Chief's Mess

by L. A. Witt

  “Don’t mention it.”

  They set me up on their couch, and after everyone had gone to bed, I lay awake, feeling like utter shit. All week long—and especially all day long—I’d looked forward to being in Noah’s bed, blissed out and happy. And, somehow, I was on my ex-brother-in-law’s couch, feeling sick and alone.

  It was weird, lying here in Clint and Travis’s living room, listening to the crickets outside and the soft hum of the heater. It hadn’t been all that long ago I’d been on this exact same couch with Mandy, but it seemed like another lifetime. I actually felt guilty for shooting daggers out my eyes at Clint back then. Yeah, he’d fucked things up with my sister, but he really was a good guy, wasn’t he?

  Which meant maybe Noah still was too. Except during Clint’s drunk days, he really had been an asshole. Noah lied about his drinking, but—

  But what more do you need?

  He lied. He’s been lying.

  You can’t possibly know how much he’s been lying because he’s that good at it.

  You just know he has been. End of story.

  Right?

  I sighed into the empty room. I’d go talk to him tomorrow after he sobered up. What I’d gain from that, I had no idea, but I needed something. Closure, maybe. Or confirmation that he really had been this fucked up all along, and that it wasn’t a one-time lapse. Maybe it was, but I struggled to believe that. Not when I’d met him at a bar on a weeknight.

  I flinched. Really good at picking up signs, wasn’t I?

  Well. I’d go see him in the morning. We’d talk. We’d see what happened.

  But I suspected that by this time tomorrow, I’d be on my last-ever flight from Portland to Denver.

  And I hated myself for ever coming back to this town in the first place.

  In the morning light, my head wasn’t what I’d call clear, but it was clearer than it had been last night. Enough that I could remember a lot more of last night than I cared to.

  Oh God. Please tell me I dreamed all of that.

  Except I knew I hadn’t. Especially since, when I’d turned on my phone, there’d been a dozen texts, two missed calls, and—before all of those—a notification that Anthony’s plane had landed. Yesterday. Mere hours before I’d come home from the bar and found him there at my door.

  None of the calls or texts were from this morning. For all I knew, he was already on his way back to Portland, hoping to catch the next flight to Denver.

  I wanted to jump in the car, go screaming down the highway, and either catch him before he got to the airport or stop him before he went through security, but I didn’t move. And not because my head hurt or my vision was still too fucked up to drive.

  Fact was, I didn’t blame him. I’d forgotten him, for God’s sake. Hadn’t been here when he’d shown up. Hadn’t answered my phone. Hadn’t responded to his texts. Why wouldn’t he be pissed?

  So I’d give him some time. Get myself back on my feet and out of this hangover, and then get my thoughts together. Then I’d get in touch, and we’d see what happened. For now, he had every right to be angry and keep his distance. All I could do was hope that, when he cooled off, he wouldn’t decide this was a deal breaker. If all of our visits were in Denver from now on, fine. I’d be happy to fly to meet him so he didn’t have to worry about me forgetting again.

  Good God. I can’t believe I forgot he was coming in last night. What the fuck is wrong with me? Anthony, for Christ’s sake. I forgot Anthony!

  Cursing at myself under my breath, I sat up on the edge of the bed. The headache got worse, of course, and the room tilted and swayed until my equilibrium caught up. Then I grabbed a shower before heading to the kitchen, where I sucked down some coffee, chased it with half a bottle of water, and started on the next cup of coffee.

  None of it helped.

  I felt sick. My head wouldn’t stop throbbing. I tried to think of some of the remedies the guys at work used, but I doubted they’d help at this point—where did the hangover end and Anthony’s departure begin? Except what else could I do? Fix things with Anthony? Where would I even start?

  At least hangovers were familiar. A known enemy that rarely changed tactics. Even if it held on as stubbornly as this one was, it would back off before too long. They didn’t last forever. The headache wasn’t receding yet, but its teeth were ever so slightly dulled. It was a start.

  So . . . what now?

  I leaned over my hands on the kitchen counter, swallowing the queasiness that burned at the back of my throat. The hangover still thumped in my head, but the other part of last night was at the forefront of my mind now. How had all of that happened, anyway?

  I mentally retraced my steps, trying to put the pieces together. I remembered going out with everyone from work, planning on having a couple of drinks. And, at some point, I’d stopped checking my watch, turned off my phone, and started thinking about the next drink. I’d . . .

  My stomach lurched, and it had nothing to do with my hangover.

  I really had forgotten he was coming. How the hell did I forget that Anthony was on his way?

  Shit. Okay, so clearly I needed to not go out with the guys when Anthony was flying in. Even if I hadn’t gotten so drunk I’d forgotten he was coming, I still would’ve had plenty to drink, and Anthony really didn’t like that. If he’d smelled it on me, or if I’d been the slightest bit unsteady on my feet, he’d have looked at me like . . .

  Another somersault in my gut.

  He’d have looked at me like he had last night. Like I was hurting him, pissing him off, and disgusting him all at the same time. Disappointing him.

  And could I blame him? After how I’d felt when I’d arrived in Denver, wondering why he’d stopped responding to my texts? All the worst-case scenarios that had run through my head seemed ridiculous now, but at the time, I’d been genuinely freaked out that something had happened to him. He’d had a reasonable excuse too.

  Me? Not so much.

  I scrubbed a hand over my unshaven face and swore into the stillness of my kitchen.

  Well done, Jackson. Got yourself a man you didn’t deserve, and fucked things up with him.

  Someone knocked on my front door, and the quiet sound ricocheted off the inside of my skull. I wasn’t sure if that had more to do with my hangover or the fact that I instantly knew who it was. Fuck. I wasn’t ready for him.

  But if I didn’t let him in now, I probably wouldn’t get another shot. I was lucky he’d shown up at all.

  So I went to the door, paused to collect myself, and opened it.

  Across the threshold, we locked eyes, and I’d never seen Anthony’s expression so cold or his posture so stiff.

  “I think we need to talk.” His voice was flat.

  Without a word, I stood aside and waved him into the apartment. In silence, we walked into the kitchen. The change in light from the dim hallway to the bright kitchen nearly made me flinch. My head was still throbbing, but I didn’t dare let it show unless I wanted him to turn tail and run before we’d had this conversation.

  Anthony leaned against the counter and rested his hands on it. He cocked his hips like he was trying to look relaxed, or at least not as confrontational. It only made him look a hell of a lot tenser than before, though.

  I opened my mouth to offer him some coffee or something, but he spoke first.

  “What happened last night?” There was a hard edge to his words, but they weren’t completely steady. I could’ve handled him flipping out at me. Let this turn into a screaming match. It would hurt my head if we started raising voices, but that seemed a lot easier to stomach than that thinly veiled hurt in his voice.

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

  “That’s not what I asked. I asked what happened.”

  I studied him, not sure exactly what to say. “I went out with some coworkers. We . . . were decompressing after a rough shift.”

  Anthony’s eyes narrowed slightly but unmistakably. “And, what? You lost track of time or
how many shots you’d poured into your skull?”

  I winced, avoiding his gaze. “We got carried away. That’s all!”

  He studied me. “How often do you do this?” Was that an accusation in his tone? Or curiosity with a hostile edge? “I mean, we’ve been dating for months.” The unsteadiness was back, intensifying as the volume climbed. “And, all that time, have you been drinking yourself stupid whenever I’m not in town?”

  “Are you telling me I can’t go out and—”

  “I’m not telling you what you can or can’t do,” he snapped. “I’m trying to figure out how fucking stupid and blind I’ve been to not notice I’m dating someone who routinely gets blackout drunk. I mean, how much did you lie about?” He paused, and his tone dripped with sarcasm when he added, “Allergy season?”

  I flinched.

  “Tell me straight—have you been a fucking drunk this whole time?” He stared at me. Lines that had once appeared when he’d been in the throes of an orgasm or a boisterous laugh were suddenly deep, rigid, and angry. No, worse. Disgusted. Even more than he’d been last night. Like he could barely stand the sight of me.

  “What do you want me to say?” I shrugged tightly. “I drink, all right?”

  Anthony’s lips pulled so tight they nearly vanished. “You know why I was in Anchor Point in the first place? The night we met? Because I was here to provide moral support for my sister while she and her kids were visiting her ex-husband.”

  “Yeah, you told me—”

  “I’m not finished.” His lips peeled back across clenched teeth. “Her ex-husband, who destroyed their marriage by drinking himself into a violent asshole.”

  “You told me that part too,” I said. “Have you ever seen me get violent, Anthony?”

  “No. But I’ve seen you drunk, and I don’t like it. I can put up with a lot of things, Noah, but not this. Not after I’ve been helping my sister pick up the pieces after—”

  “He isn’t me!” I growled. “I’m sorry to hear about their marriage falling apart, and him being an angry drunk, but that doesn’t mean I can’t hold my liquor.”

  “Can you, Noah? Can you really hold it? Because that’s not what I saw last night.”

  “For God’s sake,” I growled. “I had a bad night. It was a stressful week at work, and I—”

  “And that’s how you cope with it?”

  I narrowed my eyes. “I’m not sure it’s your decision how I cope with shit.”

  “No, it’s not. In fact, it is your decision. So, decide.” He folded his arms across his chest and set his jaw. “Either the booze goes, or I do.”

  Rage boiled in my gut. “So you think that since we’re dating, you can dictate how I run my life?”

  “No.” He shrugged. “You can live your life however you want. So can I. And I choose not to live it with someone who’s controlled by a fucking bottle.”

  “Then get out.”

  His cold exterior cracked slightly, but he tightened his jaw.

  And then, without a word, he did get out. The slamming door echoed through the apartment. My neighbors had probably heard it too.

  Before he’d even slammed his car door with equal force and turned on the ignition, I had the bottle of Jack by the neck. The engine turned over. I put the bottle down and swallowed.

  Fuck. What did I do?

  As his car engine faded into the distance, I kept my hand on the bottle and stared at the empty place he’d been standing. Why had I let him go? Fuck, why had I made him go? I’d all but shown him the door and shoved him outside to the place where he’d been waiting for me last night.

  Anthony was gone. There was nothing I could do or say to bring him back in through that door.

  So I unscrewed the cap and didn’t bother with a glass.

  I didn’t know where else to go, so I drove back to Clint and Travis’s place.

  Before I’d reached the door—when had their walkway become so long?—Clint was on the porch, and without a word, he waved me inside.

  Neither of us spoke on the way into the living room. I sank onto the couch and cradled my face in my hands. All the way here, I thought I’d break down crying once I didn’t have to focus on the road anymore, but now that I’d made it, I was tired. Absolutely wrung out and drained.

  Clint stood quietly for a moment. “You want some coffee?”

  I wasn’t sure anything that went down my throat would stay there, but at least a cup of coffee would give my hands and mouth something to do. “Sure. Thanks.”

  His quiet footsteps disappeared out of the room.

  Alone, I sat back, pressing an elbow into the armrest and absently running the backs of my fingers along my jaw. I wasn’t just tired, was I? I was numb. My whole body seemed heavy and empty at the same time. My mind was blank except the endless loop of my conversation with Noah and memories of the time we’d spent together. Even the images of us having sex—tangled up, moaning, thrusting, almost crying from pure intense pleasure—didn’t give me any actual feeling. No pain. No regret. No longing. No arousal. Each time a moment replayed, all I could think was, Should I have seen this coming? Were there signs?

  Clint came back and handed me a cup of coffee.

  “Thanks.” I took it and held it carefully. It was too hot at the moment, but it was something to hold.

  He had a cup in his hand too, and sat down in the chair kitty-corner to the sofa. Funny—it wasn’t all that long ago when I’d have glared at him and wondered what the hell he was doing, sitting down like I actually wanted to be in the same room with him. Except I did. Today, I was grateful for the company. For his company in particular.

  “I guess I don’t need to ask how it went,” he said after a while.

  “No. Not really.” I set my untouched coffee down. “I feel like such an idiot. How did I not see that he’s a fucking drunk?”

  “Because he probably went to great lengths to hide it.” Clint put his own cup on the table beside mine and rested his elbows on his knees. “Alcoholics are incredibly good at covering their tracks.”

  “And lying,” I growled.

  “Yeah. That’s most of it. I’ll admit it—I did everything I could to keep Mandy from seeing how much I was drinking.” He wiped his hand over his face and sighed like the memory exhausted him. “It was probably not as easy for me to hide since we lived together. But with a few states between you two? Only seeing each other for a few days at a time?” He shrugged. “Yeah, a skilled alcoholic could absolutely hide it.”

  “‘A skilled alcoholic.’” I laughed bitterly and brought my coffee to my lips. “There’s something to put on a résumé.”

  “It sounds crazy, but it’s a thing. You’d be amazed how much time I spent calculating how much I could drink and still make it to work without anyone noticing.”

  “You did?”

  He nodded.

  “But you were . . .” I chewed my lip.

  “Go ahead.”

  I hesitated. “You were a crazy drunk. Like, violent.”

  “Yeah. I know. There came a point where drinking surreptitiously wasn’t numbing everything as much as I needed it to, and I stopped caring about anything except drinking myself stupid.” His eyes were distant for a moment, then met mine. “I was self-medicating because I was too traumatized to function. Noah might have different reasons for it, so he doesn’t need to be shit-faced twenty-four-seven like I did.”

  I shuddered. “It was that bad for you?”

  “Still is sometimes,” he admitted. “I’ve learned to cope better, and I don’t want to drink anymore, but I won’t lie—sometimes the temptation is there. What happened isn’t going away. I’m just not numbing it at the expense of my liver anymore.” He paused, and quietly added, “Or at the expense of my family.”

  I didn’t know if he meant his ex-wife and kids, or his boyfriend and stepdaughter-to-be. Maybe both. “Does this make me an asshole for walking away from him?”

  Clint shook his head. “Of course not. I can’t imagin
e it’s easy, though.”

  Talk about an understatement. “No. It’s not.” I pressed the heels of my hands into my forehead, then let them drop into my lap again. “The shitty part is, I loved him. And I thought I knew him.”

  “There’s nothing that says you guys can’t—”

  “I’m not dating a fucking drunk.” As soon as the words were out, I flinched. “Sorry. I—”

  “It’s okay.” Clint’s smile was faint, but sort of reassuring. “I wouldn’t have dated me at that point either. But what I was going to say was, there’s nothing that says things between you guys can’t work. It’s a question of if he can pull himself together.”

  “Well, he’s on his own. I’m not sticking around to wait until he hits rock bottom.”

  Clint sighed. “Yeah, I don’t blame you, to be honest. I guess what I’m not so eloquently saying is he’s still a good guy. He’s just fucked up right now.”

  I stared into my coffee. He was right, and I knew it, and that made it worse. Knowing there really was a great guy hiding behind the red eyes and whiskey fumes—definitely there but way out of reach—was horrible.

  “I’m sorry you’re dealing with this,” Clint said. “I know that doesn’t help much, but . . .”

  “Talking to you has been really helpful, though. So thanks.”

  “Don’t mention it. This kind of thing is hell for everyone involved, especially when there’s nothing you can do to help.” He shook his head. “I’ll go to my grave hating myself for what I put Mandy and the kids through.”

  “You shouldn’t.” I exhaled. “I mean, yeah, I hated you for it too. But you’re obviously not a bad guy.” I paused. “And . . . while we’re on the subject, I’m sorry. I’ve been a real dick to you ever since—”

  “Anthony.” He made a calm-down gesture. “Don’t. I deserved it. And you were protecting your sister and the kids. If my sister’s husband did half the shit I did, his body would never be found.”

  I laughed quietly. “Guess it’s a good thing I got bored halfway through the first season of CSI.”

  Clint laughed a bit more genuinely than I had. “Yeah. Yeah, I’d say I’m pretty lucky.”