Devon Hartford - Reckless

I cranked the volume back up on Metallica and drove straight to the nearest bar.

CHRISTOS

That night, I called Jake.

I needed a break from all the shit coming down on me. Jake was the perfect distraction. I picked him up from his place in my Camaro. I’d pretty much sobered up from hitting the bar in the morning.

Whatever.

At least I wasn’t on my bike.

Jake and I decided to head downtown and grab dinner at Dick’s Last Resort in the Gaslamp Quarter. The wait-staff at Dick’s treated the customers like shit, on purpose. It wasn’t a great destination for date-night, but was perfect for me and Jake to catch up.

After our obnoxious waiter had bitched us out and thrown our silverware, napkins, and paper place-mats at us, we ordered beers. The waiter brought them back a few minutes later, two Corona’s with lime wedges shoved in the necks of the bottles.

Jake and I clinked beers.

“Long time no see, bro,” Jake said.

“No shit,” I nodded. “I’ve been super busy.”

“That’s an understatement,” Jake said, pausing to gulp down some Corona. “Before I forget, Sebastian and his crew keep bugging my ass about bringing you out to hit some waves. Maybe go down to Ensenada some weekend.”

“Sebastian? You mean that military kid with a prick for a dad?” Sebastian was seventeen when I’d met him, so he would always be a “kid" at any age.

“Yeah,” Jake grinned. “Sebastian told me he had some score to settle with you about stealing his tube-ride last time at La Jolla Shores.”

I remembered the moment well. Me and Sebastian had shared a good laugh over it afterward. But that was a year ago. I chuckled, “I haven’t seen that dude in forever. He still with that MILF?”

Jake smiled. “You mean Caro?”

“Yeah. Her.” I smiled, picturing her in my mind. “She was a total fox.”

“Dude, Caro’s not a MILF. She doesn’t have any kids. She’s a HILF,” Jake grinned.

I almost choked on my beer. “HILF? That’s lame, man. What the fuck is a HILF?”

“Hottie I’d Like to Fuck.”

“Duh,” I smiled at my own ignorance, then nodded at Jake knowingly. “Total HILF,” I said, lifting my beer to clink bottles with Jake.

“To Sebastian and his HILF Caro,” Jake smiled.

Jake and I ordered burgers when the waiter returned.

While we waited for our food, my phone rang in my pocket, playing the chorus of Before Your Love by Kelly Clarkson. My new ringtone for Samantha.

“Dude,” Jake grimaced and smiled, “what kind of gay shit is that?”

“That’s my ringtone for Samantha,” I grinned.

“Dude, you’re so gone for that girl. Your only ringtone used to be ‘Battery’ by Metallica.”

“That was before I met Samantha.” I answered my phone. “ Agápi mou. How are you?”

“Fine,” Samantha said, “now that I’m hearing your voice.”

“What’s up?”

“I’ve been trying to call you all day,” she said softly. “Is everything all right?”

“I’m good,” I lied. I felt like a total prick. Samantha was probably still freaking out about her parents. As much as I wanted to be by her side to reassure her that I would always be there for her, after meeting with Russell today, I couldn’t say it with a straight face. Not sober, anyway. “Just out with Jake,” I said casually. “We’re chillin’ at Dick’s Last Resort. Getting burgers and brews.”

“Dick’s Last Resort? That sounds awful. Is that a strip club?” Samantha snickered.

“No, it’s a burger joint in the Gaslamp.”

“You sure? I hope you brought lots of singles to tip the, uh, waitresses,” Samantha sneered.

“I promise, the fat guy with a double-chin who’s serving us is fully clothed,” I grinned over at Jake. He’d seen the guy.

Jake cocked me a smile.

“I hope so!” Samantha groaned. “Anyway, I just wanted to make sure everything is all right?”

“Yeah, I’m good, agápi mou . Are you okay?”

She sighed. “I’m fine. I just, I sort of needed to talk to you some more about my parents. I’m still freaked out, I guess.”

Fuck. She wasn’t going to let me off the hook. “Do you want to talk about it tonight? I can come over later, after me and Jake finish our burgers. How’s that sound?” I felt like a huge douche. I winced, wishing all my problems would go away so I could do the right thing by Samantha at that moment.

The sad truth was my problems weren’t going anywhere.

My shit was booming inside my head like thunderclaps. I really needed to pound out some of my stress, or I was going to explode. I wasn’t in any shape to listen to Samantha and be supportive. How could you listen to somebody else’s problems when you had your own thunderclouds shooting thunder and lightning between your ears every fifteen seconds? I had to deal with my own stress first, and I did it the best way I knew how at the time: drinks with Jake.

There was a long pause, then Samantha finally answered, “Okay. I’ll be waiting.”

Man, I felt like a shithead. “You sure?”

“Yeah,” she sighed. “It can wait. I’ll be okay. I’ll be doing homework at my apartment all evening, so if you want to stop by when you’re finished, I’d love to see you.”

“Me too, agápi mou. I’ll come by as soon as we’re done. I love you.”

“I love you too,” Samantha said before ending the call.

Thankfully, the waiter showed up with our food before I had to explain any of that to Jake.

After we ate, we pounded more beers at Dick’s before bouncing.

Outside, we strolled the busy streets of the Gaslamp Quarter. It was San Diego’s most active night-spot destination. You could walk from bar to bar all night and never hit the same spot twice. Perfect for pub crawling.

I was leaning toward getting hammered tonight.

“Where do you want to hit next?” Jake asked.

“First place I smell beer,” I said.

“How’s the trial shit going?” Jake asked.

I stopped on the sidewalk, threw my head back, and laughed. It was not a happy laugh. It turned into a roar of frustration.

“Sorry, dude,” Jake said. “Wrong topic.”

I sighed. “Don’t sweat it. It’s not like that shit isn’t on my mind twenty-four seven, now that my trial date is days away.”

“How you coping?”

“Ask me again when I have a beer in my hand.”

“Totally, bro,” he smiled.

We wandered along the block, passing people strolling the sidewalk in both directions.

“How about some frozen yogurt?” Jake joked, nodding toward a storefront.

“Yeah,” I laughed, “I could definitely go for some low-fat, sugar-free shit right now,” I said sarcastically. “My doctor tells me I need to take better care of my health.”

We found a dingy bar with hipster smokers hovering around the entrance. The kind of place with no windows, no sign, save the red-and-white plaque in the doorway that read “NOTICE: NO PERSONS UNDER 21 ALLOWED.”

“Perfect,” I grimaced.

We went inside.

It was dark. The lights hanging over the pool tables and the soft glow behind the bar were the only illumination. We grabbed barstools.

“What’ll it be?” a middle-aged bartender asked, all business. He had silver hair fluffed back in an old-school style and a silver goatee.

I turned to Jake. “I’ve already had a bunch of beers. What’s that shit people say?” I grumbled, “Beer before liquor, never sicker. Liquor before beer, you’re in the clear?”

“That’s how I remember it,” Jake said.

“Fuck the rules,” I said to the bartender.

The bartender snorted.

“You got any Wild Turkey?” I asked.

The bartender nodded.