Free The Book of Daniel by Z. A. Maxfield

of things enough to take her out. He was a grown man. He didn’t need me peering out the window and worrying about whether he was doing it right.
    I listened for a minute, waiting, and when I heard Cam ride away, I breathed a sigh of relief. After that I pulled a bottle of Zyr from the freezer and prepared to do vodka shots and watch Headline News until I escaped the tight bands of self-pity compressing my chest or I was no longer conscious, whichever came first.
    * * *
    I slouched into Bêtise that Sunday morning, praying for a quick and painless death. Muse was probably delighted to see me so miserable.
    “Love the shades. Did we do a little drinking last night, Dan?”
    “That.” I pointed to the huge copper cappuccino machine behind the counter. “Triple shots. Extra large. Whatever. Just lots.”
    “Sit down before you fall. I’ll bring it out to you.”
    I didn’t even question her kindness. I just flopped into a chair at a table as far away from the windows as possible. A few minutes later Jake sat down across from me.
    “You look like hell. What happened?”
    “Vodka,” I growled. “ Vodka happened. And no matter how many times I go through this, I never fucking learn.”
    Jake laughed. “I see. Well how about a nice baveuse omelet? Or maybe some greasy chicken sausages.”
    My stomach roiled.
    “I know. I could fix you up some lightly fried eel?”
    I ran to the bathroom with Jake’s laughter ringing in my ears. By the time I returned to the table from getting sick, then cleaning up and splashing cold water on my face, Muse had delivered my coffee. I put my shades back on.
    “You’ll never guess what I saw last night,” said Jake. “I saw a crotch rocket just like yours on the on-ramp to the 101 South with a man that looked like Cameron Rooney riding it.”
    “In no way can that bike be described as a crotch rocket .”
    “You loaned your bike to Cam?”
    This was a tricky subject since I’d never allowed Jake to ride it. I could already tell he was building up a good head of righteous indignation. “Yeah.”
    His tone turned frosty. “Yet you never let me ride it.”
    “I’m sorry.” I came clean. “I’ve been having a hard time letting it go.”
    “Just because you can’t ride it now doesn’t mean you never will ag—”
    “I can’t think that far ahead anymore. I really can’t.” I swallowed hard.
    “So, what? Cam happened to admire it and you thought, what the hell? Even though I’ve never let anyone touch my bike, ever, I’ll give him the keys?”
    “Yeah.” I took a sip of coffee even though it was hotter than molten rock. “That’s about it.”
    To my very great surprise, Jake flashed me a huge grin. “Yeah right.”
    “What?”
    “He came in here this morning, and for the first time in days, he didn’t look like he was carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. You did good, brother mine. Good call.”
    “Yeah, yeah.” I waved his compliment off, but it secretly delighted me to hear that Cam might be feeling better. “Like I care what the abominable fireman is feeling.”
    Jake got up and flipped me off. “Kippered herring.” He headed back toward the kitchen, turning every so often to call out some repulsive breakfast food. “Cheese grits…biscuits and gravy…black pudding…” He went through the kitchen door. All eyes seemed to be on me. Had no one ever seen a hungover man before?

Chapter Eight
     
    The cryptic note I’d gotten from Muse that morning bore the same mark she put on my coffee sleeve. She asked me to meet her outside Nacho’s Bar at nine p.m. I have to admit, I worried I was being set up, in Stephen King’s Carrie fashion, to expiate the sins of all the voracious capitalists of the world. It turned out being the person who put a smile on Cam Rooney’s face—I guess my brother told her I loaned him the Ducati—went a long way toward elevating my status in her eyes.
    “You wanted to see me?” I waved the little