and he’d likely land his ass in jail. No matter how hard it was, he knew he had to be patient.
Best to stay away for a bit. Let Lillian cool down. Stop outright accusing her.
Maybe he could ask Winona to go with him to provide a buffer. He still wasn’t sure he wanted to give up on Winona taking the job. Amy had been found, but had she been rescued? He was convinced she wasn’t out of danger. He still hoped Winona would take the job and investigate Brandon’s death.
He needed to see Winona again.
He couldn’t claim that desire related only to the job. He craved her mouth like he craved a drink. Her taste, her touch. He wanted to experience her. But it would be wrong and improper if he hired her to investigate Brandon’s death.
Wrong and improper and way too complicated.
Fuck it. He walked to Air Dog, but saw neither Winona nor Chayton when he entered the bar. He ordered vodka on the rocks and sat at a table, starting at the glass as the condensation coated it like a barrier that wasn’t near strong enough.
He’d ordered it mainly to test himself. To punish himself. At first, he had no intention of drinking it. He just wanted to watch it. Watch the ice melt and clink in the glass as the vodka took hold, swallowing and destroying everything around it.
But the ice didn’t melt fast enough. It fought to keep from losing, as he’d fought over the years. As he watched the ice battle with the alcohol, he finally convinced himself one drink wouldn’t hurt.
Maybe he
could
stop at one. How could he know? He’d never tried it. What was wrong with just one? He deserved it. Besides, he’d chosen vodka over whiskey. Whiskey was his vice. He could handle vodka.
He could have a drink and return to his normal life tomorrow, whatever normal was now. He would try to go see Amy tomorrow, but tonight he wanted to wallow in the misery he’d been trying to ignore.
He took a sip. Fire burned through him. He slammed the rest down, his throat aching and head exploding, the drink fueling him in a way nothing else could.
Fraudulent. Alcohol wasn’t fuel. It was poison, scamming everyone to believe it would heal their problems, at least temporarily.
Time go back to his room. He’d had a drink. His head was still on straight. The bed and breakfast had no bar. He’d made sure of that before he’d rented it.
Within seconds, the bartender sat another drink in front of him. It wasn’t her fault. She had no idea he couldn’t handle two.
He wrapped his hands around the drink and stared, the condensation on the glass building like the regrets of his life and coating his hands with shame.
One more drink would hurt. If he gave in, it would prove he had no self-discipline. The key was to control the craving, and if he didn’t go home now, he would fail.
• • •
Winona stepped out of Chayton’s office and skimmed Air Dog, a habit she’d formed to check the patrons and see how they were holding up with their drinks, and a routine she’d developed over her years of investigations to safeguard herself and those around her. Her gaze landed on Jake.
An immediate danger to her equilibrium.
He had his back to her as he sat at one of the tables away from the bar, but she knew it was him. His coppery blond hair flaunted gold under the dim lights of the bar. Tousled, like he’d just crawled out of bed. Something possessive zipped through her. Something she had no right to feel, because he was
definitely
not hers.
His head was down, his shoulders hunched over, his whole body slumped. Until he straightened, threw back his head, and slammed down the rest of his drink. Then he returned to his position over the table.
Simone approached with a new glass of whatever he was drinking and set it beside him. It was a clear glass, clear liquid, so it could have been water and lime.
She doubted it.
“What’s he drinking?” Winona asked Simone when she’d returned behind the bar.
“Vodka, on the rocks.”
Dread twisted in her
Best to stay away for a bit. Let Lillian cool down. Stop outright accusing her.
Maybe he could ask Winona to go with him to provide a buffer. He still wasn’t sure he wanted to give up on Winona taking the job. Amy had been found, but had she been rescued? He was convinced she wasn’t out of danger. He still hoped Winona would take the job and investigate Brandon’s death.
He needed to see Winona again.
He couldn’t claim that desire related only to the job. He craved her mouth like he craved a drink. Her taste, her touch. He wanted to experience her. But it would be wrong and improper if he hired her to investigate Brandon’s death.
Wrong and improper and way too complicated.
Fuck it. He walked to Air Dog, but saw neither Winona nor Chayton when he entered the bar. He ordered vodka on the rocks and sat at a table, starting at the glass as the condensation coated it like a barrier that wasn’t near strong enough.
He’d ordered it mainly to test himself. To punish himself. At first, he had no intention of drinking it. He just wanted to watch it. Watch the ice melt and clink in the glass as the vodka took hold, swallowing and destroying everything around it.
But the ice didn’t melt fast enough. It fought to keep from losing, as he’d fought over the years. As he watched the ice battle with the alcohol, he finally convinced himself one drink wouldn’t hurt.
Maybe he
could
stop at one. How could he know? He’d never tried it. What was wrong with just one? He deserved it. Besides, he’d chosen vodka over whiskey. Whiskey was his vice. He could handle vodka.
He could have a drink and return to his normal life tomorrow, whatever normal was now. He would try to go see Amy tomorrow, but tonight he wanted to wallow in the misery he’d been trying to ignore.
He took a sip. Fire burned through him. He slammed the rest down, his throat aching and head exploding, the drink fueling him in a way nothing else could.
Fraudulent. Alcohol wasn’t fuel. It was poison, scamming everyone to believe it would heal their problems, at least temporarily.
Time go back to his room. He’d had a drink. His head was still on straight. The bed and breakfast had no bar. He’d made sure of that before he’d rented it.
Within seconds, the bartender sat another drink in front of him. It wasn’t her fault. She had no idea he couldn’t handle two.
He wrapped his hands around the drink and stared, the condensation on the glass building like the regrets of his life and coating his hands with shame.
One more drink would hurt. If he gave in, it would prove he had no self-discipline. The key was to control the craving, and if he didn’t go home now, he would fail.
• • •
Winona stepped out of Chayton’s office and skimmed Air Dog, a habit she’d formed to check the patrons and see how they were holding up with their drinks, and a routine she’d developed over her years of investigations to safeguard herself and those around her. Her gaze landed on Jake.
An immediate danger to her equilibrium.
He had his back to her as he sat at one of the tables away from the bar, but she knew it was him. His coppery blond hair flaunted gold under the dim lights of the bar. Tousled, like he’d just crawled out of bed. Something possessive zipped through her. Something she had no right to feel, because he was
definitely
not hers.
His head was down, his shoulders hunched over, his whole body slumped. Until he straightened, threw back his head, and slammed down the rest of his drink. Then he returned to his position over the table.
Simone approached with a new glass of whatever he was drinking and set it beside him. It was a clear glass, clear liquid, so it could have been water and lime.
She doubted it.
“What’s he drinking?” Winona asked Simone when she’d returned behind the bar.
“Vodka, on the rocks.”
Dread twisted in her
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