Chapter 7

I feel like an asshole. Again.

Once more, I’ve pushed away someone that was just trying to help me. Sue was just trying to make my life a little easier, and I took my frustrations out on her. I know I was in the wrong. I know I am sensitive to every little gesture, comment or remark, and I know it’s all totally unreasonable and I need to get with the real world and pull myself the fuck out of it.

The trouble is, I can’t.

I’ve tried. I’ve tried to see the positive. I’ve tried to focus on the future. But all I see is a great big fucking hole that swallows me up every time I try to see past it. It would be much easier if I was ignorant to these mixed feelings. I would much rather feel like crap and be done with it. Instead, I get to feel like crap and feel guilty about it.

I wheel into the kitchen and open all of the cupboards looking for the only thing that might make me forget. I want to forget. I need to forget. I want to erase all of my cares. Fuck it, I want to erase all of my feelings so I feel numb throughout my whole body, not just my legs. I want to get so damn annihilated that I don’t even know who I am. Maybe then I’ll find some peace in my head.

But, no. No alcohol in the whole damn place. Denham must have cleared it all out when he had this place modified for me. Fucking modified. Even the lowered countertops, designed to make life easier for me, ironically make me feel fucking useless.

I swing the last cabinet door shut with a bang and slam my fists down on to the countertop with a strangled cry. God, this is so frustrating. I can’t seem to quell the constant churning in my stomach. It never settles, never lets me rest. Especially since Lottie left.

Lottie.

My heartbeat.

Gone.

I need a drink. It has been weeks since I went anywhere on my own. I break out in a cold sweat from every pore in my body at the mere thought of leaving this room. But I need to forget. I don’t care that it’s only ten in the morning. I need the oblivion, and I’m willing to push my stress levels to the max to get it.

I manage the hall and the elevator without too much of a raised heart rate. The end goal is firmly set in my mind and the craving gets stronger until it’s almost like an obsession that I have no control over.

The elevator doors open and I’m suddenly exposed to the noise in the lobby. It’s a different world compared to the easy ride getting down here. After eight weeks of being holed up in my apartment, the hustle and bustle is a shock to the system. No one notices me. No one even cares that I’ve made it this far. I don’t know what I was expecting. But in the split second it takes me to make a move forward, several people have tried to cram themselves past me and in to the small spaces beside me in the elevator. No one seems to care that I’m trying to get out. This is what it’s going to be like for me. I’m not even a person to them anymore, I’m an obstacle. Frustration climbs through my body until I can’t take it any longer and I push forward with a jolt, making a young couple jump out of the way. The guy immediately puts his body between me and the girl, an instinct I doubt he even questions, before swinging his head around to me with a scowl on his face. He’s fiercely protective of his girl, probably newly in love by the looks of them, and no doubt only momentarily annoyed at the sudden intrusion of their little Las Vegas bubble.

“Sorry,” I mumble under my breath and he immediately stands down and takes his girlfriend’s hand before continuing to walk ahead and disappearing amongst the flurry of people. I can’t help but smile bitterly at them. So in love. So blissfully happy. Then I laugh. I never had to be fiercely protective of Lottie. She was fierce enough for the both of us.

Fuck, I need that drink.

I take myself to the bar I frequently worked and know like the back of my hand. Of course, it’s always manned. As much as I love Las Vegas, I wonder, don’t people get tired of this? Don’t people hate the fact that everything is always there at your fingertips? Where’s the anticipation in that?

“Hey, Spike man. Good to see ya!” the barman, Chris, calls over to me and stops what he’s doing to greet me at the end of the bar. He doesn’t hesitate in scooping up my hand and clapping me on the shoulder. “What brings you to this dive?” he laughs.

“Same thing that brings everyone else here. What do you think?”

“Well, I’d like to say it’s this charming smile, but I know that’s a lie.” He keeps that charming smile painted professionally on his handsome face which makes me laugh.

“Well, there’s nothing wrong with that charming smile of yours, but I’d prefer to see it after you pour me a very large brandy.” I slap fifty bucks on the bar and push it in his direction. Surely he won’t refuse a paying customer?

“Hard stuff?” he questions with a frown. “It’s early for you to be starting on it.”

“Come on, my man. You know better than to question the customer. You also know that time stands still in this forsaken place. What’s early?” I shrug, trying to make light of the fact that I’m here and ready to get as drunk as I possibly can.

His eyes crease with uncertainty, and his dark brows pinch together at my out of character request. “If you’re not willing, I’ll do it myself.” I say the words in a calm enough tone, but there’s a definite warning there.

“Fair enough,” he replies with resignation. He pours me two fingers of brandy and I give him a look. He accepts my silent question and tops it up a little more before flashing a look back at me. I know I’m putting him in a difficult position, but sadly enough, I don’t care. I don’t care about anything. I just want to forget. I accept the glass, nod my thanks and drain it without a second thought. It slips down my throat like liquid gold. Then I feel the burn. Not a slow rise in temperature, but an instant volcano of heat that pushes up the back of my throat, through my nose and makes my eyes water.

“Fuck,” I hiss, feeling my stomach fighting to keep it down. I’m assaulting my body. Testing its limits and punishing it for feeling like I’ve been dealt a shitty hand, too.

“Steady there, Spike. Shoulda' taken that one steady, fella,” Chris comments with a frown and a tight shake of his head. Fuck him. I don’t need his disapproval or his concern.

I push my glass across the shiny bar top and it slides into his waiting palm. He’s a pro and I’m quietly impressed with his sharp reaction, but I don’t acknowledge it. “Shut the fuck up, and give me a refill, will you?”

He cocks his head to the side and narrows his eyes, drawing in breath through his teeth. “I’m not sure that’s−”

“Just do it, would ya?” I order impatiently. “I thought the customer was always supposed to be right, no? Well, I’m the customer and I want a refill, now. Please.”

He ignores my grumblings like the professional he is and goes about pouring me another drink. I can see him slowing after just a short pour but he glances my way and realizes I’ll just get on him until he fills the damn thing up. I like Chris. He’s a decent guy, nice enough to work with, and on the odd occasion that we went drinking together, he was a good laugh. I know he’s just looking out for me, but I’m done with people telling me what they think is best for me and not asking me what I want, what I need, or how I feel. Right now, I feel the need to consume more alcohol than I have ever consumed in my life and find just a few hours peace in my otherwise noisy, fucked up head. Liquid amnesia.

Four large glasses later and the alcohol is doing what I wanted it to do. I don’t care any less than I did before, but somehow it doesn’t hurt as much. My body is looser and I can’t focus on the finer details as easily as I could before. I think I may even be swaying a little. Is that possible seated in a wheelchair?