Whiskey and a Gun (8 page)

I intend to drive home, but instead, I pull into the parking lot of Charlie's Tavern. The neon OPEN sign flickers, calling my name. It's mostly empty, except for a few of the regulars.
 

"You're early." Smitty, the bartender, sets a coaster on the bar.

"It's been a hell of a morning already."

"Yeah? So you want the good stuff, then?"

I smile stiffly. "Hell yeah, I do."

He pulls a bottle of bourbon from beneath the bar, pours a double shot, and slides it over. "Here ya go."

"Thanks," I say and gulp the drink down, enjoying every minute of the burn in my throat. I slide it back to Smitty. "Another."

He shakes his head and laughs but pours me more. "Pace yourself."

He's probably right, but I really don't give a shit right now. I swirl the dark liquid in the glass before downing it. The bald, pudgy guy at the end of the bar is staring at me. "What're you looking at?"

"Watching you down that drink like it's the last one you'll ever take," he says, moving his chair closer.
 

"What's it to you?" I ask.
 

He laughs. "Don't matter to me. Wanna talk about it?"

I curl my hand around the glass hard, but I've already gotten into enough trouble for the day; I don't need any more here, too. "What makes you think I'd talk about anything with you?"

"I don't. I was just asking is all," he says. He goes back to his own drink.
 

"Fucking women."

He nods his head vigorously. "Fucking women. What'd yours do?"

"Cheated. Fed me bullshit lies. Locked me out of the house last night."

"That's rough. I'd beat her ass."

"That's part of the problem," I mumble.

"Well, you're not the only one. That's why I'm divorced now. Old bat couldn't figure out who was boss."

I snap my head up, "You just let her leave?"

"Didn't have much of a choice. Came home one day and everything was gone. Even the goddamn fish in the fishbowl. Didn't leave me a thing."

I shake my head, "Nope. That's not happening with mine. Over my dead body."

He chuckles and extends his hand. "I'm Rich. Not literally—it's just my name."

I laugh against the deep sense of doom filling my stomach and working its way to my throat. Or maybe that's the bourbon coming back up. I shake his hand. "Carter."

"So, Carter, whatcha going to do about your little problem?"

I look at my empty glass. I gesture to Smitty, who refills it again. I hold it up to Rich, and when he brings his own drink to mine, and the clink feels like permission. "I'm gonna have myself a few more drinks and then show that bitch who's boss."

"Here, here," Rich says jubilantly.
 

Smitty wipes the counter where our drinks spilled. He looks at me with concerned eyes. "I've known you a while, Carter. You're a good guy—don't do anything you'll regret."

The corners of my mouth tug upward. "Who, me? Nah. It's gonna be fine."

Smitty doesn't look convinced. "Okay. I'm just saying, I don’t want to see you in any kind of trouble."

I hold up my empty glass. "Thanks, Smitty. I'll be fine. One more and then I'm going."

He frowns, but tops me off. I drain it. I can't even feel the burn anymore. I reach in my pocket and pull out the only cash I have left—a wadded-up twenty. I slide it over to him. "I'll give you the rest tomorrow."

"Take care of yourself," he says, nodding.

"Will do."
 

Rich stands up and pats me on the back, then whispers, "Don't be afraid to do what I should have done before that bitch took everything."
 

"That's what I intend to do," I say.
 

Outside, it's already warmed up significantly. The heat nauseates me, or maybe it’s the fact that I'm three sheets to the wind now. I don't understand why more people don't drink like this. It's a glorious feeling—invincible. Like I can do anything. Be anyone. I'm not the loser who just lost his job. I'm not a weak man who lets his wife lock him out of the house. No, I'm the fucking boss.
 

I pull onto the road. I swear there weren't four lanes this morning. I keep as far to the right as I can. I've driven much worse than this. This is nothing. Even though the world stretched out in front of me is a mix of colored blobs.
 

I make the sharp left turn onto my street. I pull in the driveway and sit in my truck, watching the house, even though the window moves every five seconds. I rub my temples. If I go in there and I start in on her, I may not be able to stop. I'll have Tawny's blood on my hands. I could leave now, drive until I run out of gas. Leave her high and dry to fend for herself.
 

You have no job. No future. You're worthless. A drunk
.
You are your father
.
 

I slam my hand against the steering wheel. I am not my father. I'm better than my father. I only hit her when she deserves it. My father liked to hit for fun.
 

Just get it over with. Maybe she's had enough time to cool down, and everything will be fine.
I head to the front door thinking it'll still be locked, but it opens right up. It's eerily quiet as I walk down the hall. I expect Tawny to be in the kitchen, but all I find is an open bottle of whiskey. Did I drink that last night? I can't remember.
 

I make my way to the bedroom, and that's when I see an open suitcase and clothes scattered all over the bed and the floor. Tawny is sitting in the chair by the window, her legs dangling over the side. She holds a glass of amber liquid, swirling it around. A white towel, stained crimson, is crumpled on the floor.
 

"What the fuck?"
 

She cocks her head in my direction and stares at me. "I didn't expect you home this early."

"What's going on here?"

"What does it look like?"

I pick up a dress off the bed and clutch it in my hands. "It looks like you're trying to leave me. Am I right?"

"You're damn right I'm leaving. I'm done with your shit. Do you know what happened last night?"

"You were bad. So I punished you."

She scowls at me, every part of her oozing fury. "You killed our baby."

I swipe the suitcase off the bed and it lands on the floor with a thump. "Jesus, Tawny. You were not pregnant and you're not going anywhere, either."

"Try and stop me," she taunts.
 

I ball my fists together and rush to her, but she's quicker than I am. She's on the other side of the bed, the queen-sized mattress the only thing between us.
 

"What are you going to do? Hit me? Smash my head into the table again? Force yourself on me when I'm so clearly disgusted by you?"

"You fucking bitch!" I shout. "I'm gonna wring your neck until you beg me to let you go, and then I'm going to slit your throat. You think you're so smart—making up lies about your pregnancy. No one will buy that shit. The doctors will back me up."

She doesn't stand down. "The doctors said it was unlikely, not impossible. But I don't think you even know the difference between the two."

She's not even scared of me right now. She's talking to me like my father did when I was a child. When I was too young to stop him. When I was too afraid to shut him up the same way I shut Tawny up. No one talks to me like that anymore. Especially not my lying wife.
 

This time when I run toward her, I catch her arm before she can get away. I slam her body into the wall. She groans and slides down. I punch her in the gut before she reaches the floor. She holds her stomach and gasps. "I told you that you weren't ever gonna get away from me. You've pushed your luck too far this time. You'll never leave me. You'll die before I let that happen."

I yank her up by her hair and land a blow to her jaw. The adrenaline shoots through my hands. I look at them like they're golden boxing gloves. It's amazing the damage my fists can do. She hasn't passed out yet. I guess I'll need to hit harder with this next one. I wind up, ready to put all my force behind it, but I see her knee a second too late. Unbearable pain shoots from my balls all the way through my legs, and I double over. The pain works itself to my stomach, where it mingles with the booze and pushes bile up to the base of my throat.

Her kick pushed me backwards, gave her distance from me. I stand, even though the pain is throbbing, telling me to quit. Fuck that; I'm not done until she wishes she's dead.

I stumble to the side dresser and pull open the drawer. Where my shiny black .45 should be is an empty spot.

"Looking for this?" Tawny asks.

When I turn, the barrel of my .45 is aimed at my heart. Tawny's face is no longer full of fear. It's hardened and her jaw is set. She's furious. For some reason, the image of my wife aiming a gun at me makes me laugh. She remains unmoved.

"You don't even know how to shoot that thing."

Her smile is wicked. "There are a lot of things you don't know about me, Carter Brooks."

Just keep her talking. Then wrestle her to the ground and finish her off. You can get that one thing right, can't you?
"Oh yeah? What kinds of things?"

She moves the gun a little to my right and pulls the trigger. The shot rings out, and the glass lamp shatters into a million pieces. "My good-for-nothing daddy did a lot of bad things in his life. One was teaching his eleven-year-old how to shoot a gun after a couple shots of whiskey. I gotta tell you Carter, I'm a pretty damn good shot, too."

I gulp. It was beginner’s luck. "I don't believe you. You're just a scared little girl right now. Put down the gun and I won't touch you. I promise."

"Your promises don’t mean shit. I learned that a long time ago."
 

Surprise attack. That's how this is going to play out. I just have to surprise her.
"Someone heard that shot, Tawny. You're done. They're coming—don't you hear them?"

She looks to the door, long enough for me to lunge, but I'm too late.

Every millisecond slows down to a still frame. Her finger on the trigger of the gun, the barrel now aimed at my head. The click of the chamber.
 

I meet her eyes as the crack of a bullet rings out.
 

To be continued….

Stay tuned for
The Finish
, the companion novel to
Whiskey and a Gun
, which will be available for purchase in early 2014.
 

If you or someone you know is a victim of domestic violence, please consider taking action. There IS help available.

The National Domestic Violent Hotline: 1-800-799-SAFE |
www.thehotline.org

Whiskey and a Gun Playlist

Listen to the playlist on Spotify

He’s Hurting Me — Maria Mena

Demons — Imagine Dragons

Earthquake Weather — Matt Nathanson

Gunpowder & Lead — Miranda Lambert

Love The Way You Lie — Eminem Ft. Rihanna

Love The Way You Lie (Part II) — Rihanna Ft. Eminem

Twelve Gauge — Casey Donahew Band

The Thunder Rolls — Garth Brooks

Final Warning — Skylar Grey

Two Black Cadillacs — Carrie Underwood

Janie’s Got a Gun — Aerosmith

Harder Cards — Collin Raye

Hospital — Lydia

Behind The Wall — Tracy Chapman

DONE — The Band Perry

Bleeding Out — Imagine Dragon

Face Down — The Redjumpsuit Apparatus

House Divided — Chris & Meredith Thompson

Never Again — Nickelback

Not To Blame — Joni Mitchell

Delilah — The Dresden Dolls

Two Bed And A Coffee Machine — Savage Garden

Once upon a time there was a little girl who fell in love with books then she grew up to write her own.

Jade has participated in National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) six times and enjoys copious amounts of coffee. When she's not writing, she enjoys trashy reality T.V. and reading everything she can get her hands on.
 

Mommy to two dogs and two naughty kitties, she feels like she might be on her way to having a zoo. You can find her on almost every social networking site that aids in her procrastination: Twitter-
@jade_eby
| Author Blog:
www.jadeeby.com
| Book Review Blog:
www.chasingemptypavements.com

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and purchasing my first novel
The Right Kind of Wrong
.