Page 63 of Faking It with a Single Dad
I haven’t hit anyone since I left the military. My eyes narrow as I stare at my reflection. Tonight, I might. I step out of the car, the cool night air washing over me like a wave of adrenaline. The shitty motel with rows of rooms looms before me, a dilapidated monument to desperation and despair.
If this is where Miles can afford to stay, no wonder he’s so bitter at life that all he can do is try to tear me down. A quick pop-in at the motel’s counter and twenty bucks to the old, African-American man behind the glass tells me Miles is at the bar beside the motel.
As I approach the bar, my hands in my pockets, laughter filters out through the door, only making me angrier. A drunk hobo lay at the door with an empty glass in his hand. He glances up at me, and my expression must scare him because he jumps to his feet and runs away.
I push open the door; the dimly lit interior reveals a scene straight out of a shitty noir movie. Smoke hangs in the air, polluting my lungs and obscuring the faces of the men huddled around the bar. I look around for Miles, who I googled before leaving home, and I find him seated at a table in the corner.
“What can I do for—”
“I won’t be here long.” I cut off the bartender with a small towel on his shoulder.
My sneakers hit the wooden panel with angry steps. Miles is a red-haired man with a patchy beard that looks to be in his forties. His fingers wrap around a glass half-full with what looks like whiskey. I approach him with measured steps, my fingers digging into my palm.
“Miles,” I growl, stopping a few steps away from him.
The half-drunk men in the bar pretend not to be staring at us, but I know they are.
Miles looks up, his eyes narrow as he tries to see who it is beneath the cap. A flicker of surprise passes his face before settling into a smirk. “Well, well, if it isn’t the infamous CEO himself,” he taunts, taking a sip of his drink as if daring me to make a move.
“What the fuck is your problem with me?” I try to remain calm. “Three hit pieces? I don’t even fucking know you.”
“Know me?” he laughs, revealing his yellow teeth. “You’re a king in your castle, and uh, I’m the slave toiling away in the fields. So, tell me, if the enslaved person has something that can bring down the king, wouldn’t he use it?”
His words are slurred, and I wonder if it’s his first glass. I take a step closer, and his blue eyes look up at me. I see contempt in them.
“I’m no king.” I set a hand on the bar. “And you’re no slave. Stop writing about me, or else?”
“Or else—” he turns to me on his stool and stretches both hands apart. “—you’ll kill me like you killed your wife?”
“Watch your mouth,” I murmur, closing the space between us. “I won’t tell you twice.”
“Oh, sorry, sorry.” He nods and grabs his glass. “You didn’t kill your wife. You only made her kill herself.”
What happened next is a blur to me. But I lunge forward, and by the time I know it, I have Miles on the floor, on his knees, and I’m holding his collar in one of my hands with my other hand raised in a fist.
“You think you can smear my name in your rag of a publication and get away with it?!” I seethe, my words dripping with venom.
“Somebody help me! This man’s crazy! Help!” Miles cries out, his reddish face contorting with fear.
The few men in the bar are on their feet, but nobody approaches us. I look around, then back at the tiny man hiding behind pen and paper. Punching him won’t undo the damage he’s done. It won’t bring Deanna back, and it certainly won’t absolve me of the accusations he’s leveled against me.
As much as I want to punch him till his face is a bloody pulp, I know that violence will only serve to validate his lies.
Miles whimpers, covering his face with his hand. The bartender starts to come out from behind the bar, and my fist unclenches. I release Miles’ collar, and he scampers out of the bar without a word, just incoherent sounds.
When the bartender reaches me, I realize he has a shotgun.
“It’s all good.” I raise my hand. The bartender cocks his gun and his brow. “Why not blow me away with a glass of bourbon instead of the shotgun?” I slowly remove a wad of cash from my pocket.
The bartender’s gaze softens, and he lowers his gun.
“A round on me for everyone!” My voice cuts through the room, and the drunk men yell and whoop.
The least I can do for almost ruining their night.
The bartender goes to the end of the bar to pour my drink. The anger within me is still present. The smell of smoke remains in my throat as I consider staying for the drink. I’d only ordered the drink to defuse the situation, but now—
“Here’s your bourbon.” The bartender sets it on a coaster and winks at me. I guess we’re friends now.