Free If You Stay by Courtney Cole Page B

drinking away a bad mood.
    I nod at the bartender. 
    “I’ll have a Jack.”
    The bartender nods back and fills a tumbler with the dark golden liquid, sliding it towards me.  It sloshes a bit onto the bar, but he’s not concerned.  Cleanliness isn’t exactly his highest priority.  You can tell that by his stained shirt and greasy hair.  But that doesn’t bother me.  The whiskey will taste the same regardless of the bartender’s personal hygiene habits.
    Before he can attempt to talk with me, he’s distracted by another customer, a dirty old man who is clearly far too drunk.  I watch with interest as the bartender tries to cut him off, then just gives up and pours him another drink. 
    “Hey, big fella.  I’m Amber.”
    I stare down at the big-busted woman who has just slid up to me.  She’s got bar whore written all over her, from her extremely tight jeans that exhibit camel toe to her garish overly done makeup.  Her tits are practically busting out of her top because it’s three sizes too small. 
    I cock an eyebrow and take a gulp of whiskey.
    “Big fella?  The 1940’s called.  They want their phrase back.”
    Amber throws her bleached blonde head back and laughs as though it is the funniest thing she’s ever heard. 
    “I’m from Iowa.  I guess we still talk that way back home.”
    “Charming.”  I knock back the rest of my drink and motion for another.  I look at Amber.  “Would you like one?”
    I figure it’s the polite thing to do, even though I’m not much in the mood for company.  She nods. 
    “I’d love one.”  She looks up at the bartender.  “Dan, can you make it two?”
    Dan the bartender.  I’ve got to remember that.
    But I’m sure I won’t. 
    Amber slides her hand up my thigh.  “Thanks for the drink.  But if you don’t want me to call you big fella, you’ve got to tell me your name.”
    I eye her, at the way her eyes are already dilated because she’s already had a few too many. “Do I?”
    She examines me for a moment, before she laughs.  It’s a slutty laugh.  A fake one.  I almost shudder, but don’t. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.  This is an easy woman who is mine for the taking. If I wanted to take her, that is, but I find that I really don’t.  And I think I do know what’s wrong with me. 
    Mila Hill is in my head, wholesome and sweet.  But I’ll be fucking damned if I let her invade my life when she doesn’t even want me in the first place.  
    I knock back my glass of Jack and signal for one more.  I knock that one back too.
    A comforting sense of calm descends upon me, the familiar numbness that I love so much.  When all else fails, the obscurity prevails.  I almost laugh at my deep thinking, but instead, I reach over and grasp Amber’s thick thigh, enjoying the fleshy feel of her leg in my fingers.  If this chick wants me, she can have me.
    And then I do what I always do.  I block out logical thought with drugs or women.  In this case, a bar slut and Jack Daniels. 
    “Come with me,” I whisper into her ear.  Amber smiles knowingly and nods.  She clings to my hand as we pick our way through the dirty bar, down the dingy back hall and into the women’s bathroom. 
    The bathroom is exactly how I figured it would be—disgusting.  A single light bulb hangs from the yellowed ceiling, casting a dubious light around the small room.  There is evidence of puke on the sides of the toilet, the tiles are grimy and the walls look as though they haven’t been washed since 1969.  But it doesn’t matter.  I lock the door behind us and turn to Amber.
    She reaches for me and I let her, sliding my hand up her thigh and under her tight shirt, gripping her fat tit.  I squeeze it hard and she moans. 
    I squeeze it harder and she moans again.
    I want to roll my eyes at this stupid game.  I know what’s going to happen because I’ve played it a thousand times before.  She’s going to pretend to enjoy anything that I do,