Delayed, Nathan Kingsly [read aloud txt] 📗

apartment, turning on every light I had as I moved. My barrel pointed down at my couch cushions. Next, I checked the gap between a wall and the refrigerator, which I couldn’t see from the living room. Switched on the light for the balcony and swung the door open only to frighten off a bird. Opening the door to the bathroom, nothing greeted me from behind the shower curtain. Lastly, in my room, I crouched and looked under the bed revealing only the dust bunnies I keep telling myself to sweep up. When I sat on my bed, it took me longer to catch my breath. I had to put my head between my legs and push back the black dots trying to eat up my vision.

When I finally pulled myself out of my panic attack, It took me longer to pack, every sound setting me off, and then not knowing what I should bring since this trip could be longer than I had planned. Then, finding a flight to the other side of the country at midnight was more complicated than I imagined.

The drive was brutal. Every car I saw was suspect. When I parked in the lot at the airport, leaving my gun was more like losing a limb. It pissed me off to feel exposed and out of control.

The only sleep I’ve gotten in twenty-four hours was on the plane. Now, I’m paying the price.

This time is different from the others. I promised to be there, even got on the damn plane, and still fucked up. I’m damned if I do, and damned if I don’t. The outcome stays the same. Why bother trying?

Once I get on the rail, this time with no dramatics, I pull out my phone and refresh my ticket page. When it loads, there are options for my new ticket, and my thumb hovers. My shoulders tense as I stare at those fucking buttons. So instead, my thumb hits the side button, lets it go dark, and stick it back in my pocket. Exhaling, my shoulders drop. I convince myself that as soon as I get a drink in me, I’ll decide.

The bar is quiet, with only a few patrons. A part of me realizing on my walk here there were fewer people strolling in the terminals and hall.

Taking a seat at the counter, a shiver runs up my spine, and my arm recoils from the bar. There is a suction sound as it comes unstuck from whatever someone spilled. Whatever it was, it has an overly sweet smell. Rubbing at the hair on my arm to try to get them to unstick from one another, I move a few seats over.

The bartender, a stocky black guy, notices my exchange with the counter, walks over, and rubs it down. “Sorry about that. What can I get you?”

“Margarita on the rocks.” The smell of tequila separates from the other scents in the room even before my order slips from my lips.

His eyebrows shoot up, I get this reaction a lot, and I’m sure as shit not going to apologize for it.

“You got it.” He says, after I don’t change my mind, and ambles off.

There's a good chance he's never been to Mexico where they are masters at making it. I admitted, when I visited a few days for a life break in college, I got spoiled. Since returning to the states, I became obsessed with finding a place that can make it as good. I’m still searching.

Movement catches my attention when I lose interest in the bartender making my drink. With sleep deprivation, there's a chance my eyes are playing a trick on me, but behind the bottles of liquor, a mirror reflects my tired green eyes. Despite the dark circles, my green gaze is lasers. On any given day, that’s not unusual, but even to me, they look manic, my anxiety showing through. My dark hair that on any other day lays flat is sticking up at angles I couldn’t accomplish again if I attempted with gel. Running around the airport like this would have anyone convinced I’m loose from the looney bin, and all the stares now make sense. Sighing, I pat down what I can, but my eyes, I can do nothing about.

“Here you go. That’s eight dollars and seventy-six cents.” He places the glass in front of me. Cursing the high price in my head, I slide over the last ten I have in my wallet.

When I take my first taste, my lips pucker. That lime wasn’t ready for this drink, especially the amount saturating it. Yet, I didn’t expect greatness from an airport bar, and I’m never one to waste alcohol.

“When you talk, you’re predictable, but everything else surprises me.” The voice sounds familiar.

Down the bar to my left, I see that girl from the rail train smiling at me and shaking her head. Without a word, she hops down, drags her little wheeled suitcase behind her, and takes the stool next to mine.

She holds out a hand, “I’m Emma.”

“Liam.” I return her handshake. It's smooth as I imagine her shoulder and the rest of her body might feel.

“So, Liam, how do you do that?” She rests an elbow on the bar, and a hand lifts her chin.

“Do what?" I ask, twisting the stool so that I can face her.

“I’m not usually surprised when it comes to men. You’re all pretty predictable.” She shrugs. “Being a middle child with four brothers, there’s not much I can’t guess.”

“How’d you make it out alive?”

Her expression bleeds from her face, then she laughs. When she smiles, it brightens not only her face but creates a forcefield around her. She leans in close enough I can feel the warmth of her skin but not the press of it. Her eyes shift conspiratorially before whispering, “There may be hope for you yet.”

Fuck, she smells good. It makes me wonder if she tastes better. When her eyes look into mine before shifting to my lips,