Chapter Sixteen
Justin
“Heavy”- Linkin Park
Istarethrough the window of the coffee shop. Marisa’s at a table, laptop open, coffee beside her. Cobain grumbles and I glance down as he sits on the pavement and scratches behind his ear. “What do we do, fucker, huh?”
He stares at me with drool dripping from his mouth. Shaking my head, I peer back through the glass. She’s glancing around like she’s looking for me. “Well,” I say, readjusting my laptop under my arm before I tug at Cobain’s leash, “come on.”
I walk down the street, my mind jumbling. I know I’m a dick, and it’s not that I exactly want to be... I just don’t know what I want. Love... I want love, who the hell doesn’t? But it’s never right. Someone always ends up being shit on.
I walk a few blocks, letting Cobain stop to piss and sniff some poodle’s ass, and then I stop underneath the tilted iron sign handing over an alleyway. “Moby’s Dick.” I laugh as I walk underneath the weathered sign, down the filthy alley to the concrete stairs that lead to a rusted metal door.
“Don’t take a shit in here like you did last time,” I tell Cobain as I open the door and walk into the dimly lit bar.
It’s empty when I walk inside, which is why I like this shithole. No one’s ever here. The liquor bottles are covered in a layer of dust. I have no idea how the place stays in business. I like to assume it’s just a front for some money laundering scheme. It’s stuffy and reeks of mildew inside. The black walls are scuffed to hell and back and plastered with 70s band posters that have been yellowed with age. There’s a bullet hole in the wall behind the bar and a piece of paper tacked up beside it that reads: Regards of Gotti. That’s where I got the money laundering scheme, that bullet hole.
I drag Cobain towards the mahogany bar, my laptop tucked underneath my arm. Ronald, the cranky old fuck that owns the place, pops up from behind the counter when I drop my computer on the bar top. He swipes a hand over his head, the few straggly pieces of gray hair that have managed to hang in there float in the breeze. “Shit, I thought you’d died.” He smiles revealing his nicotine stained teeth.
“Nah, been writing.”
“Some more sappy shit?”
I sit on the rickety old stool and it wobbles and creaks under my weight. “Something like that.”
“I thought you were gonna write something worth my time of reading?”
I glare at him. “Fuck off,” I laugh.
He grabs the bottle of whisky, pops the spout, and pours a full glass before sliding it in front of me.
“Hell, I tried to read that first piece of shit of yours. How are you going to ruin a perfectly good, violent story with love?” He pretends to gag. “It was an insult to my manhood. Just leave it with the blood and gore next time.”
“Alright, Ron.” I lift the glass to my lips and take a drink before I pop my computer open.
Ronald clears his throat and I glance over the top of my computer. He’s glaring at my laptop with one brow arched. “What the fuck are you doing? This isn’t a coffee shop.”
“Yeah, well…” I think about how I walked off from the coffee shop because Marisa was writing at a table. I raise my glass in a toast. “Hemingway said write drunk, edit sober.”
“Yeah, yeah…” he holds his hand out. “Give me your card and I’ll start your tab.” I dig my wallet from my pocket and hand my card to him. I drop Cobain’s leash to the floor. He circles around a few times before flopping down next to the legs of the stool with a huff and half-ass growl.
Ronald’s swearing at the card reader, tapping angrily over the computer screen when the front door slams open. Cobain lifts his head. Ronald glares over his shoulder, his brow furrowing. “The hell…” he mumbles.
I turn to find a girl dressed in tight black jeans and a red tank approaching the bar. Her blonde hair’s falling out of a messy ponytail. She stops halfway into the room, her gaze drifting from the bar to me and back. She takes a deep breath, walks to the counter, and drags out a stool a few down from mine. “Vodka tonic,” she says.
Ronald eyes me, smirks, then grabs a bottle of Grey Goose and a glass. I lift my whisky to my lips, sipping it as I drink in the pretty blonde now scrolling through her phone. I can’t help but notice how much she favors Meredith. The way her hair hangs, the tight little cinch of her waist, her perfect heart-shaped face and pouty pink lips. It’s not that this girl’s stunning, because she’s not, but she possesses that subtle beauty. That girl-next-door appeal.
Her gaze slowly swings in my direction, and I smirk over the rim of my glass. Her cheeks flush pink. There’s a fine balance of confidence a guy like me needs from a woman. Not too much. Not too little. The plus of the girl-next door, she blends into her surroundings like camouflage, and when a guy like me shows her interest, odds are she’ll treat me like I’m that filthy rich bastard that has a Red Room of Pain.
I tilt my glass up, swallowing back the warm whisky. The girl drops her keys. They clatter over the dirty concrete floor and Cobain’s ears shoot up. He jumps to his feet and scampers over to her, nose to the ground.
“Cobain!” I shout and he freezes, tucking his tail. Setting my glass on the bar top, I push to my feet and approach her. “Sorry,” I say as I lean down, grab his leash, and pick up her keys. When I stand, she’s smiling. “Here.” I hand the keys to her.
“He’s cute.”
“Ah, yeah, but he’s an asshole.” I smile. She giggles. “You come in here often?”
“No... I just moved here actually.”
