Reaching for my credit card, I come up empty handed, and realization dawns again that I have no way to pay for my drinks.
“Oh, that’s right.” I slap a hand to my forehead. “I need money to pay. I didn’t bring a wallet.”
“Pay for what?” he asks. “Where are you?”
“A bar.”
“Which one?”
“Guess!” I want to turn it into a game, but he’s losing patience with me. “Fine,” I concede. “I’m at one of the two.”
“What do you expect me to do?”
“Pay.” I giggle. “And shuttle me home. You know if your job doesn’t work out, you should consider being a ride-share driver.”
“Hand the phone to Miranda,” he instructs.
“Miranda?” I holler at her back.
“Uh-huh.” Indifferent, she’s focused on wiping down the mirrored wall that stretches across the bar. When I tell her she has a call, she spins around and wants to know who.
“Fletch.” My voice slurs. “Miles Fletcher.”
She grabs my cell out of my hand, and I watch her lips move in conversation until she swiftly hands the phone back to me. “Your ride will be here soon.”
“Who?”
“Miles, your police officer friend.”
“Why’d you call the police on me?” Feigning hurt, I press a hand to my heart. “I’m not hurting nobody.”
“No one said you were, darling.” She chomps her gum in my face. “But you gotta pay your tab.” Motioning around the empty bar, she says, “I got three kids to feed, and as you can see, you’re it for tonight.”
“How ’bout one more?”
She shakes her head in annoyance and goes back to wiping down the bar and cleaning. A loud screech from the front door interrupts the eighties music, loudly suggesting a good rubdown with oil is needed.
Miranda’s dirty-blonde head bobs to greet the patron. “Ah, Miles, it’s about time you came in here without an agenda.”
“Hi, Miranda,” Fletch says in greeting. “I can’t always be arresting the town drunks.” He motions to me. “On second thought, never mind. She’s an out-of-towner that don’t belong here anymore.”
“Fletch!” I half stand, losing my balance. If it weren’t for the counter, I’d have face-planted. Settling back down precariously on the edge of the stool, I offer to buy him a round.
“With what?” His voice betrays his frustration. “I didn’t come here for a drink. I came here to pay your tab.”
“That’s sweet,” I stutter.
More to Miranda than to me, he mumbles, “Clearly going to need a ride home.”
“Yeah,” Miranda agrees. “She’s tapped out. Say, what happened to her face?”
“Catfight,” he jokes.
I snort. “Can Fletch have one drink, pretty please?”
“I’m on the clock, Sibby.” He yanks a fifty out of his pocket. “How much I owe you, Miranda?”
“Twenty-four.”
“I’m a cheap date. Liquor’s cheap here.” I clap. “Back home, it would’ve been three times as much.”
“Guess you better keep at it, then,” Fletch mutters under his breath. Handing Miranda the fifty, he tells her to keep the change.
I elbow him in the ribs. “Look at you, baller, giving your hard-earned money away. Guess you can when you take advantage of your neighbors in the spirit of kindness.”
Miranda thanks him profusely, and both of them ignore me.
Yanking my elbow, he plucks me from my barstool.
“Ready,” he asks, except it’s not a question.
I cajole him to sit down and relax as he pulls me out to the waiting police cruiser. After he buckles me into the passenger seat, I inform him I hitched a ride into town.
“You did what?”
“It was Nancy Guthrie. Calm down.” I grab his arm. “You’re such a stiff.”
“And you’re a pain in the ass.”
“You wanna go to the other bar, grab a drink?”
“I’m working, Sibby. I’m gonna take you home.”
Rolling my eyes, I ask, “Can we at least stop at a gas station?”
“For what?”
“I need something to eat.” I pout. “Something to soak up the alcohol.”
Appeased at this response, he agrees to stop at the gas station, but once we pull in, my stomach clenches when I remember I don’t have my wallet, and I need to borrow cash from him.
“I don’t have any more bills. I gave Miranda the last of it.” Fletch grunts. “I’ll just come inside and use my debit card, no biggie.”
Shit. I wanted my fix for at home.
Inside, I grab a handful of greasy snacks and playfully sneak a liter of vodka onto the counter. The clerk rings it up as Fletch groans. “What’s that?”
“Just a little something for the road.” Putting my hands up, I say, “Don’t worry, I’ll share.”
“Oh, hell no, you aren’t drinking an open container in my cruiser.”
“But”—I offer up a sweet smile—“what if I wait until I get home to open it?”
“You don’t need any more magic potion tonight.”
Fixing me with a stern glare, he tells the cashier to remove the vodka and ring the other items up. After carrying my pretzels out to the car, instead of eating, I settle back against the headrest and close my eyes.
“Your face still looks like shit. You need to put something on it for the swelling.” I can feel Fletch’s gaze on me, his hot breath close to my face. “What did you mean back there?”
“When?”
“At the bar.” He remarks sharply, “When you said I take advantage of people?”
I shrug. “Who knows?”
“But you said it.”
“Just words, lots of words,” I slur. “I must’ve pointed out something I was feeling.”
“Nothing you ever say is ‘just’ words. You don’t say something without putting meaning into it.” He adds, “At least, you never used to.”
As I probe my frazzled brain, it’s hard to pinpoint exactly what I was trying to say, so I ask him to put my window down for some fresh air.
I keep my lids shut as the slight breeze whips my hair, and my elbow rests across the passenger-side door.
My eyes flicker open, and I slur my words. “I know what I wanted to ask. Why are you on an offer for
