A hand lightly made its way up Jack's shoulder. It was a gentle caress that he might have enjoyed if he hadn't been at the bar to get drunk and forget about his poor excuse for a life. He downed the rest of his drink and glanced around the bar as he fiddled with one of the drawstrings of his oversized black hoodie.

Nothing had been updated since the seventies, back when the bar had opened and called to a young and hip crowd. The original disco ball still hung in a corner, missing nearly half its mirrors. What had once been a dance floor was now peppered with round metal tables and heavy wooden chairs.

The scruffy lawyer guy that liked to sit in the corner next to the jukebox had his head bent, but his eyes were on Jack's current admirer. Jack was pretty sure he had the guy's card somewhere from the last time he'd been harassed. He was thankful that he hadn't had to rely on such services yet.

"Closing out, Elster?"

Jack looked up at the bartender. A mostly empty bottle of vodka had appeared as well, so he had his extra shot for the road waiting for him.

"Yeah, I'm gonna call it a night," Jack said as he fumbled around for his wallet. He frowned when he came up empty. His wallet slid across the counter and into his vision. The plan had been to get so plastered he didn't need to worry about upcoming paroles and what that would bring. He could vaguely recall asking to be cut off when he couldn't afford any more.

He opened his wallet and stared at his debit card. Was there money in his checking? Should he stick with cash? When was rent due again? Did he pay it recently? He should stick with cash until he was certain. Cash was untraceable.

Turning his wallet to glance at what he had, he was surprised to find a fresh hundred. Remembering his ex-something's parole was right around the corner must have hit him harder than he thought if he'd planned ahead this much.

Too bad Mister Handsy Asshole chose that night to visit Jack's favorite bar. Sure, it was in what passed for a red light district in the small coastal town of Portswain, but Roger the bartender was great and knew when not to be nosy, and the regulars kept to themselves.

The location also meant decent prices. That, and the business that took place in the back rooms covered most of the incoming finances. It was an open secret that Jack happily ignored and never witnessed first hand, so he wasn't obligated to tell any law enforcement he was acquainted with.

He handed over the hundred and frowned when he received a fifty in return. Tonight was a top shelf night, so why was he getting off so cheap?

Roger leaned over with the receipt and lowly said, "Your friend is paying for the drink he fucked up."

Jack glanced at said "friend" and then down to the hand that landed on his knee and began slowly edging upward. He'd been roofied before, but it was nice to have someone looking out for him this time around.

Another inch higher on his leg, and the thought was lost. He blinked in confusion at the hand resting on his thigh. He followed it up and, by some miracle, managed not to flinch away from one of the prettiest sets of blue eyes he'd ever seen. No wonder he gave Mister Handsy an initial chance.

He quickly shifted his stare to Handsy's right ear. "Sorry, I got work in the morning," he lied. "I'm already risking getting chewed out by my roommate. Cops make the worst roommates. They nitpick everything," he whined as he stood. The bar moved with him, and he kept a firm grip on the counter.

Roger must have added more than just a drugged drink to Handsy's tab, and Jack's stomach was about to let him know what a good idea his little drinking binge was. He swallowed back the nausea and grabbed up the bottle of vodka from the bar.

Stolen novel; please report.

"Stay off Shetland in the morning and Yarrow in the evening," he said to Roger. He got a small nod and turned to leave before Handsy grabbed him by the wrist.

"Hey, we ain't through here."

Jack froze and glared at the hand on his wrist, almost losing his balance. Normally, the threat of a cop for a roommate was enough to make people back off. Maybe this guy was able to see right through the lie. He could always just call Sam up and ask for a ride with flashy lights.

And draw even more attention. And be lectured on his bad life choices.

A quick glance around the bar, and most heads were still down or pointed away in low conversation. No one besides the lawyer was outright staring. What Jack had always assumed was a depressed gym rat was standing at the other end of the bar, pointedly examining the bottles lining the wall.

And now everyone was worried about him. It was flattering and insulting at the same time.

"You can't just fucking lead me on like that, you fucking slut," Handsy said in a low growl.

Jack nearly laughed at the insult. Sure, he could get a little flirty with enough drinks in him to counteract the anxiety of talking to strangers and people in general, but he'd never moved past a little kiss before chickening out at the reminder that not everyone was like him.

"Hey," Roger's voice drew their attention, and he held up Handsy's credit card and license. "You want these back? You let him go. Take the back way, Elster. He won't be following."

Jack nodded and moved away as Handsy argued with Roger. He kept his eyes down, not needing the reminder that everyone was watching. He went through the door marked "Employees Only" and moved through a narrow and dimly lit hallway. He did his best to ignore the sounds coming from behind one of the doors. Either someone was watching porn way too loudly or one of the girls from the corners was putting on one hell of a show.

He took a sip from his comped bottle and eyed the peeling paint as he headed to the exit. He was pretty sure it was once a pastel green, but years of neglect and cigarette smoke had turned it into something he'd seen a cat throw up. His stomach lurched at the thought, and he hurried forward, hugging the wall for support.

He didn't need to leave his own vomit behind and draw the attention of the bar owner. Pimps and gang members were never good news.

He should find a different bar.

He burst through the back exit and breathed in deeply. Someone nearby had nice cologne.

The door bounced off the brick wall of the building before slamming shut behind him, making him flinch. Neither the sudden jolt nor the cool September air did anything to sober him up.

He haphazardly staggered past a dumpster, narrowly avoiding ramming into its sharp corner. A soft breeze brought with it the smell of the alley. At first, there was that pleasant hint of cologne and then the full and foul stench of the dumpster.

There was no more fighting against the nausea.

Jack gripped the side of the dumpster as he bent over and lost almost everything his stomach had to offer. He coughed and spat between wheezes as he stared blearily at the ground. He should have eaten something more than a handful of cheap fries.

"God, what the fucking fuck, man?" he muttered to himself as he caught sight of a bit of vomit on his shirt. "Now I gotta clean this stupid fucking asshole shirt." He straightened as best he could as he lamented the front of his shirt. At least he missed his hoodie, and the stain would be a good deterrent for harassment on his way home.

He reached up and ran his fingers over the end of his chin length hair. He breathed a short sigh of relief. Dry and clean enough.

Jack steadied himself on the dumpster and sighed heavily. Out of the corner of his eye, he could make out a couple leaning against the wall further down the alley. He could feel eyes on him. He was ruining someone else's night. He felt like shit in so many different ways. He should have stayed sober. There would have been no accidentally leading people on, no throwing up in the alley, and no fucking up a hooker's paycheck.

"Last time I get drunk. Handsy asshole," Jack muttered before shoving himself forward to stumble toward the main street. Even if Mister Handsy Asshole had put a stop to his night, he only had himself to blame for his sorry state.

He paused at the mouth of the alley. There was a weight in his right hand, and he looked down to find what was left of his bottle of vodka. There was just enough left to remove the lingering taste of vomit. He could lie about drinking less later.

He gulped down the rest of the bottle and concentrated on remaining upright for his short walk home.

image [https://i.imgur.com/eZY0YUq.png]