“I promise, the fat guy with a double-chin who’s serving us is fully clothed,” I grinned over at Jake. He’d seen the guy.

Jake cocked me a smile.

“I hope so!” Samantha groaned. “Anyway, I just wanted to make sure everything is all right?”

“Yeah, I’m good, agápi mou. Are you okay?”

She sighed. “I’m fine. I just, I sort of needed to talk to you some more about my parents. I’m still freaked out, I guess.”

Fuck. She wasn’t going to let me off the hook. “Do you want to talk about it tonight? I can come over later, after me and Jake finish our burgers. How’s that sound?” I felt like a huge douche. I winced, wishing all my problems would go away so I could do the right thing by Samantha at that moment.

The sad truth was my problems weren’t going anywhere.

My shit was booming inside my head like thunderclaps. I really needed to pound out some of my stress, or I was going to explode. I wasn’t in any shape to listen to Samantha and be supportive. How could you listen to somebody else’s problems when you had your own thunderclouds shooting thunder and lightning between your ears every fifteen seconds? I had to deal with my own stress first, and I did it the best way I knew how at the time: drinks with Jake.

There was a long pause, then Samantha finally answered, “Okay. I’ll be waiting.”

Man, I felt like a shithead. “You sure?”

“Yeah,” she sighed. “It can wait. I’ll be okay. I’ll be doing homework at my apartment all evening, so if you want to stop by when you’re finished, I’d love to see you.”

“Me too, agápi mou. I’ll come by as soon as we’re done. I love you.”

“I love you too,” Samantha said before ending the call.

Thankfully, the waiter showed up with our food before I had to explain any of that to Jake.

After we ate, we pounded more beers at Dick’s before bouncing.

Outside, we strolled the busy streets of the Gaslamp Quarter. It was San Diego’s most active night-spot destination. You could walk from bar to bar all night and never hit the same spot twice. Perfect for pub crawling.

I was leaning toward getting hammered tonight.

“Where do you want to hit next?” Jake asked.

“First place I smell beer,” I said.

“How’s the trial shit going?” Jake asked.

I stopped on the sidewalk, threw my head back, and laughed. It was not a happy laugh. It turned into a roar of frustration.

“Sorry, dude,” Jake said. “Wrong topic.”

I sighed. “Don’t sweat it. It’s not like that shit isn’t on my mind twenty-four seven, now that my trial date is days away.”

“How you coping?”

“Ask me again when I have a beer in my hand.”

“Totally, bro,” he smiled.

We wandered along the block, passing people strolling the sidewalk in both directions.

“How about some frozen yogurt?” Jake joked, nodding toward a storefront.

“Yeah,” I laughed, “I could definitely go for some low-fat, sugar-free shit right now,” I said sarcastically. “My doctor tells me I need to take better care of my health.”

We found a dingy bar with hipster smokers hovering around the entrance. The kind of place with no windows, no sign, save the red-and-white plaque in the doorway that read “NOTICE: NO PERSONS UNDER 21 ALLOWED.”

“Perfect,” I grimaced.

We went inside.

It was dark. The lights hanging over the pool tables and the soft glow behind the bar were the only illumination. We grabbed barstools.

“What’ll it be?” a middle-aged bartender asked, all business. He had silver hair fluffed back in an old-school style and a silver goatee.

I turned to Jake. “I’ve already had a bunch of beers. What’s that shit people say?” I grumbled, “Beer before liquor, never sicker. Liquor before beer, you’re in the clear?”

“That’s how I remember it,” Jake said.

“Fuck the rules,” I said to the bartender.

The bartender snorted.

“You got any Wild Turkey?” I asked.

The bartender nodded.

“You want one, Jake?” I asked.

“Whatever he’s having,” Jake said to the bartender.

“Two shots of Wild Turkey,” I said to the bartender.

“Is that two and two,” the bartender pointed two fingers at me, then at Jake, “or just two total?”

“That makes six,” I grinned, amused with myself. “Three each.”

The bartender smirked. “Let me know when you need the bucket below the bar,” he said before walking off.

“Dude,” Jake said sarcastically, “You sure you don’t want to order a few more shots before he runs off?”

I smirked at Jake and shook my head, ignoring his comment. “So, how’s Madison?”

“She’s awesome. She’s some kind of business genius, man. Once I told her about starting a clothing line, she jumped all over it. She handed me a business plan two weeks later.”

The bartender brought over a tray with six full shot-glasses and set the tray in front of us. “Bottom’s up, boys,” he nodded, then walked off to help another customer a few seats down.

Jake and I each raised a shot glass, clinked, and pounded.

Did I think about the fact that my dad first started drinking when the pressure of painting for a bunch of demanding rich fucks started getting to him? No. Did I think about the fact that I was probably going to be in jail inside of ten days? Fuck no. I just drank my drink. I didn’t want to think about any of it.

“Good shit,” Jake said.

“The best,” I said. “When are you and Madison getting married?”

Jake laughed. “Whenever she says yes.”

“You ask her already?”

“No, but damn, she’s great, man. I can’t imagine a tighter girlfriend.”

“She’s tight all right,” I said. “And she’s a good person, I can tell. Hold on to that shit, man.” I raised a fresh shot glass to Jake. “To you and Madison.”

He raised his own and we clinked. “To me and Mads,” he said.

We pounded.

“Sam’s pretty damn awesome herself,” Jake said. “Gimme a minute, and we’ll raise that last shot to her.”

“You pussing out on me, bro?” I jabbed.

“No, just wanna keep the drinks in my stomach and not put them in that guy’s bucket,” he smiled. “They’re costing you good money.”

“Me? I’m fucking paying?”

“When you order six fucking shots for the first round, you are,” he smirked

“Totally,” I smiled back.

“Dude, not to be a bitch,” Jake said cautiously, “but I haven’t seen you drink like this for a long time. It’s the trial, isn’t it?”

I sighed heavily. “Yeah.”

“Is your lawyer having any luck?”

“Man, I’m spending a fuck-load on Merriweather. He’s got the best people all over that shit. But it isn’t getting me anywhere.”

“What are you gonna do?”

“Roll the dice.”

“You mean go to trial?”

“Fuck yeah. I’d rather take a risk than sign up for nine to twelve months down at Thunderdome.”

“What’s Thunderdome?”

“That’s what they call the jail down past Otay. Where I’d be going. And that’s not even the prison, which is worse. I could end up there if I’m found guilty for everything.”

Jake was silent.

I didn’t blame him. “At least I’m out on bail instead of sitting in that hole awaiting trial.” I picked up the third shot. “Here’s to fucking making bail,” I said sourly.

Jake picked up his shot but rested his hand on my forearm. “No, we don’t drink to that shit, man. Like I said earlier, we drink to you and Samantha. To good shit.”

I looked him in the eyes. He was right. I needed to crawl out of the cesspool in my head. “To Samantha.”

“To you and Samantha,” Jake said, clinking his shot glass against mine.

“To me and Samantha.” I threw my shot back.

SAMANTHA

I set my Sociology reading down and rubbed my eyes. They were crossing from staring at the page all evening. How long had I been reading and re-reading the same paragraph? I had no idea, but I did know I hadn’t the foggiest idea what the paragraph said.

All I could think about was calling Christos. I was worried about him. He had seemed off. I didn’t know what it was, but for the last two days, he’d taken a sudden, dark turn.