fat middle aged man going through a crisis. Almost certainly the latter.
“I don’t suppose Uber exists in this town?” I replied finally, the more responsible side of me somehow winning out. I really didn’t want to die just because I couldn’t say no to another drink. Or worse, crash into some family on their way to a fricking dance recital, killing them all and being haunted with that forever.
I was happy to be haunted by all sorts of things, but not by actually killing an entire family.
The bartender grinned, showing white, slightly crooked teeth. It should’ve put me off, but it suited him somehow. “Afraid we don’t. I’d be happy to give you a ride home, though.”
There was invitation there. Behind that crooked smile. The playful glint to his eyes. The way he was leaning on his elbows, close enough to know he smelled of expensive aftershave and cheap cigarettes.
It was tempting.
Very fucking tempting.
When was the last time I had casual sex with a hot stranger?
Never.
I might’ve written about complicated heroines with depraved sex lives, but I conjured all of their exploits out of thin air.
Well, thin air and the plethora of resources offered by the internet.
“I was taught never to get in a car with strangers,” I teased, still toying with the idea of letting him pour me another drink or two and have tipsy, hot, and hopefully sordid sex back at my cute little cabin in the woods.
The fact I didn’t know him and that my cute little cabin in the woods had already seen one murder didn’t really bother me.
“Well, I don’t have to be a stranger,” he said, voice a little huskier now, not as teasing. The smile was gone too.
Yes, this man who poured a generous whisky and had a good head of hair would indeed give me sordid.
I stood. “I like you better as a stranger.” Then I winked and sauntered out.
Chapter 2
“She stared at me. Everyone said the dead saw nothing, but she saw everything. Her eyes were not empty in death. She understood me. Only the dead can understand me.”
I made it to the grocery store.
I had a slight buzz on from one strong whisky, being overtired, and what I guessed you could call culture shock. Even though I grew up in various towns and cities around the country and should’ve had immunity to such a made-up illness, New York had weakened me. Maybe fame had weakened me.
Fame had definitely ruined me.
But life ruins everyone, one way or another.
Whatever it was, the buzz was welcome.
The store had barely any gluten-free products. No oat milk. Ditto on the organic, obscure fruits and vegetables I pretended to like because they were meant to be superfoods.
My shopping cart held a sad-looking bunch of kale, onions, four bottles of red wine—the most expensive they had cost me a whopping twenty bucks a bottle and came from Argentina—dark chocolate, cans of dolphin-safe tuna, and bottled water.
I kind of deserved the odd look the cashier gave me.
Probably due to the contents of my cart and the fact she had no idea who I was.
That much was obvious.
I was a stranger to this pimply teenager with heavy black eyeliner, a choppy hairstyle, and a chunky purple streak in her hair that really clashed with her orange uniform.
That had me reconsidering the mere four bottles of wine in the cart. New York was a place where barely anyone looked up long enough to recognize anyone who may or may not be famous. Fuck, they didn’t even look up to see a cab that was about to hit them.
But when people did look up, more often than not, they recognized me.
Or at the very least, they pretended to recognize me. I looked like someone they should know. Diamonds. Designer bag. Expensive hair. Flawless outfit, even if it was always various shades of black.
I slid into the uniform of the elite easily and without question.
Today I was wearing black jeans, a wrinkled tee, and most likely a ruined hairdo, but I still looked like somebody.
And she saw me as merely someone who didn’t fit in. Someone who wasn’t her teacher, her babysitter, the mother she hated, the boy she pretended not to like. They were important people to this girl, despite the fact she was desperately projecting the “devil may care” attitude. But if she really cared about the Devil, she’d fucking recognize me.
It hit me just then how much I relied on people recognizing me and how much I’d lied to