Chapter 56
JEREMIAH
“Another one bites the dust.” I dropped the empty bottle of Macallan Select into the trash, listening to it crash against its friends already lying at the bottom. I hiccupped and clipped my hip against the bar counter.
Slamming my palm down on the offending granite, I glared at it. “Didn’t even hurt, fucker.”
The stupid thing got in my way again when I reached up for another bottle of whiskey. I stumbled forward slightly, managing to catch myself before I went down and whacked my head against it.
My vision was swimming already, and I knew I was going to have another killer hangover tomorrow. The last thing I needed was to knock myself out on my own damn bar.
The first thing I needed was more whiskey. Holding myself steady, I reached up again and heard hollow, triumphant laughter when my fingers closed around the bottle’s fat neck. It took a while for my alcohol-soaked brain to realize the laughter came from me. No matter.
“Come to papa, beautiful.” Urg. Papa.
I fucking hated my damn papa. If you could even call the man that. Sperm donor was perhaps a better description. God knew real fathers would never act the way mine did on a daily basis. “Asshole.”
There was a dull clunk of crystal against granite as I set my tumbler down harder than I intended to. My hands felt a little numb. Just the way I wanted.
Squinting with one eye, I refilled my drink and saw an amber puddle forming next to my glass. I briefly considered slurping up the spilled top-shelf whiskey, then snorted. There was more than enough where that came from. And if I ran out, I would have more delivered.
This was New York City, and I was one of its favorite children. I owned the damn town. If I wanted more whiskey in the middle of the night, I could get it. No problem.
Smirking, I went out on my balcony. You bet I can get more whiskey.
There were so many lights on in the city tonight. At least twice as many as usual. Or maybe I was seeing double. Who the fuck cared?
My father didn’t, that was for sure. “Dear old Daddy-O is disappointed again. Who would’ve thunk it?”
A bitter chuckle escaped my lips. Me, that’s who. I would’ve thunk it. I did thunk it. Or was that think it?
I didn’t care about that either. Thunk it or think it, I knew better than to think my father could ever be proud of me. I wanted him to see the progress I made, but nothing I did made the man happy. Ever.
Unless I could turn myself into my brother, that would probably thrill Dad. Almost instantly, I felt a familiar sense of shame flooding my veins, competing with the alcohol it found there.
I was ashamed of myself. My father only made me realize it so much more often than I did myself. Just like he made me realize so many other things about myself, like how I couldn’t meet any of his expectations no matter what I did.
I was the family fuck-up. Shrugging, I tossed half my drink down my throat. Someone had to be the fuck-up in the family, even one like mine. Might as well be me.
Brooding and angry, I stared down at the city. For three years, I gave Williams Inc. all my time and attention, and I was never good enough. Whenever I got close to the goalpost, Dad moved it again. And around and around we go.
I heaved out a deep sigh, barely suppressing the urge to smash my glass against the cold metal railing in front of me. The only reason I didn’t was because stumbling back inside to get another felt like it would be unnecessary effort.
Everything felt like it would be unnecessary effort. Even getting out of bed felt like a waste of time. The only reason I did it was because I wasn’t some depressed loser who wallowed around in bed all day. No, you’re a depressed loser who wallows around drinking in your apartment all day.
“Shut up,” I mumbled to the sober part of my self-conscious who was being way too rational for my tastes. “My apartment’s twelve thousand square feet. The bed is only twenty-four.”
Take that, soon to be all the way drunk brain!
My head swam, and I swayed on my feet. Maybe I was closer to blind drunk than I thought. Perfect.
I just wanted to forget this week ever happened. I wondered how much I would have to drink to erase the last three years. Now that would really be perfect.
Raising my glass to my lips, I tipped it back. Nothing. Fuck. It was dry again.
“Fuck the glass.” I was bringing the bottle out. The whiskey was already in a glass. No need to keep decanting it into a smaller one.
Grinning diabolically at my clever plan, I went inside to put it in motion. When I stepped onto the white tiles inside my apartment, I heard an annoying buzzing sound that wouldn’t go away. I ignored it as I crossed to the bar, listening to my bare feet slap onto the tile.