Sweet Forty-Two(36)

I shimmied behind the bar and bumped hips with Lissa. Well, my well-fed hip to her hipbone. She looked down at me and I eyed the clock, which read 2:30 AM, glanced at Regan, back to her and ran my index finger lengthwise across my neck, telling her no more for him tonight.

“What’s the big deal? He’s really only had a few shots.” She wasn’t fighting with me, just fishing to what I knew that she didn’t. Which wasn’t much.

I nodded in his direction, whispering as if he could hear us, despite the fact he hadn’t lifted his head in over two minutes. “Look at him. I’m going to have to take him home. I’d like him to have a few minutes to at least be able to walk out of here on his own two feet.”

“Takin’ him home, huh? It’s about time. He’s so damn hot I was waiting to see how long it would take for you to cave ... especially with his front door like six feet from yours.” Lissa’s seductive smile annoyed me as she filled a white bucket with cleaning solution.

“It’s not like I have time for this shit, Liss. I’ve got to get over to—”

Lissa cut me off with a slam of the bucket on the counter. “Would you live for once, for God’s sake?”

Now was not the time to argue with her about my life choices.

They weren’t my choices to begin with.

I took a quick look around and saw the crowd was thinning. There were some who wanted to leave before the lights were turned on. Those who were still holding on to some sense of pride.

“I’m out. I’m taking him home. Don’t let Donnie tow his car, K?” I untied my apron, made change for my tips, and changed in the back room, allowing Regan a few more minutes to sober up before I disrupted his self-loathing. Or pity. Or whatever that was.

I walked back into the bar and found Regan sitting up, looking around as if he’d just hit the snooze on his alarm clock. Or wished he could.

I set my hand on his shoulder. “Hey, killer, let’s get you home.”

“I can’t drive,” he slurred.

At least he still had some sense.

“I know. Thank you for recognizing that, though. You’ll come with me.”

Dead eyes lifted to my face. “She’s gone, you know. Just ... gone.”

I let my eyes fall to the letter he’d left unopened, but thoroughly touched, on the bar. Rae Cavanaugh sat on the return address line. The name rang a bell, but too faint to figure out at that moment.

“Well,” I sighed, “I’m here. And I’ll get you home.” Predisposed in the role of caregiver, I knew this particular assignment would be short-term.

Despite CJ and Regan looking nothing alike, the cousins seemed to posses a gene for mobility while intoxicated because he gracefully left his stool and began a wobbly but unassisted walk to the door. Empty handed.

He was making a slow go of it, so I took a second to sweep the letter off the floor and slide it back into the envelope, along with the unopened card.

“Just leave it,” Regan mumbled as if he had eyes in the back of his head.

“Okay,” I lied.

He’d have regretted it had I listened.

I didn’t know who sent the envelope, or why. But anything worth drinking that much over deserves to be read. I quickly unzipped my backpack and placed the envelope inside, just where I’d put it when the postman dropped it off. Maybe I should have left it there, or told him there was no one by Regan’s name at that address.

No. It deserved to be read.

If someone writes you words, you read them.

“Need some help, G?” Dominic, the larger of the two aging bouncers, lifted his thick black eyebrows.

I shook my head, adjusting the straps on my backpack. “Nah, Dom, I got it.”

“Yeah, Dom ... she’s got it.” Regan sounded almost mocking as he leaned against the door.

This kind of dialogue was commonplace for near closing-time, and Dom just shook his head and held open the door.

Once in the fresh air, Regan seemed to stumble a little bit more. Having used all of his ability to keep his shit straight, he sat on the seat of a bike that was locked on a bike rack.

“It’ll take you a long time to get back to La Jolla on that thing. Let’s go.” I hooked my arm through his and tugged.

“I can’t drive, though.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, shaking his head as if he was just aware of this fact.

I fished my keys out of my bag and gave them a jingle. “I can. Come on. I know where you live.”

He chuckled. “Barely. You’re never home. Always out with your guy friends and shit...”

“What?” I crinkled my forehead as I unlocked the passenger door, depositing him inside after sliding the seat as far back as it would go. His knees still came close to the glove compartment.

“All the guys,” he slurred, “that you’re all over all the time...” He clumsily locked his seatbelt into place. And leaned his head against the window.

I tried to keep defensiveness out of my voice. I was the sober one. “What about them?”

“You go home with them. You’re never home.”

“I don’t ... what does that have to do with anything?” I pulled out of the parking lot, wondering where this conversation was going.

“CJ told me to look after you.” Regan leaned forward, resting elbow on knee, head in hand. “It’s hard to look after you when you’re at other guys’ houses all the time.”