Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 92441 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 370(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92441 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 370(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
“You okay, boyo?” he asked gruffly, leaning forward on his elbows.
“Probably not,” I said derisively.
“Woman troubles, eh?”
“I fucked up.”
“We all fuck up,” he said with a laugh. His face lost all humor when I didn’t crack a smile. “Well, it can’t be as bad as all that.”
I said nothing, just held his eyes across the table.
“I think we need a drink,” he said confidently, lifting up his arm and waving it from side to side to get the bartender’s attention. In just a few minutes, the brunette from the bar was setting two shot glasses on the table with a bottle of expensive whiskey that only Poet bothered with. “Thank you,” Poet said politely.
At any other time, I would have laughed at his good manners, but I didn’t then.
After he’d poured our first shots and we’d knocked them back, Poet began to speak. “You’ve probably heard my story, eh?” he said, pouring more whiskey into our glasses. “It’s a bit of a tale now, getting passed on like a game of telephone since you were a babe.”
“I’ve heard pieces,” I said quietly, taking another shot.
“Ah, well, then. You probably haven’t heard the best and worst parts.” He took his shot, immediately filling the glasses again, and began to tell his story. Halfway through telling me about his life in Ireland before he’d come to the US, his wife, Amy, came and wrapped her arm around his shoulders. She didn’t protest as he pulled her down onto his knee and continued speaking, and soon, both of them were telling me the story from their own points of view.
Because it wasn’t just Poet’s story. It was Amy’s, too. Even though they’d been apart for thirty years of their marriage, the story very much belonged to both of them. I tried not to cringe as they described their flight from Ireland and all the things that had gone wrong, but I took two shots as Amy quietly glossed over her time in Ireland after Patrick had left. That’s what she called Poet—Patrick. And the way she said it made her sound like the teenager she’d once been.
I didn’t make it to the end of the story, even though I wanted to know what happened. Unfortunately, the whiskey and exhaustion worked against me, and I found myself passing out with my face pressed against the sticky table. There was probably a lesson in that long tale somewhere. Poet didn’t tell stories without a reason, but I had no idea what wisdom he’d been trying to impart.
* * *
“Jesus,” I groaned at some point the next day, lifting my head from the bed in my room at the clubhouse. I shivered and pulled at the blanket I was laying on until I could wrap it around my shoulders.
I still had my cut on, but someone had pulled my boots off my feet when they’d helped me into the room. I closed my eyes and tried to remember who’d moved me, but the night was a blank slate after I’d laid my head down on the table while listening to Poet discuss his first years at the club. A couple of the boys must have carried me in, I decided. If a woman had helped me, she would have at least covered me with a blanket. It was cold as fuck in my room.
I knew I needed a shower, but I really didn’t want to let go of the little heat I’d found once I’d wrapped myself up like a burrito. I groaned as I threw the blanket back off and climbed to my feet, wiggling my arms like that would help warm me up. I made it halfway across the room to the old dresser I had pushed against the wall before I remembered what had started me drinking the night before.
“Fuck,” I yelled, remembering Mel’s confident words. I lifted my keys from the top of the dresser and threw them as hard as I could against the wall. The sound they made wasn’t even close to satisfying. I searched the room for anything else I could throw, but there was nothing. I didn’t have knickknacks.
My eyes caught on the top drawer of my dresser, and without thinking, I’d yanked it out and tossed it across the room. It hit the wall loudly, splintering into pieces as boxer briefs and socks fell all over the floor.
My hands hit the top of my dresser, and I braced myself as I got the anger under control. “Fuck!” I yelled again as the door to my room opened.
“You okay?” Woody asked, his wide eyes taking in the mess.
“Yeah, kid,” I said gruffly. “I’m fine.”
I strode past him and across the hall to the bathroom, slamming the door behind me. I needed a shower and a cup of coffee. Then I’d head over to Molly’s and prove her best friend wrong.