“Shot of Jameson.”

“All-righty…”

The pig-tailed blonde turns to pour my whiskey, and I try to let my breath out.

“Here ya go.”

I slam it back while she watches from beneath her eyelashes. A small smile plays along her lips.

“You need another one?”

“Please.”

She’s turned her narrow back to me again, and I decide to make it easy on her. “One more and an Irish Car Bomb.”

She slides both drinks over the pocked wood bar counter, and I nod. “Thanks.”

I down the Jameson, drop the car bomb shot into the glass of stout, and slide off the bar stool, palming the drink. A quick scan of The Wasted Quarter Horse reveals nothing but strangers’ faces.

Good.

The Quarter Horse is in an old warehouse. The room you walk into is a little on the narrow side—booths on the left, bar on the right—but if you head toward the back wall and hang a left, it opens up into a larger pool room.

I let my gaze caress that big wall as I head toward the pool room. It’s a spray of color, sporting a whole mess of warring faeries. Why the fuck a bar called The Wasted Quarter Horse would want a mural of fighting faeries, I don’t fucking know, but when I got the commission two years ago, I didn’t ask.

“Hey, Dash!” My head turns as I step into the wider pool room. It’s Poppy, a wispy, red-haired girl who’s not much over 21 and always over-friendly when I’m here for Trivia Tuesdays. “It’s not Tuesday night,” she calls over a full tray. I take in her dimpled smile and try to return it.

“Got here a little early.”

She winks, and I find an empty booth to drain my drink.

I live in Burbank, but since Disney acquired Imagine last year, I’ve been in Nashville enough to have a company-paid penthouse at Birchwood Towers down the block. When I fly in, I’m here Sunday through Wednesday, so a couple of us always hit up Trivia Tuesdays. Winning team gets free tabs, and we usually win.

An aproned guy I recognize stops by the table, offering a menu, but I shake my head. He takes my glass.

“Another drink?”

“Pint of Guinness.”

“No prob.”

I watch the flat-screen on the wall till he returns. Then I pull back half of the drink. I can feel my knotted shoulders deflate, feel my eyelids tug a little in that good, relaxing way. I give a little laugh and sink my fingers into my hair.

Fuuck.

I take another long swallow and laugh.

Made it to the Quarter Horse—still breathing, so that’s something.

I finish the drink while my thoughts drift around like dust motes in a sunny window: real, but barely. None of this feels real yet. That’s a good thing, I think, as I tabulate my bill and leave some cash under my empty glass.

With a brief glance around the Horse—for what? Amelia?—I head toward the door. It’s hot as fuck on Broadway, all that thick-ass, sticky Southern air. I never miss this shit in Burbank, I think, as I amble toward the river.

My car’s still at the Horse, but I can’t drive now, on account of my usual teetotaler status. Since I never drink, it goes right to my head, and that’s a good thing; I don’t drink unless I want it that way.

Distantly, I know I’m going to have a headache by tonight, but I don’t give a fuck. I almost want it. Homage, I think with a miserable smile.

I cut down Ryman Alley, listening to country music drifting through the doors somewhere. Sounds like a Rascal Flatts cover.

I pull out my phone as I move toward the sound.

I tried Alexia earlier this morning, and I didn’t get her. Maybe now. Even drunk, I worry when it rings three times—but then she answers on the fourth.

“Brother!”

I’m so relieved I stop and lean against the brick wall of a restaurant.

I chuckle. “Lex. How ya doing?”

“Just fine, and yourself?”

“How was the shoot?” She had a photo shoot for a swimsuit designer in Puerto Rico this past weekend.

“Good. No one asked why I pushed it back last month, like what the family emergency was.”

“That’s good.” Alexia spent three weeks in rehab, her second time there since last October. The first time, she stayed all of November and December, telling her social media followers that she’d be taking a break while she visited family and spent time at an ashram. I did some globe-trotting, snapping landscape shots in Switzerland and India for her Instagram account. The clinic wanted her to stay more than eight weeks, but she didn’t feel like she could leave her work that long, so she left early. She had a relapse this spring. “So—you feeling okay?”

“I am, Captain Obvious. Keeping clean and healthy, thank you. Where are you? I think I hear some Nashville in the background.”

“Yep.”

“You there now for the summer?”

“Yep.”

“And? How’s it going? Do you like the writer intern?”

I clamp my teeth down on my cheek, then let my breath out. “The intern is Amelia. Frank,” I bite out.

“Welllllll…”

“Yeah.”

“Damn, that’s wild. So how’s it going?”

“How do you think?”

“Fucking weird?” she asks.

“Yeah. Fucking weird.” I rub my hand over my face.

She laughs. “Are you drunk?”

“Maybe.”

“Are you out somewhere? I hear a horn honking.”

“Was at a bar.”

“Goddamn, Dash.”

“You’re like a sailor, Lex.”

“I wish.”

I frown down at my shoes. “You wish you were a sailor?”

“Sure. It sounds like fun. Maybe I should call her up… Amelia. Tell her not to wreck my big brother.”

That earns her a snort. “No way. You should definitely not call Ammy.”

“Aw, that was her nickname, wasn’t it? Ammy or Dove. How cute.”

“Shut up, Lexie.”

“Are you going to keep working with her?” she asks.

“Yes.”

“You’re a glutton for punishment, Dashy.”

“You’re dramatic.”

Lexie sighs. “I know. You love me anyway.” I can almost see her making a face at me through the phone line. “Call me soon, okay? I want to hear more but I’m kind of busy right now.”

Before the line goes dead, I think I hear her sniff. I slip the phone into my pocket, tell myself it’s my imagination.

I have the impulse to call an Uber, and for that reason, I don’t allow myself. Why should things be easy for me?

I consider killing time until I’m good to drive, but I don’t feel like pool or trivia or partying. It takes me half an hour to walk to Birchwood Towers. I stall at the revolving doors, thinking she’s here somewhere—and it’s true; I know she is. Imagine puts up everybody here at Birchwood. Short-term workers get a smaller unit on the first eight floors, with a lot of the young, single perma-staffers on the upper four floors.

Amelia is living in my building.

I could probably find out where if I tried.

Fucking nuts.

Upstairs, I chug some water then throw some healthy shit into the blender, shutting my eyes as the thing scrapes and screeches. I take the drink out to the deck and stare down at the city. Still sunny. Benignly busy.

Back inside, I do six miles on the treadmill, relishing the headache I get afterward. I break a couple of plastic sparring boards, kick the bag, and lift as much as I can handle. Nothing satisfies me. Finally—my stroking hand and memories.

It’s wrong. I know that. I don’t fall asleep until the sun comes up.