What the Hell is Going On?

He wasn’t sure how long he drove around trying to calm his racing heart before pulling into a bar that was about an hour from his apartment.

Fuck it, I’ll sleep in my truck if I get too drunk, because I desperately need a drink.

God slid his 9mm under his seat. He put his detective’s badge back around his neck, but tucked it inside his shirt. He put his handcuffs in his back pocket and tucked his knife into his boot. He locked up and took long strides across the parking lot and into the crowded dive.

The oblong bar stretched all the way to the back door. God noted its proximity right away, also any obstacles that might keep him from getting to it. He made a quick survey of the patrons before deciding to bypass the bar and slide into a booth that provided him with a full view of the place and the front door. Four or five couples gyrated on the small dance floor to the soft rock music coming from a jukebox. There were a few college-aged guys occupying one of the three pool tables on the far back wall.

He looked to his left and saw a plump waitress coming toward him. Her breasts were ample, and her tight black jeans showcased her very wide hips. God never understand why women with considerable midsections wore halter-tops. He was a believer that it was actually sexier to wear clothing appropriate, not only for your age, but also for your body type. It was apparent this waitress immensely enjoyed the southern cuisine served at the multitude of buffets Atlanta had to offer. Her cornbread sashay brought her to him, her wide mouth presenting him with a grin that was more than a little obvious.

“Hey there, tall, dark, and handsome. You by yourse—”

“Double shot of Hennessey straight up with a Corona back,” he ordered, quickly cutting off her flirting. He took a deep breath and ran his hand through his unruly waves.

She balanced the tray on her round hip and put one hand on the table. “You sound like a man who knows what he wants, when he wants it,” she purred. “Is there anything else I can get you, gorgeous?”

“Yeah, silence,” he said on a sigh.

He figured cornbread got the message, because she sauntered off without another word. When she brought his drinks and a bowl of pretzels back, she plopped each one on the hard surface and left without asking if he wanted anything else, which suited him just fine.

God picked up the beer and took a long gulp before dropping it back to the table. He kept his head down, picking at the nicks that’d been made in the table’s wooden surface. The pure hatred he’d seen in his brother’s eyes was branded in his mind and his mother’s shrill scream radiated in his ears. “You killed my husband.” He threw back the shot and winced at the burn in his throat, but relished the feeling as it traveled into his system.

No. I didn’t kill your husband… I killed an animal.

He put two fingers up in the air to signal cornbread. When she came back he didn’t allow her to even ask the question.

“Yes, another… and keep ’em coming. When it looks like I’m about to pass out… bring two more.”

Day ate the final bite of his steak and stuffed the last few homemade steak fries into his mouth. “You missed a helluva meal, buddy,” Day said before grabbing his beer and leaning back on his couch, settling in for a satisfying evening of Thursday night baseball.

He was nodding on and off when he heard his cell phone vibrating on his coffee table. He picked it up and read the single line text.

You on your knees?

He snorted at the line. “Fucker,” he said and typed a reply.

You’re just pissed I don’t get on them for you.

Day waited for what his partner would say next.

i’m pretty drunk right now, I might let you if you beg hard enough.

Day typed back immediately.

even if your dick was rolled in powdered sugar and your come tasted like raspberry jelly… I still wouldn’t beg for it.

Day was waiting for the next reply but after five minutes, he figured his partner had given up. He turned up the volume on the post-game show to see who’d won since he’d fallen asleep and saw his phone light up and vibrate again.

figures… no one would want a useless fuck like me.

Day bolted upright on the couch and reread the text. “What the fuck?” he whispered while dialing God’s number. He cursed when it went to voice mail.

“God, where the fuck are you? Call me right now,” he barked into the phone.

He knew his partner. He didn’t talk like that. If anything, the guy was annoyingly arrogant, constantly reminded Day how much he needed him, and how worthless Day would be without his guidance.

Day bounced his knee nervously. He wanted to know who and how the fuck someone had gotten into his partner’s head. He called God back again… no answer, and figured it useless to leave another voice mail, so he texted.

wtf? where are you? answer me now.

Day waited fifteen minutes, but it felt like hours. Fuck. Damn you, Cash. You better not be screwing up. Day got up and started pacing back and forth in his spacious living room. He stopped and ran his hands through his blond hair thinking about where God could be… then an idea hit him like a ton of bricks. Our tracking apps.

He and God had been toying with each other’s phones one night while at his house. Day was teasing him about all the bitches’ numbers in his phone, some of them actually had stars by their names, and God joked with him about the text messages from some of the twinks Day dated. One guy actually sent Day a picture of his asshole spread open. God still made fun of him for that one. Day had to admit, that did embarrass the shit out of him, because that guy was a pure slut.

After the teasing, they began downloading apps and games into each other’s phone. When they saw a track your lover app, they both thought it’d be funny to put it on their phones to see if it worked… and it did.

Day picked up his phone and opened the app, praying that his friend hadn’t uninstalled it from his own phone by now. When it opened fully, he clicked on God’s pic—an image of a lion—and sure enough, a red dot was blinking on a miniature map of the city and an address came up. Rugley’s Bar, Piedmont Road off I-85.

“Yes!” He quickly rejoiced before frowning again at the location.

What the hell are you doing in Buckhead?

Day figured he’d let God answer that question right after he punched the man in his throat for scaring him. Day called a cab all while taking his stairs two at a time to throw on some jeans and a T-shirt. He was waiting at the door with his badge in his back pocket, his 9mm tucked snugly behind his back and a two sets of handcuffs in the inside pocket of his leather coat, when the cab pulled up. He slid in the backseat and told the driver, “Buckhead.” Day settled in for the nearly thirty-minute ride, all the while keeping his eye on the stable red dot. If God moved, he’d know.