Page 52 of Tormented
FIFTEEN
Sawyer
Some fucker has the music turned all the way up out in the bar area, the deep bass tones reverberating off the four walls off my room and assailing my hangover with deathly precision.
I roll my head to the right and stare at the door, willing my lax body to get its shit together and go sort the inconsiderate punk out. Fuck, for all I know it’s Tap who’s turned the tunes up just to fuck with me. It’s the kind of shit he’s been doing every time I fall off the wagon—which is daily.
Do-gooder bastard thinks I need to lay off the drink and drugs. Mr. Upstanding Citizen tells me that a clear head is my best bet at moving on from the mess I left behind and being a better man.
What would he know . . .?
Exactly. Never should have told that asshole why I wanted to move into his chapter. Never should have confided my weakness in him.
I heave a sigh and roll onto my side, using my elbow to prop myself up. A flash of something brown and leather in my periphery catches my attention. I swing my legs off the side of the bed and rub my head with one hand while I reach out to snag it off the floor with my other.
A wallet.
And not mine.
Do you not remember . . .?
Remember what, asshole?
Where we went last night . . .?
I stayed in. Had the last of the coke Hooch gave me when I left Lincoln, and did what I did every other night this past week and a bit: lay about feeling sorry for myself. Right?
My devil chuckles.
Damn.
Thumbing the wallet open, I slide the plastic driver’s license out and frown. The guy who stares back at me isn’t familiar. I’ve got no idea who he is, even less when I check out the name. The wallet contains next to fuck all else: a loyalty card for some coffee house, a credit card, and thirty-five cents in change. I set it down on the bed, and find myself staring at it the whole time I pull on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt.
With the mystery clutched in my hand, I head out to the hub of the clubhouse, ready to punch a hole through the fucking sound system’s speakers.
Turns out I don’t need to. As suspected, Tap leans against the low cupboards that house the stereo. He leans down and slides the volume dial around to nil as I approach.
“Well, I’m awake, asshole.”
He smirks, arms folded. “Good.” Bastard reaches out and clips me one upside the head before I have time to react. “How’s the hangover?”
“Better if you weren’t hittin’ me,” I whine, rubbing the sore spot.
“What’s that?” He jerks his chin at the wallet.
I shrug, handing it over. “You know whose this is? I found it on my floor.”
He checks out the ID and shakes his head. “Sorry, brother. Mystery to me.”
“Huh.”
“Hand it over to Mick and see what he can dig up for you.” He passes it back.
I stare at the wallet a beat before pocketing it. “Did I tell you where I was goin’ last night?”
He shakes his head. “Didn’t even realize you were gone until one of the property girls came stompin’ up to me demandin’ to know where you were.”
I chuckle; well aware what kind of trick I probably played on her. The whores thought all their Christmases had come at once when I showed up with my things in tow. I’ve only been over this way a handful of times before now, and a few of the lovely ladies wanted a taste of the action they hear so much about from their Lincoln counterparts.