Sober Saturday night number 912.
Nineteen years dry.
Enough time to move on, to forget what happened that night nineteen years ago. Yet the anniversary would roll around, and he couldn’t stop the binge. Sipping on those memories, downing them one after another, drowning in them until he was drunk. Letting her take him to a dark place in his soul he could never purge. By dawn’s light, he was left wasted and broken, a shell of a man, lying on the floor. Another piece of his soul lost, buried with her in that cold, dark hole.
Shane Hamilton had lived in this hell for so long, it became a ritual. Every April he prepared for it, taking off the day of and the day after. Even during those bleak six years where he was dodging bullets and bombs, he was swirling in a black abyss. This year, the anniversary fell on a Saturday.
Hands braced on the tile walls, he watched the water snake along his body and pool at his bare feet. No matter what effort he put in to cleansing his body, or mind and soul, the water never baptized him of his sins.
Twinkling under the harsh electric light, the slim, gold circle danced and twirled at the end of the silver chain. She had danced and twirled under the smoky haze of neon lights, laughing and flirting, making promises that never came true.
Shane gripped the diamond ring, ceasing its merry spin, and flattened it to his chest. The emergency room doctor had removed it from her finger and given it to Shane, pity gleaming in the man’s eyes. The doctor’s fingers were heavy as they pressed the ring into his palm; the memory of the band’s slick feel from the blood was branded into his palm. From then on, the ring dangled from a chain around his neck, settling in a place near his heart. A reminder of what he lost in a moment of stupidity.
The jangle of his phone drifted into the bathroom. In the last half hour, he’d heard it go off five times. Lifting his face to the spray of the shower, he commenced with continuing to ignore the persistent caller.
A thrumming ache wove through his muscles and seeped into his bones. Too many years on the rodeo circuit riding some of the rankest broncs and his multiple tours in the Sandbox had left behind a different kind of pain he easily remedied with a few aspirins. Though it was getting difficult to ease the hurt, especially after a night spent on a hardwood floor. Shane turned fifty next month but felt all of seventy.
Finishing his poor man’s shower, he shut off the faucet and stepped out of the stall. Once more, the old-fashioned telephone ring of his cell phone reached him. Toweling off, he turned his back to the open door.
Sunday morning rays peeked through the gaping brown plaid curtains. Before passing away, his mother had decorated her little haven with homey touches only a cowboy like himself would enjoy. She had done it because she missed her husband—who passed two years before she did—and for Shane, who was to inherit the family farm. His mother must have believed in her heart he’d leave this world as a bachelor, never daring to step into the minefield of love again. In reverence to his saintly mother, Shane hadn’t changed a thing.
He wrapped the towel around his waist and staggered into his bedroom to dress. As another homage to his parents, he hadn’t bothered to take up residence in the master bedroom. Choosing instead to stay in his old childhood bedroom, but updating the sleeping space to more adult accommodations.
Shane avoided the bed with its twisted sheets, heading straight for the single dresser in the room. He pulled on a pair of jeans and skipped his duty shirt. Today was a dark-blue plaid shirt kind of day. Finger combing his tightly coiled hair, he stepped into his boots and carefully picked a path down the hall. Each step sent flares of pain up his spine. It might be time to consider taking up Doc Drummond on his offer to make an appointment with an arthritis specialist in Iowa City.
The half-full coffee pot beckoned. After pouring a cup, he placed the pot back on the warmer. With the stout mug pressed to his lips, he inhaled the aroma of dark roast, then sipped the strong brew. During his travels all over the world, Shane had fallen in love with Louisiana’s Community coffee. He sniffed, reality punching him in the gut. Louisiana had been his little trick rider’s home state; Community had been her favorite coffee. And what she’d loved, he loved, too.
Today was going to be rough. He had to find a way to get past this.
As he rummaged through the cabinets, he upended a box of Pop-Tarts. He snatched a package and tore into the foil with his teeth. He grunted as he bit through both pastries. Almost fifty and still eating like a kid. If she could see him now, she’d probably laugh.
His phone went off like an air raid siren. Fuck it to hell and back! He made a crooked path to the table where the infernal machine continued to squeal. Seven missed calls and eighteen text messages glared at him.
“Shit.” He stabbed a blunt finger at the speakerphone icon. “Murdoch, this better be damn important to interrupt me on my sabbatical.”
“How ‘damn important’ is it to you if there’s a body in the river, boss?”
