When you hit rock bottom, there’s really nowhere to go but up. Dragging your ass out of the hole you’ve fallen into isn’t even the first step.

It’s recognizing that you’re in a hole in the first place.

Right now, I’m not in a hole, so I guess that’s something. I’m up against a wall. One that’s hard and cold and damp. Something stone, if the cold and damp pressing against my back are any indicators. Maybe brick. Possibly concrete. I’m not entirely sure.

“Comfortable?”

I blink hard but my eyes aren’t working right. The light—and I’m not sure if it’s daylight or street lamps or something else—feels like shards of glass piercing my retinas and stabbing my brain so I squeeze them shut again.

“Not really.” At least, that’s what I think I’ve said. My eyes are still refusing to work right, and those shards of glass that were just stabbing my eyes? Now they’re trying to break out of the back of my skull.

“You need to get up.”

That voice is rough. I frown and even that tiny gesture feels like it might kill me. Not that I’ve got a clue who the disembodied voice is attached to but then again, that’s not really my problem, is it? I don’t have to play nice.

I’m about this close to telling this dude to go fuck himself. Just as soon as I get my eyes working.

For some reason, “Rooster” by Alice in Chains starts playing in my head. They ain’t killed me yet and all that, right?

“What time is it?”

That voice again. Fuck me, it’s rough on the nerves. Oh wait. That one is mine.

“It’s not about what time of day it is. It’s about keeping your sorry ass out of jail.”

Well, damn, that’s got my attention. I summon the willpower to open my eyes. “What th’fuck are you talking about?”

I don’t know who the man is in front of me. He’s old enough to be my dad. At least, I think he is. I have deliberately had very minimal contact with the sperm donor over the last decade.

I’ve ignored the last few times he’s called.

I don’t even miss him.

I swallow a lump of something I’d rather not contemplate and push myself upright. My head feels like it’s going to explode with the movement as the pressure shifts radically.

“Who the fuck are you?” A sound that’s something like a groan and a curse escapes from the depths of hell. “And what the fuck happened?” How many ways can you use fuck in a sentence. Well, Alex, let me count the ways.

But it will have to wait until after I get the world to stop spinning. My stomach is none too happy about that fact.

“Well, you decided to cross the line between hoah and stupid, and picked a fight over the goddamned Army football team with a guy who works for one of the big mercenary companies. Turns out, he played for Navy and decided to take offense to your jokes.”

“Oh, come on. It’s not like everyone doesn’t know Navy sucks their own—”

“Shut the fuck up, Caleb.” How does this guy know my name? And who the hell does he think he is? “This has to stop.”

I push up to my feet, using the cold brick wall behind me to keep myself standing. “I’m sorry but who the hell are you?”

“I’m your fairy fucking godfather.”

The man in front of me looks like a cross between my eighth grade priest, Father Silvio and an extra from Orange County Choppers. He’s sporting a red bandana, rolled up into a headband – a headband that’s not really necessary considering the massive bald spot. The handlebar mustache makes him look like Hulk Hogan when he turned into one of the bad guys in the WWE. And I’m honestly not sure if the patches on his vest mean he’s in a biker gang or just got a discount on cross stitch at Hobby Lobby. It’s hard to tell these days. I mean, if I was a biker, I’d probably know but I’m not. I’m just some dude with a tattoo fetish and too much time on his hands to drink his liver into submission every night.

Father Biker really does look like a goddamned biker priest. Which is a really weird combination when you think about it. Who the hell is saving souls on the back of a Harley Davidson? And sure enough, there’s a Fatboy at the end of the alley. Because of course this nightmare includes a Harley. Why wouldn’t it?

Time for this nightmare to end. I need to drag my ass home and sleep off the rest of this hangover. Army football is playing tonight and I don’t want to miss the game because my liver is a fucking pussy.

“I don’t need a fairy godfather. Or mother.”

I look down at the black rose on my forearm, encased in thorns. I need to get the thorns finished. The brick scrapes my palms as I push off the wall.

“That’s where you’re wrong. See, at the end of this alley is a cop, waiting to take your happy ass to Durham County. Since I built a table for his wife for their twentieth anniversary, he’s doing me a favor by not dragging your ass to jail.”

“Why the hell do you care?”

“Because it’s time for you to stop drinking yourself to death every night.”

“You don’t know anything about me.”

“I know more than you think. I know why you drink. It’s time to put away childish things.”

His words are dark and laced with authority.

Turns out, I have a problem with authority. Ten miserable years in military school didn’t break me of that.

“Hey, you know what?” I push off the wall again. The light from The Pint behind me spins wildly and black stars start to dance in front of my eyes. “How about you go fuck yourself, okay?”

“That’s actually not anatomically possible, and it’s oh so much more fun with a willing partner. But I wouldn’t expect you to know that, whiskey dick.”

I sway dangerously but I’m not backing down from this fucking guy. And if I can’t beat Grandpa in a fight, well, then maybe it’s time for me to turn in my man card. “I don’t know if you think you’re getting a blow job or a Good Samaritan award but I don’t need or want your help.”

I push off from the wall for the last time and start walking away from my wannabe savior, hoping I’m not as unsteady as I feel.

Until his words send a chill racing over my skin. Like a ghost has walked over my grave.

A ghost I know. A ghost of someone I miss more than life itself.

“Where are you going, Caleb?”