Page 55 of Shade
Me too. But from what I gather, he’s the boyfriend of the not-lesbian bartender I just dismissed and apparently, he’s defending her honor.
Stupid fuck doesn’t even realize that if I wanted, I could be fucking her brains out behind the bar while he watches.
“Dude, back off,” I snap, hoping he takes the warning and walks away, but of course, that’s not what actually happens.
“No, fuck you.” He shoves me. “You think you can just come in here acting like your hot shit and disrespecting people like that? I think it’s about time someone taught you some manners.”
Ha. Does he know how many people have tried lately?
Do you see the stupid bastard in front of me? The one who looks like he could be a part ofSons of Anarchy? If you haven’t landed your eyes on him yet, he’s the one standing in front me acting like he has a chance in fucking with me.
I don’t know why, but I take my shirt off. Isn’t that what you do in bar fights? Hell if I know, but I’m drunk, and it seems like a great idea before I trade punches with this idiot.
Guess what? I’m so fucked I even let the guy get a couple of shots in just to keep it interesting. The whole time I’m thinking she wasn’t a lesbian. Who knew?
Around me, guys and bar patrons cheer, curse, and laugh, betting a shit pile of cash on the outcome. After a few minutes, I got bored. I thought I’d sent the clear message of “Don’t fuck with me. I’m out of my mind,” but apparently her boyfriend hadn’t gotten the message so I let him have his moment and then finish it by sending a right hook straight to his jaw. I’m done with this shit.
A bunch of other guys get involved, and it starts an all-out brawl in the bar. Not my intention, but whatever. My eye begins to swell as me and my bottle of tequila find the bathroom of the bar.
I’m closing the door when I turn and catch my reflection in the mirror.
Take a good look, motherfucker. This is who you’ve become. I don’t even recognize myself. Dark circles are under my eyes, and I’m bleeding from my nose and lip. I need a shave and a haircut. My face is red with smeared blood across my cheeks. My nostrils slightly flare at the image. I sniff. I stare. Who is this guy?
Still shirtless, I cup my hands under the water and sink my face into the cool water hoping it helps. It doesn’t.
With my palms on the bathroom counter, I look into the mirror again. Goddamn, I’m a mess. Water drips from my chin and nose, and my hairline’s damp. Faint purple-blue colors collect under my eyes, proving how tired my body really is.
My body’s suffering. My brain, my heart, and my energy run strong, fast and undying as long as I allow the adrenaline to take control and I pretend I’m okay.
You’re staring at my reflection too though, you see it, don’t you?
You see it beneath the tormented blue eyes.
Where’s the exceptional motocross star now? Where’s the unbeatable confident guy from earlier tonight who pulled off a win?
Let me know if you see him because I haven’t seen him in months. This guy in front of me, he’s lost in a life, rearranged, forgotten, devastated. He’s controlled by a sound that keeps him up at night. He’s stuck on the promise he broke.
