Page 140 of Bitter’s Sweet

“Then quit bleeding like she is.”

I reach for my bike keys.

Hyde’s voice stops me.

“Bitter.”

I look back.

“If she’s yours, claim her clean. If she ain’t, quit standing in the doorway like a guard dog and then biting her when she comes close.”

“She ain’t mine.”

“Good. Then you ought to have no trouble letting her go.”

I hate him a little for that.

I hate myself more because the idea feels like somebody shoved a fist beneath my ribs.

I ride nowhere.

That is the pathetic part.

I end up at the old caretaker's lodge, the club's overflow bar behind the funeral home, because apparently when a man ruins something important, instinct takes him somewhere with whiskey.

It’s dim even in daylight, all dark wood, patched furniture, neon signs, and enough bad decisions soaked into the floorboards to qualify as historic preservation.

I pour whiskey.

Once.

Twice.

The burn feels honest.

Boogie and Ghoul are playing pool. Sweeney is at the bar talking to a widow who knows exactly what she is doing. A couple club girls sit on the leather couch with their legs crossed, laughter easy, expectations low.

Simple.

I used to like simple.

Trixie slides onto the stool beside me.

Red hair. Black tank. Cutoff shorts. Dark lipstick.

I know her. We had a night once. Maybe two.

She never asked for breakfast. Never asked what anything meant. Never left a toothbrush.

Perfectly simple.

“Bitter.”

“Trix.”

“Haven’t seen you look this mean in a while.”

“I always look mean.”