, she thought as he shoved his hands deep into the pockets of those sexy low-riding jeans that he always wore and let out a long low whistle.
“So this is your crib, huh?” He turned in a slow circle but the movement proved too much and he plopped onto the sofa. “How come you never invited me over here?”
“I was going to, but you never called me back. And you can’t stay now. My dad will be here shortly and he won’t appreciate finding a strange drunk guy in my house.” She went back to the door and waited, but he remained on her sofa.
“You ever been to that little pub down the street? The one with all the hats on the walls?” One of the sofa pillows slipped to the floor. He bent to retrieve it and nearly followed it off the sofa. “Whoa, shit. Sorry.” He tucked the pillow under his arm, stuffing it into the space behind him with enthusiasm, as if it might try to escape again. “Great drink specials and a very nice waitress too. Katie or Kitty or Kathy…I don’t know…something like that. I asked her if she wanted to come work for me, but she said…”
“Her name is Margaret and she must be at least fifty years old. Jack! Focus.” Ally wavered between amused and irritated. His brown-eyed gaze slid past her, returned, and sharpened.
“Did you hear what I said? You can’t stay. My dad’s on his way here. I need to get ready.”
“So get ready.” He slid deeper into the sofa, taking a copy of Vogue magazine from the coffee table and leafing through it. “I’ll just hang out while you get dressed.”
“Well…suit yourself.” She shook her head and bit her lip to hold back the smile that threatened to escape. To her growing amusement, he followed her down the hallway, bumping along the walls to the bedroom and proceeded to watch as she dried her hair and applied her makeup. For a time he wandered around her room, touching her things and rummaging through her classic album collection. She glanced away and when she looked back, he had a garter belt and thong in his hands. He whistled admiringly.
“How come you never wear this?” he asked, holding it up as if imagining her in it.
“Maybe I do,” she answered with a shrug and made a swipe at the garter belt. Her hand slipped off the elastic and it snapped his hand like a rubber band. He laughed like a schoolboy.
“Will you wear it now? And then let me take it off?” The lopsided grin on his face made her laugh out loud.
“As enticing as that idea is, I don’t think now is the time.” She snatched the undergarments from him, shoved them back into her dresser drawer, and slammed it shut with a bang. She wasn’t quite sure how to control him. Finally he sprawled out on her bed, his long legs hanging over the edge as he leaned back on his elbows, looking like a disheveled GQ cover model.
“You can’t just come over here unannounced and shitfaced. You make me crazy.” She turned around, put her hands on her hips, and tried to look menacing.
“Yeah, yeah, stand in line,” he replied. “That’s why I’m here. To make peace. Or get a piece. Whichever.” He smirked and leered at her towel. “I missed you, Popsicle.” One black eyebrow arched to taunt her while his dimples deepened.
Intoxicated Page 15
