Where One Goes(14)

Ike disappears and then materializes moments later. “George is outside your door,” he says, softly, as he stands by me where I sit on the bed, arms crossed.

“What?” I whisper-yell, but before he can respond, three loud knocks bang on the door.

“He’s drunk.” Ike’s jaw tics in anger.

“Is he dangerous?”

“No. My guess is he’s embarrassed.” Ike huffs as more knocking sounds come from the door.

George must have gotten my temporary address from my application paperwork. I hop up and reach the door in four long strides, yanking it open. I know I’m trying to help George for Ike’s sake, but for him to show up so late and drunk while pounding on my door is rude. I’m ready to give him a piece of my mind, but when I see his red eyes, filled with tears . . . I can’t. His shirt is untucked, his shaggy hair sticking up everywhere as if he’s been running his hands through it, and he’s holding a bottle of Jack Daniel’s. Instead of yelling at him, I stare at him, waiting for him to say something.

“Who were you talking to?” he asks belligerently, his eyes scanning my room.

“You must’ve heard the television,” I answer quickly.

“No. You were laughing.”

“At the television.” I cross my arms, becoming increasingly annoyed with his line of questioning. “Were you standing here listening?”

His lips curve slightly. “No.”

“What can I do for you, George?” He pulls himself off the doorframe and pushes past me into my room. “Sure. Come on in,” I remark dryly. He ignores my comment and plops down on the pleather arm chair closest to the door.

“He’s shit-faced, Charlotte.”

“I know,” I answer, not thinking about it.

“What?” George looks up at me in confusion.

“Nothing. To what do I owe this unexpected honor?” I plop down on my bed and cross my legs in front of me. As I do, I look up and notice Ike’s eyes fixed on me. Reminding myself not to stare back, I look to George who is also staring at me, his dark eyes practically burning into me. I look down and realize the strap of my loose tank top has slid down, revealing my bra strap and the top part of my boob in the lacy cup. My face flames red. Not from embarrassment. Okay, maybe a little, but it’s more the heat of their gazes upon me. I quickly clear my throat and right my top.

“You think I’m an *, don’t you?” George slurs before swigging the Jack.

“He is,” Ike nods in agreement.

“I think you’re drunk,” I answer, cutting Ike a quick glance.

“So, where are you from, Charlotte?”

“Is this the part where we get to know each other, boss?”

“Just trying to be friendly.” George puts the bottle of Jack on the table with a thud, causing the amber fluid to slosh.

“And being friendly is showing up at my motel room at eleven o’clock at night?”

“You haven’t answered my question.”

“Charlotte. I know he’s a drunken *, but please be nice. You said you’d help him,” Ike pleads.

With a deep sigh, I say, “Oklahoma.”

George eyes me curiously. “And what brings you to these parts?”

“Just admiring the fall beauty like everyone else,” I say, snidely.

“I doubt that,” George slurs.

“You know what, George? We’re not doing this,” I snap. “You’re drunk off your ass and high on coke. Come on.” Standing, I grab my keys off of my nightstand before slipping on my flip-flops. “I’m taking you home.”

“Char—” Ike is interrupted when I shoot him a glare that would scare the dead. Ike is a good brother. He wants to help George, but he wants to do it with kid gloved hands. George needs tough love, and I’m going to give it to him. He can’t deal with his pain and loss until he gets cleaned up.

“Get up!” I yell at George as he lulls to the side. With a lot of effort, I yank him up and drag him out the door. It takes me five minutes to get him in the passenger seat of my truck, and when I slam the door and round the back, Ike is waiting with his arms crossed.

“Don’t give me that look, Ike,” I warn. “You agreed to let me do it my way.”

“Yeah, but—”

“But nothing,” I cut him off. “You want my help—this is the first thing we scratch off of the list. I know what I’m doing. This isn’t my first rodeo.

Ike snorts and holds his hands up in mock surrender. “Okay, let’s get him home.”


“How in the hell did he get here?” I ask, not seeing any other cars in the parking lot.

“Who knows,” Ike grumbles. “Maybe Sniper dropped him off.”

With Ike’s help, I get to George’s house. He has a little ranch about four miles from the bar. The grass looks like it hasn’t been cut in a year, and there’s a shutter hanging from one hinge on the far left window.

“This was my house. I left it to him,” Ike notes from the backseat.

“He’s really keeping the place up,” I note, my tone drenched in sarcasm.

Ike says nothing else as I park my 4Runner and proceed to drag George inside. Luckily, I get him to walk, but his eyes are closed the entire time. When we finally get inside, the light from the range over the stove casts enough light to lead him inside and plant him on the sofa where he falls over and starts snoring.