It’s one o’clock in the morning and Stephen’s drinking his way through a bottle of whiskey. The bartender doesn’t even bat an eye at him anymore—it’s some guy who always seems to be behind the bar; Stephen thinks he may be the only full-time employee and possibly even the owner, but he can’t be sure because there are always younger kids waiting tables and helping out. He doesn’t remember any of their names because most of them are just between jobs, working part-time while going to the community college or saving up to skip town. The typical wide-eyed innocent.

Stephen is far from innocent. He may have begun his life here in the charming little town of Oriole, but he got out as soon as he could. He has traveled his way across several states, and a few counties, bare change in his pocket. His street smarts were the only thing going for him most times. He came back home after only four years of school, a wife at his side and kid between them. It wasn’t long before that fell apart, like most things that required his responsibility and presence. He’s just lucky his daughter is still part of his life, that she even wants to see him. He gets the feeling that’s rapidly falling away from him too.

“Mind if I join you?”

The speaker is a woman. A lot like his ex-wife, he thinks she has that same beauty and boldness except this woman probably doesn’t have kids or a deadbeat ex. She looks like she’s spent her life getting by on people buying her drinks. Not that he’s judging—he does it too, when he can.

“Free bar,” Stephen grunts, eyes sliding away to focus on the television set on the far wall, just above the bottles. The woman doesn’t let up.

“Going hard, aren’t you? Isn’t it late for an old man like you?” Her tone is coy. He’s not playing the game, though. He’s far from being a complete human being, much less entering any kind of relationship with another person. He’s definitely not looking for a repeat of his past mistakes.

“I can hold my liquor,” Stephen says drily, resisting the temptation to roll his eyes. He’s not in high school anymore, that’s for damn sure. “Unlike some of you kids.”

The woman laughs, probably pleased at his unintentional compliment. She flutters her eyelashes in his direction and he knows well enough from experience that she’s going to start coming on strong. He’s not excited. He still has at least an hour and a half until last call, which the bartender always lets him stay a little bit after. Stephen usually ends up wobbling home at two-thirty, somehow so far drunk that he’s almost sober again. He can never bring himself to shower before sleeping so his sheets are always unfriendly and sweaty, collapsing under his weight like everything else he’s ever tried to be careful with.

“So, old man…what are you drinking?”

“Whiskey,” he eventually says, unable to control the sneer that forms on his lips.

“Hmm. I’m a woman of hard liquor myself,” she smiles, blonde hair pushed away from her neck as she tilts her head at an extreme angle.

He’s seen this play before. Knows how it goes. At this junction, the man offers the woman a drink. They spend maybe twenty minutes more at the bar before they go to the woman’s place and have messy, short sex. The man leaves just before dawn, crawling home as the disapproving sun peeks over the horizon.

Except he’s not that kind of man. He may drink too much and hang out in dirty places but he’s not about to have casual sex. He’s too old for that, both emotionally and physically. He’s barely able to convince himself to get out of his own bed and go to work, much less peel himself off some stranger’s bed to get back to his own.

“That’s great.”

The first flicker of irritation enters her expression. He would feel bad for her but something tells him she’s stronger than most people have a right to be. Oriole, he thinks, small town and big women. And one mess of a man by the name of Stephen Worth.

“Well. I’ll leave you and your bottle alone,” the woman says airily, waving him away as if he’s the one pestering her. She slides from her barstool with utter grace, seeming to find no reason to stay any longer, and slinks out the door.

He stays until two and decides to be good, for once, and leave before two-thirty. The bartender doesn’t bat an eye, taking the wad of cash he shoves next to his empty glass.

He walks home alone, the cool night air breezing against his scruffy face. He isn’t sure when he last shaved, but given that it’s Saturday night—or, rather, Sunday morning—he thinks it’s been at least three days. He’s far past drunk, half of what he drank already gone from his system and the other half sitting in his veins like thick oil. He doesn’t even have to press crosswalk buttons as he makes his way back to his tiny townhouse; there’s no one out. No one but him, of course. And the other no-good drunks in the town.

His sheets smell lived-in, as usual, and he doesn’t bother to take his socks off. He drops onto the bed with his denim jacket still on, blinking tiredly at his hand where it lays a few inches away. The tiny star tattoo in the inner corner of his thumb and finger stares back at him. He falls asleep staring at it, imagining it winks like the ones in the night sky outside.