Relentless

by Mike McCrary

  “Can I get a whiskey?” Davis asks.

  “What kind, boss?”

  Davis scans the bottles. Most he doesn’t know, but he sees one. He sees a good one. One he considers a good one at least. One he’d never order out with his wife. It’s beer and wine when they go out, which is hardly ever, and it’s usually a chain near the house. It’s easier than driving into downtown Portland. They’d like to do more downtown, but closer to home takes less time, so they can pay the sitter less.

  “Knob Creek?” Davis asks.

  His phone buzzes. It’s Todd.

  Davis rolls his eyes as he answers. “Yeah.”

  “Were you going to call me back?”

  “I just got off the phone with Hattie,” Davis says like he’s been dragged for miles. He feels his shoulders inch back up toward his ears. “Be nice to me.”

  “I didn’t tell you to get married.”

  “Don’t. It’s not her, she’s right—"

  “Tab?” the bartender asks, sliding a glass of whiskey in front of him.

  “No, just the one. How much?” He takes a sip.

  “Fifteen.”

  Davis chokes, almost spits his whiskey all over the bar. “A glass?”

  “It’s single barrel,” the bartender says while staring at a passing woman’s enhanced chest.

  Pulling out a crumpled twenty, Davis reluctantly slides his money over. The bartender snatches it up. Davis doesn’t expect to see any change come back his way. He hears Todd giggle through the phone. Davis almost forgot he was there.

  “Enjoying LA?” Todd asks.

  “No.”

  “Drink your fifteen-dollar whiskey, slowly I recommend, and let’s talk some business. Or, if you prefer, I’ll talk and you drink.”

  Davis drinks. He’d rather talk about anything but business, and he’d sure as hell rather not hear Todd talk about it. Fresh out of options, he says, “Sure.”

  “What’s the plan here, man? Our runway is getting shorter by the day. This isn’t why we started this. The idea was to be happier.”

  “I know.”

  “I can make that call we talked about.”

  Davis’s eyes flare. He knows what call Todd is talking about. Hattie wasn’t the only fight Davis had before he left.

  “Let me make the call,” Todd presses. “What can it hurt to hear them out?”

  “No. We’ve got this,” Davis says, trying to convince himself. “We don’t have to—"

  “What? Eat? Make a living?”

  “The schools are the key.”

  “Yeah, public schools are known for showering people with money.”

  Davis’s phone beeps. It’s Hattie. “I gotta take this.”

  “What the hell, man?”

  “I’ll call you back. I promise.” Davis taps his phone, switching over to his wife. “Hi.”

  “I don’t want to fight.”

  Davis grips the phone, allowing a smile. He takes another sip of whiskey letting it burn the good burn. He doesn’t want to fight either. After all these years. After all the recent arguments over money, over everything, simply hearing her voice can still bring a smile. A sudden feeling of calm.

  “Good. I’d rather not do that either,” he says. “I’m sorry. I don’t do travel very well. I really am tired.”

  “You sound like it. Where are you, at a bullfight?”

  “No,” he says, covering, not wanting to get into a discussion about his edges. “I’m meeting some potential clients at a bar. Not my thing, but ya know.”

  “Fancy. It’ll be better when you come home,” Hattie says over the sound of the girls laughing and playing in the background. “You’ve got some clients here who would love to talk with you. Will you take the meeting, Mr. Briggs?”

  He smiles even wider, pressing the phone closer to his ear. “I accept.”

  The conversation is a short, jumbled mess of high-pitched I love yous and semi-coherent stories about school and recess tragedies, but it’s what Davis needed. His shoulders relax again. His mood softens as the raging storm of nouns, verbs and adjectives from the mouths of his daughters pours over him.

  In a flash he remembers when they were born.

  That trip to the beach.

  Watching movies on Friday nights. A highlight reel of the good.

  Then his brain, as it always does, transitions to worry. To the things that cost. To the things that cost money they do not have.

  The business is failing.

  He is failing.

  His family.

  Everyone.

  His concentration slips over to the girls growing up. Costs of braces. Dance lessons. First cars. Clothes. College. He lets his eyes shift out of focus as he takes another drink. The whiskey slides down his throat, his vision a blur of color and light.

  He hears the phone being fumbled back over to his wife.

  “Well,” Hattie says, “I need to wrestle these two into bed and get some work done before tomorrow.”

  Davis snaps out of his trance. “Good luck,” he says.

  “You sure you’re okay? Do you need to talk about anything?”

  That’s the last thing Davis wants to do.

  Talk. Talk about anything.

  “I’m fine,” he says. “I’ll get some sleep and crush it tomorrow.”

  Even as the words leave his lips he knows that’s complete bullshit. He shakes it off then says goodnight to his wife, ending the conversation with a half-hearted I love you.

  He drains the drink, then motions to the bartender for another. He needs to let his mind dull, to stop it from churning things over and over again. Stop the spin cycle of worry. He starts thumbing through social media on his phone, looking for a distraction.

  Wishes he hadn’t.

  There are pics of Todd living the life of Todd. Pics at parties. Todd with various women. Drinks, smiles and tanned, toned bodies everywhere. Todd’s most recent skiing vacation. Vegas. His time learning to surf. His time hiking. His freedom. His family money backing him up so he can start a business with a friend.

  Davis doesn’t have a net. It’s just him and Hattie.

  He shakes his head with a smirk. “Son of a bitch.”

  His phone buzzes. Speaking of the son of a bitch. “Yes, Todd.”

  “Dude.”

  “Don’t start. I’m exhausted. I’ll go to the last pitch tomorrow morning, then I’ll fly back. You can beat me up all you want when I get home.”

  “I don’t want to beat you up, and for the record, I don’t want to talk you into anything you don’t want to do.”

  “That’s exactly what you want to do.”

  “True, but that’s what I do.”

  The beautiful woman Davis saw outside the hotel sits down next to him.

  “You going to talk to me now, Shy One?” she asks, her voice coated in sugar. “This seat taken?”

  Davis’s eyes almost pop from his head. His pulse begins to dance. He fumbles around his tongue like a junior high kid talking to girl in the lunchroom.

  “Who the hell is that?” Todd asks.

  “No,” Davis says as he hangs up on Todd, setting his phone on the bar. “All yours.”

  The woman takes the seat close to Davis while leveling him with those eyes, along with that same warm smile she laid on him earlier outside. She lets his semi-buzzed gaze get its fill, making sure he has time to get a full understanding of what is sitting next to him. This is a woman who could sit down anywhere, next to any man in this or any other bar, and she’s chosen to sit next to Davis.

  An idea shreds through his head like a runaway train.

  The same idea any married man has had, at least once.

  A fantasy.

  He’s never cheated on Hattie, never wanted to. He’s thought about it, of course, but never felt the need to truly pursue it in any real kind of way. Harmless flirting here and there, but never anything vaguely serious.

  This idea, fantasy, the one he’s having right now, is probably simply the spa
wn of an idea sparked earlier by this same woman when he saw her outside. He knows this will go nowhere, but it’s been a long time since he’s talked to someone like this. Actually, if he’s being honest with himself, he’s never talked to anyone like this. This fantasy, however, has legs. It’s growing roots. There’s a specific feeling spreading.

  This feeling is not about sex. It’s not about reaching orgasm with another woman. As fun as that would be, this is not about that at all and Davis knows it.

  This is about being wanted. Being wanted in that way. Being desired by an attractive woman and the high that can come along with it. Call it ego or self-esteem masturbation, Davis doesn’t care about the label. Right now, he cares about feeling that way again and wants to make it last as long as possible.

  A feeling that has been lost. Shoved in a drawer and long forgotten.

  The way Davis felt in high school when that cheerleader said hi, winked and later made out with him in the woods at that keg party that one summer. It was how he felt when he bought that girl from his English class two Mind Erasers at that shitty piano bar in college.

  What was the name of that joint?

  That dude always played “Piano Man” and “American Pie” while the drunks wailed off-key. He couldn’t tell you a damn thing about any class he took in college, but he can tell you everything about that night. They talked for hours about music and movies, then later had clumsy sex in his cramped dorm room.

  Hell, what was her name?

  Did they have sex or did Davis just imagine it later?

  The years fog a man’s mind on many subjects, usually filling in the blank spots with the most flattering details they can think of, often shading the truth slightly with a filter that helps them push through life with their head held high.

  Sexual success is not immune to a man’s mental refresh.

  The answers don’t find their way to the front of Davis’s wandering, half-buzzed mind, but that feeling is clear. That one coming up in full color, high resolution, surround sound as if it had happened only yesterday.

  Davis’s eyes scan over the polished, jaw-dropping twentysomething seated next to him. She's looking at him with wild, searing blue eyes and a brutal, unique beauty that has turned heads probably all her life.

  “Tilley,” she says, extending a hand.

  Davis blinks, looking at her hand, but quickly realizes it’s his turn.

  “I’m Davis. Drink?” He shakes her hand, fighting to find some cool.

  Tilley looks him up and down. “You’re married.” She says it not as a question but more as an accusation.

  “Yes, sorry. Drink?”

  “Vodka tonic. Lime. Don’t be sorry. Kids?”

  Davis gets the bartender’s attention. “Vodka tonic with lime for her, for Tilley.” He turns back to her. “Yes. Yeah, I have kids. Two girls.”

  Tilley lights up. Warmth washes over her face. Her eyes flicker as she says, “I love kids. You’re a good man. I’m pretty good at judging people.”

  “Thank you.”

  She nods then returns to her normal, steady state of blistering sexuality. “But you are sitting here. Did you wander in here looking for me?”

  “Wanted a drink before calling it a day,” Davis says, shifting his seat, struggling to look relaxed in front of her. Trying to act as if he does this all the time.

  He does not.

  Tilley takes a long pull off her vodka. The ice clinks against the glass. She throws him a look. “It’s okay to admit it. The marriage thing.” She leans in. “Doubt anybody here is going to tell on you.” She lowers head and whispers, “Not here.”

  Davis lets out a nervous chuckle.

  If he heard how awkward it sounded, he’d crawl under the bar.

  Tilley lets him off the hook, leans back and clinks her glass with his.

  She lets a tense, yet flirty, beat of time pass, then leans toward him again. This time into his ear, letting her words dance off her tongue. “It’s five hundred for the first thirty minutes. I do just about everything, all with mind-melting skill.”

  Davis almost spits out his drink again, a near-perfect spit take this time.

  Tilley smiles big, as does the bartender.

  “You are a mess. Look at you,” she says. “All you’re doing is having a drink.”

  “Really, is that all that’s happening?”

  She fires him a gaze that would peel the pants off a dead man and readies herself for the kill shot as she cocks her head with a slight grin. Tucking a strain of hair behind her ear she says, “We’re strangers, right?”

  “I guess so.”

  “There’s freedom in that, right?” Tilley wets her lips. “What if we showed each other our dark sides, our strange sides, did all the things you wouldn’t dare do with someone else. All this could be a simple, wonderful, cherished memory between”—she touches her finger to his chest then hers—“you and I.”

  Davis feels his insides shake. His hands twitch and itch. He has no idea what expression he has on his face, but it can’t be cool. No idea what the correct way to respond is. This is all new for Davis. Exciting and uncomfortable at the same time.

  She is stunning.

  In a flash of a second, he makes some calculations on how much cash he can get, but quickly dismisses the idea. He’s not that guy. He hates that he’s not, but he knows he’s not. Todd would have already had sex with her, paid her and be sound asleep by now.

  She sits. Waiting for an answer. A sign of life from Davis. She holds his eyes, smacks her lips with pop. “Well?”

  Davis drains his drink, closes his eyes and says, “I can’t.” He wants to pick the words out of the air and throw them away, but deep down he knows it was the right thing to say.

  Tilley smiles.

  “I’d love to,” he tells her, keeping his eyes shut. “You’re very nice, gorgeous and unbelievable and… I can’t. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry, handsome.” She touches his hand then kisses him softly on the cheek. “You’re a good boy. Nothing to be ashamed of.”

  She slinks off, disappearing into the crowd with heads turning as she passes.

  Davis finally opens his eyes.

  He takes in a deep, deep breath and orders up another drink. Deep regret mixed with the opposing feeling of knowing he did the right thing wages a tiny war inside of him. Punching holes through every molecule of his being. Yes, he did do the right thing, he knows it, but damn it sucks.

  Never in a million years did he think he’d be in that situation. Propositioned by a prostitute. A hooker in a fancy LA hotel bar. A scene right out of a movie. It’ll make a great story to tell Todd when he gets back. One day, he’ll tell Hattie too. She’ll think it’s funny, if he tells it right. He snickers to himself just thinking of the idea that he’d even considered having sex with a lady of the night. Not something Davis Briggs would do.

  “You are a better man than me.”

  Davis turns to find someone new has taken the seat next to him.

  4

  Sitting next to him now is a man.

  A slick man dressed in a suit Davis could only hope to afford. A man lifted from a Hollywood set. The same good-looking man he saw walking with Tilley outside the hotel.

  “Justin Reed.” He shakes Davis’s hand, flashing a pirate smile.

  “Davis.”

  “Davis, you are one strong-willed bastard.”

  “What? Why?”

  “You turned that woman down. You did see her, right? Your eyes work properly, not blind or some shit?” Justin laughs as he snags a cherry from the bar. “Fairly sure that’s never happened to her, ever. Not sure she’s ever heard the word no about anything. Hell, she’s probably flipped a few gay guys to the other side. What I’m saying is what you just did takes some kinda strength, brutha. Kind I’ve only read about. Heard songs about. Mythical, industrial-grade shit.”

  “Weren’t you two together outside?”

  “Something like that.” Justin motions to
the bartender. “Let’s get a bottle of what he’s having.” He snaps his fingers then points toward Davis. “You in? Hack it up between us?”

  The bartender clears his throat, looking dead at Davis, remembering his previous spit take about the price of a single glass. “It’s three hundred a bottle.”

  Davis wants to scream out NO.

  No way he can do this.

  Hattie will kill him.

  He can maybe get away with the hotel bill, but he knows damn well that he’d have to do a financial juggling act with that kind of bar tab. The hotel alone is going to rub up against the max of one card. Maybe could use another credit card for the bar. One that’s close to maxing out too, teetering on getting declined, but with some wiggle room around the edges.

  The pride burning inside will not let him walk away. Something in Davis will not allow him to admit he can’t afford it. To tell Justin, or himself, that he’s not there yet.

  Fake it until you make it.

  “Yeah, why not.” Davis pulls a card and lays it down next to Justin’s. He can only hope he pulled the right one.

  Davis can’t help but notice even Justin’s credit card is better than his. Justin’s is sleek, black and shines as if it were polished. Looks as if it’s made of military-grade, bulletproof material. Probably has a six-figure credit limit.

  Davis’s card is tied to a local wholesale club.

  He gets points.

  There’s a hum of electricity to Justin. A bolt of life to everything he does. The way he drinks his drink. There’s a certain style to how he holds his glass, to how he sips his whiskey. It’s as if everything he does has been figured out ahead of time. Preplanned, rehearsed cool. Davis remembers reading that Steve McQueen practiced opening and closing a car door over and over again while filming Bullitt so he could find the way that looked the coolest on film.

  Justin was born knowing the coolest way to do things.

  Davis thinks he’s spent his life perusing the opposite. A life spent tracking down the most uncool way of doing everything.

  “I love whiskey,” Justin says. “Hate LA, but love whiskey.”

  Davis laughs and nods. “Yeah, I can understand that. What do you do, Justin?”