Rich Blood (Jason Rich #1)(17)

Since checking out of the PAC, he hadn’t turned his phone on. He knew he was only postponing the inevitable, but something was holding him back. Hell, he’d ordered a beer before turning on the phone. He was going to break his sobriety before he checked his messages. What sense did that make?

Jason looked at the full bottle and then back at the phone several times. He turned and glanced again at his massive billboard. There were at least ten more in both directions along the Emerald Coast Parkway. With a cap covering his head, the bill tucked down over his eyes, he doubted anyone in the bar would recognize him. He’d gotten a few strange looks early on at the PAC, and two patients had asked him about taking on their respective divorces (which he’d politely declined), but that was as close as anyone had come to acknowledging him as a lawyer. Another silver lining to rehab.

He scanned the stage. The singer was now crooning Jimmy Buffett’s “Changes in Latitudes, Changes in Attitudes,” and Jason glanced at the open bottle with lime. He touched the cold glass and abruptly removed his hand as if he’d held it over a burning stove. When was the last time he’d been here?

There had been a lawyer convention a couple years ago at the Perdido Beach Resort, which was across the bridge at Perdido Pass. After the last speaker, Jason and a few colleagues had spent the next eight hours at the Flora-Bama. If he remembered correctly—and that was debatable—a few of them had ended up skinny-dipping in the gulf.

A good story, but was it a good night? He’d woken up at 3:00 a.m. in a condo with a woman he barely knew, his head raging with a hangover. Jason again peeked at the Corona. If he took a sip, he knew he’d be headed for a similar night, a disaster for his career.

Quit being a pansy and check your damn phone.

Jason snickered at the self-talk. Was that his own voice? Or perhaps Izzy had crept into his subconscious. As the thought of his law partner came to him, his mouth formed a true smile, and for a brief moment, he felt better. And also guilty. He’d left her holding the fort for three months, and he was going to dive right back into the bottle? What kind of douchebag was he?

A most remarkable douchebag . . . That, no doubt, was Izzy’s voice.

Looking from the bottle to the phone, he finally grabbed the device and clicked the power button with his thumb.

He had over a thousand emails, several hundred texts, and at least fifty voice mails. He ordered some fried crab claws and a water and skimmed through as many of the messages as he could stomach while he ate. Izzy had eventually responded to the work-related emails. The rest appeared to be some variation of spam. Most of the texts were repetitions of the emails. As for the voice mails, Jason didn’t bother. He couldn’t recognize any of the numbers, and he figured they were all car warranty scams or some other mess.

After devouring the crab claws, he pushed the empty plate to the edge of the table and took a long sip of water. Then he glanced at the full beer bottle. He again touched the glass.

“Something wrong with the beer?” the waitress asked as she picked up the remains of his lunch.

“No, just not thirsty.”

“Let me know if you want to try something else. We’ve got several craft brews on tap, including the Fairhope 51, which is a smooth pale ale. That’s my favorite.” She winked at him and walked away.

Jason looked at the phone and thought about calling Izzy. His last few texts were from this morning, and they’d all been from her.

Just checking to see if you’re back amongst the living.

Call me when you’re out.

Starting to get worried. Today was discharge day, right?

As he glanced at the screen, a new text popped up, also from Izzy. This one made Jason flinch.

Have you heard from Jana yet?

Then seconds later, another from Izzy.

Don’t you dare say yes until you’ve talked with me.

And a third.

That is the last thing in the world you need.

And a fourth.

You owe her nothing.

Now Jason’s heartbeat was racing. What the hell? Maybe he should look at his voice mails. But before he could check them, the phone started to ring.

The sound was almost foreign to him, as he hadn’t heard the jingle in ninety days. He cocked his head and considered the screen. It was a 256 area code, and below the digits that he didn’t recognize was a location. Guntersville, Alabama.

Jason let the phone ring without answering. Then he checked his voice messages and saw that he had five from the same Guntersville number.

Jana . . .

“Shit,” he said and reached for the beer bottle. He held the glass to his forehead and closed his eyes. Just a tiny sip. One little taste . . .

Jason took out his wallet and placed a twenty and a ten on the table. Still clutching the bottle, he brought it to his nose and breathed in the scent of beer, lime, and salt. He again closed his eyes. One fucking sip . . .

The phone began to ring again. He didn’t have to look at it to know that it was the same number, but he gazed at the screen anyway, confirming his suspicion on the second ring. Jana . . .

He’d spent so much time in rehab trying to get a handle on his dysfunctional family. Now here he was, at the most famous bar on the panhandle, being tempted by a beer and his crazy sister. He’d been out less than an hour.

Three rings.

Jason gazed past the stage to the gulf, clutching the bottle in a death grip but not taking a drink.