Why would he do that? It must have been an accident, right?
14
Bruce
What the fuck have I done? What the hell was I thinking?
I’m behind the wheel, driving like a goddamn maniac. Already, I’ve nearly swiped three cars that were hiding in my blind spot.
Honk!
I flash the middle finger and keep driving, nearly doubling the speed limit. In the rearview mirror, I spot a few people shaking their heads. Obviously, they don’t approve of my erratic driving, but right now, I don’t give a damn.
Breathe, Bruce, breathe, I try to tell myself, but it’s useless advice. I’m at my wit’s end.
What was I thinking?
The condoms were right there, in the fucking nightstand. I’d told the housekeeper to put them there. I was prepared. And yet, I still came inside a woman whom I suspect isn’t on any kind of birth control. She’d mentioned something about needing to go to the pharmacy, and that was weeks ago. Did she make it there? I doubt it, given that I haven’t seen her pop a pill in a while.
Holy shit.
What in the hell has gotten into me?
I speed past a police cruiser, and I half expect him to pull me over, but I guess he’s sleeping or something because nothing happens. I adjust my grip on the wheel and press on the gas pedal, weaving in and out of traffic. I’m going to get myself killed at this rate.
You did it on purpose, the little voice in my head tells me. Unbidden, another voice answers.
I know, it says. I wanted Katie to get pregnant.
My hands grip the wheel, white-knuckled, as I stare straight ahead. But why? Why on earth did I think it would be a good idea to take Katie bare? Why did I think it would be so nice to have her sweet, swollen pussy wrapped directly on my dick? Have I lost my goddamn mind?
I take the exit and blow through multiple red lights as I near the city. Once I’m cruising through the streets of downtown, I head for the closest bar. I cut off a couple of joggers while pulling into the parking lot.
“Fuck you, asshole!”
I show the errant jogger a middle finger, and we engage in a stare off, my eyes burning with rage. I really don’t have the patience for this sort of shit right now, and he pisses me off in his matchy-matchy Adidas track suit and snow-white sneakers. Clearly, he’s not even a real runner.
The stranger grinds his teeth, looking like he wants a fight.
I grin through the car window when he takes a step forward, my eyes burning a little hotter. Maybe a little toss up with this guy will help take the edge off. My lips part in a snarl.
“Come on,” a girl beside him pleads. “Let’s go.” She places a hand on his arm and pulls him along.
The rapper cum jogger looks reluctant to go but nonetheless follows her.
I shake my head and park, before heading inside. It’s a shady bar, and the lights are dim. Most of the booths are in terrible condition, with stuffing escaping the ripped vinyl. The bar stools look like they’re on the verge of collapse. Men wearing leather jackets and bandanas hang around a pool table making bets. This is far from the luxury bars where I usually go when I want a drink, but right now, booze is booze, and I could give a rat’s ass where it comes from.
“What are you having?” the bartender asks. I grunt.
“Whiskey. Neat.”
He nods, grabs a bottle, and pours a glass.
I tilt my head back and chug it, hoping to calm down, but even with the warm liquid making its way into my system, my mind is still working a mile a minute. My whole body is tense, and my stomach is doing somersaults, tangling into a knot that just keeps getting tighter and tighter.
“Another,” I demand. “Actually, just give me the whole damn bottle.”
The bartender hesitates. Technically, he’s not supposed to do that, but when I slam a couple of hundreds on the table, he quickly pockets the bills, looks around in case there’s someone watching, and places the bottle of Irish Whiskey right in front of me.
I fill my glass, down the alcohol, and feel my mind finally start to numb a bit.
Good.
I breathe deep and look around. There aren’t many people at the counter. Most of them are at the pool tables, trying to make a quick buck. With no one else to turn to, I beckon toward the bartender. He’s an old grizzled guy with a ruddy complexion and a black vest over his raggedy tee.
“Hmm?”
“Tell me something. Surely, in your line of work, you’ve heard a lot of things.”
“Sure.” He shrugs. “People tell me their stories all the time,” he says while cleaning a glass with a white bar towel. “Sometimes I wonder if I should write a novel or something.” He chuckles.