The Rooftop at The Standard in Downtown LA is the place to be when you want to have the kind of fun you’re not going to remember in the morning. I like coming here because the place is always pumping with music, flowing with alcohol, and a second home to good-looking people.

Of course, I don’t care about the attractive people as much as I care about the alcohol. I have a lady on the brain, and none of the women here, no matter how much they’re willing to fuck, will ever come close to her. She’s not available. In fact, she’s so unavailable that she’s married to my brother. So, the alcohol will have to be a close second in my books. It’s not nearly as satisfying as I imagine it would be to have a woman like that, but the alcohol promises me a good time, every time. What more can a man want?

I can think of a few things, but I don’t make it harder for myself.

Skylar wasn’t always married to my brother. There was a time when her and I had a chance. I’d been willing to do the whole thing with her, dates, romance, and love, but she met Paul, and sometimes, when you know it’s right, you know.

Apparently, she knew. They were married less than a year later.

I peer into the whiskey tumbler I’ve got my fingers wrapped around and wonder why they only pour two fingers or three. Why can’t they fill the glass to the top? I mean, I’m just going to order another one. It’s not like they’re curbing my ability to drown myself in alcohol.

It doesn’t matter. I suck back the rest of the alcohol before I wave at the bartender and point down at my glass.

Another one? Fuck it. Why not?

I leave the bar when it closes and not a minute before. No one can tell me I’m not a dedicated man. When I ride the elevator down to the lobby, the movement under my feet makes me unsure. I know I’ve had a little too much. Or a lot too much.

I stumble out into the street and look around. Why are there no cabs when you need them? I’ll walk. I push my hands deep into my jean pockets and head down the street. The Standard is only a block or so away from Flour Girl, Skylar’s bakery. I helped her start it when Paul, her husband, my brother, wouldn’t give her the money. What a dick.

I walk down Hope Street, and the irony is not lost on me. I stand in front of the bakery, looking up at the sign above the door. The shop is closed, and the front lights are off, but the smell of freshly baked bread hangs in the air. Through the dark storefront, I can tell the kitchen lights are still on.

She’s in there, baking.

A car comes toward me, and the lights are blinding. I’m in the middle of the road, and the car must stop. The horn honks twice, but I ignore it. I’m staring at the window, wondering what’s bothering Skylar that she’s baking so late at night. It’s after midnight, and her days start early, rather than running late. We’re still at the wrong end of the night.

“Hey, asshole,” a man says, and I turn my head toward the car. The car door is open and someone leans on the car door with his elbow, but I can’t make out his face past the blinding light. “Get the hell out of the road.”

I ignore him. I’m not done here.

“Did you hear me?” the guy asks and slams his car door shut, walking toward me. The lights are like two spotlights, and all I see is his silhouette against the glaring headlights.

“I said, move,” he says.

I look at him and shake my head. “I’m not done here,” I say. Somewhere at the back of my mind, a little voice tells me I’m being unreasonable. The alcohol throws a question at me: what is reason?

“Move or else,” the man threatens.

I turn toward him and take a good look at what’s in front of me. He’s not very well-built, and he’s not very young. In fact, he’s not very much of anything. I know I can take him. I work out most days of the week. I probably bench-press more than this guy can count to, and I can’t see any reason why I shouldn’t be allowed to stand in the middle of the road.

“Or else, what?” I ask. I want to fight. My skin tingles, and irritation lodges itself in my chest like an itch I can’t scratch.

He doesn’t have an answer to that.

“Or else, what, huh?” I ask, getting up in this guy’s face.

“I don’t need your cocky attitude, son,” he says.

It grates me when people call me “son.” He’s up in my face, standing so close we’re almost touching. I also don’t like people in my personal space, and I shove him away.

“Don’t tell me what to do,” I say.

He shoves me back. When his hands press against my muscles, I can see him think about it again, but he’s not going to back down, and there’s no way I’m letting an old guy with no muscles on him tell me what to do. I’m thirty, I have my own company, and I’ll do whatever the fuck I want.

“Just get the fuck out of the road,” he says.

I grab him by the shirt. I want to scare him off, but he’s one of those blind-with-rage guys, and the moment I really lay my hands on him, he loses his shit completely. He swings at me, and I jerk back, but the fucking alcohol makes me slower and he clips my jaw. I see stars for just a moment, but I’m back to my senses in no time, swinging at the guy. I’m better at it than he is, and even with the alcohol in my system, I manage to land a punch. I’m all proud of myself when, out of nowhere, his knuckles connect with my nose, and I hear a crack, accompanied by a burst of pain. I fall to the ground.

“Motherfucker!” I shout, the anger taking over. I jump up, throwing myself on the other guy. We both go down, and my elbow hits the pavement which hurts like a bitch, but this guy is going to pay for hitting me square in the face. I straddle his chest, and I’m ready to climb into him.

“Parker!” Her voice slices through my rage, and I freeze.

No matter where I am or what I’m doing, the moment I hear her voice, I listen. I turn and look over my shoulder. The guy I’m pinning down uses the moment to throw his weight to side to get me off, but it’s not enough. I turn back to him, but I don’t even have time to think about hitting him again before her hand lands on my shoulder.

The moment she touches me, my aggression evaporates. I can hear my blood rushing in my ears, air rasping in and out of my throat.

“Get off him,” Skylar says, and she sounds pissed off. I do as she says.

“I’m so sorry about my brother,” she says to him. “Are you okay?”

I want to punch him again just for having her attention, but she’ll get angrier with me so I don’t.

“I’m fine,” the guy grumbles. “You just keep him off the streets. You’re lucky I won’t press charges.” He turns and walks back to his car.

I press my hand against my nose, and it comes away red with my blood.

“Fucking dick,” I say and spit some blood out onto the asphalt.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Skylar asks, and she stands in front of me, her hands on her hips. I look up and feel like an idiot.

“Sorry,” I say. I can’t take my eyes off her. Her auburn hair is pulled back in a messy bun, flyaway hairs framing her face so that in the lamplight, it surrounds her head like a halo of fire. She has flour on her cheek, and her eyes are dark like the ocean in the dim light of the evening.

“God, you’re drunk, aren’t you?” she asks.

“Why did you tell him I’m your brother?” I ask.

Skylar shakes her head. “Because you are. Brother? Brother-in-law? What does it matter?”

“You could have told him I’m your boyfriend.”

“And make him think I chose to be with a raging lunatic? No thank you.”

Her words are sharp, and I sigh. The alcohol still buzzes through my system, coming back with renewed force now that the adrenaline drains out of me like a puddle at my feet.

“You shouldn’t be lying around in the streets like this, Parker,” she says. “You’re acting like a juvenile.”

I roll my eyes at her in a very juvenile way. She shakes her head, but a smile creeps through, and I know that she will forgive me again. When she smiles at me, everything is all right with the world. It lights up her face with some inner glow that only Skylar has, and it makes her blue eyes sparkle.

“You’re bleeding,” she says.

I touch my nose again. I realize the bleeding hasn’t stopped. When I look down at my shirt, I see my blood has pooled on my chest in a beautiful stain that shouts “irresponsible.”

Skylar sighs again. “Come into the bakery. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

I nod and follow her into the bakery. She closes and locks the glass door behind us. The front room is dark, with its display counter and four tables across the floor, a ghost of what it usually is in the day. I follow her from the front room through the kitchen and to her office. She kneels in front of a cabinet in the corner and retrieves a first aid kit.

In the light, her eyes are drowning deep when she looks at me. She sits down on the couch that faces her desk and pats the seat next to her for me to sit down as well. I walk to her and do as she asks. When she’s this close, I can’t think straight. She smells like cinnamon. Her fingers are gentle when she helps to clean me up. My eyes slide down her face to her neckline where her shirt scoops a little. The swells of her breasts rise and fall with her breathing. I shift in my seat a bit because I’m getting hard.

When I finally look up at her, her lips are curled into a smile.

“What?” I ask.

She shakes her head. When she’s done, she sits back, and I can’t see down her shirt anymore.

“You always get into trouble when you drink,” Skylar says.

I shrug. She’s right. I always end up fighting when I’m drunk. I can’t even remember why I didn’t just step out of the road now.

“Sorry,” I say again. My head is suddenly very heavy, and I tip it back. I close my eyes and sigh.

“Parker, you should go home,” Skylar says.

“I will. Let me just sit down a moment.”

“Parker,” she says again.

I can listen to the lilt of her voice all day. The way my name rolls off her tongue and the way her voice is a little husky, as if she’s always excited. I take a deep breath and feel myself sinking into blackness.

“Parker?” she asks, but I don’t remember answering her.