Free Destroy Me (Crystal Gulf Book 1) by Shana Vanterpool

drink enough it might feel like I have a blank slate. When I get out of the shower I dress without seeing what I put on.
    I want scotch. Something light brown. It’s the only good my body can stand.
    I drive to a bar deeper in town because I don’t want to talk and smile or pretend. I just want to get a new memory. This is the bar I go to, the one closest to where I run from, when I need to remind myself I got out. I keep my head down and sit at the end of the bar rather than the back like I normally do. The bartender’s a forty-something cougar. I know she’s a cougar because she always licks her lips when she sees me. Too old for me. Harley would be proud. Thinking of her reminds me of my goal.
    “Scotch,” I tell the bartender. Something about her always bothers me. That’s why I usually sit at a table in the back and let the barmaids serve me, but I’m not thinking properly this morning. Today I want to be close to the alcohol. “A double.”
    “Scotch,” she repeats, eyeing me strangely like she always does. “You got some ID?”
    I roll my eyes and lean over, getting out my wallet and removing my ID. “Give me the shot first.”
    Looking at my ID, she nods slowly. “Bachmen. You Tyler Bachmen’s son?”
    I flinch like she smashed the bottle of scotch over my head. “Give me the fucking shot or I’ll get it myself.”
    She doesn’t even blink. “Yup. You’re Tyler’s son. You look just like him. Talk like him too. Mean as a lion that man. But those damn eyes used to make me trip over my feet.”
    “I am nothing like my father!” I shout, reaching for her. I don’t want to hit her. I don’t hit women. Not even that one bitch who keyed my Corvette. My father did though. I just want her to know to never compare me to that piece of shit again. I may not be the best guy, I’m selfish, and I’m an asshole, but I will never be my father.
    “Whoa, whoa.” A big guy comes around the bar with a bat. “This here bat ain’t afraid of you like she is.”
    I pause inches from grabbing the bartender’s shirt. She doesn’t look afraid to me. She even has the audacity to wink. She’s always looked familiar to me. Most times when I come here I’m not focused on her to have ever really wanted a closer look. I don’t have a choice but to examine her familiar features now. She was probably one of the women who used to sneak into the shed out back when Mom was out gambling, or one of the single mothers who made up most of the neighborhood I grew up in. She was probably twenty-something then.
    I bring my hands back over the bar and straighten my shirt as I sit back down and nod at the bouncer. “Won’t happen again.”
    “It better not,” he warns, sliding the bat over the bar top as he reclaims his seat.
    She hasn’t stopped looking at me. “How’s that other one? The Meyer’s boy?”
    “Just give me my shot.”
    “You should meet my daughter.”
    “Why?” I bark. Why the hell would I want to bang Forty-something’s daughter?
    “Because,” she says, filling a shot glass to the top, “she has your eyes.”
    The irony of her statement astounds me. I came here to forget. “Good for her. They’re damn beautiful eyes. Does my dad know?”
    She nods, expression saddening and disgusted at the same time. “You don’t sound shocked.”
    “I’m not. There are probably illegitimate children all over Crystal Gulf with these eyes. You weren’t the only one sneaking out the shed.”
    When I say that her tired blue eyes widen. She looks at me sympathetically and yet her attitude continues to reek.
    I know about her daughter. I remember Dad and Mom arguing one night about her at dinner. “That little bitch isn’t going to get half of our money,” Mom told him. “We already have one bastard to take care of. I ain’t taking care of two.” When Mom looked pointedly at me I had looked down at my fish sticks. I didn’t know she was Forty-something’s daughter. I look out for her though. The girl