Last Call (Bad Habits Book 3) (8 page)

He sort of smirked down at me. “Sorry. I always say you can tell a lot about a person by their hug. Test number one.” He winked, and I gave him what I was sure was an awkward smile.
 

Not gonna lie. I was super uncomfortable. I was not one of those people who hugged strangers, especially not strangers who smelled vaguely of a funeral home. My eyes darted to the door.
 

“Want to sit over here?” he asked.

“Sure.” I followed him to a table by the window, hoping I was just overreacting or nervous, ready to give him the benefit of the doubt, though I really wished I’d planned an escape call with Lily.

Steve took a seat and leaned back, folding his hands over his stomach. “Man, I didn’t even ask you if you wanted coffee or anything. Maybe a lemon bar? I know you like those.”

A tingle crawled up the back of my neck. “How did you know that?”

He waved a hand. “Oh, I spent a couple of hours checking out your Facebook. You took a picture of one the last time you were here. Your entire profile is public, did you know that?”

The tingle found its way up to my face. “No. No I didn’t.”

Steve chuckled. “Anyway, just let me know if you want a little something. And sorry if I smell like formaldehyde. I swear, it won’t wash out.”

I raised an eyebrow in surprise, part of my brain relieved at making the connection to the smell while the other was really glad I’d met Steve in such a public place. “I thought you made furniture?”

“I do.
Taxidermy
furniture. You know, stuffed chairs, beds, divans.”

I had been looking forward to telling Patrick what his medium was. Not anymore. “Wow, that’s … fascinating,” I said flatly.

Steve nodded, looking really proud of himself. “I’ve always loved dead things. My mom stuffed her schnauzer, Mitzi, when she died, and man, I was so into it. I used to keep her in my room. Like, I love the idea that you could preserve something forever.”

I turned on my bartending skills, which are largely pretending skills, looking for an opening to leave. “It’s cool you get to do something you love for a living.”

“Right? Not everyone gets to have a job they love, you know? But I get to work with my hands. Create something that makes a statement.” He leered a little. “Plus, who knew you could sell a potbelly pig ottoman for three thousand bucks? The market is growing, and I’m ahead of the curve. The Kardashians are about it right now. They bought four pieces from me last week.”

I blinked and cleared my throat, morbidly curious and genuinely shocked that this seemingly normal guy could have such a high creep factor. “So, ah. Where do you get them? The dead animals?”

He shrugged. “All over. The things you learn. Like, do you have any idea how hard it is to find a dead grizzly bear? Shipping from Alaska is insane, especially for hazardous materials. I’m sure you can imagine. I just got a shipment of dead armadillos from Arizona for an order of custom purses. People just can’t seem to get enough of them.” He smiled, and it was a nice smile, for a serial killer.
 

“So, who buys these purses?”

“Texans, mostly, but also some hipsters who eat steak.” He sat back in his chair. “So, you’re a bartender?”

I tried to answer without reacting physically. “Yeah, for what seems like forever.”

“Are you in school?”

My least favorite question. I shifted in my seat. “No, no school. You?”

He shook his head. “I have a business degree from NYU. I mean, everyone should have a degree, right? If you don’t, you just end up working at a movie theater or drugstore or something. Gotta prove you can finish what you start, you know?” He didn’t wait for me to respond, or seem to realize that he’d basically just called me an idiot. “Anyway. my art is all I’ll ever need. Can you imagine working a job in some cubicle on Wall Street? That’s like the place where dreams go to die.”

I sort of laughed. “Yeah, but … novelty furniture? That can’t last forever, can it?”

He looked at me like I was crazy. “Why not? Taxidermy is an ancient art. It’s not going anywhere.”

“I dunno. Just seems a little irresponsible to count on that as income,” I answered honestly, dragging the awkward conversation down a flight of stairs.

He scoffed. “And bartending is, what … stable?”

My eyes narrowed at the dig, but I smiled. “Has been so far. I mean, I don’t make three thousand a pop pouring shots, but at least I don’t smell like death.”

He seemed confused. “Well, what are you passionate about?”

“Is whiskey an option?” I joked.

Serial Killer Steve didn’t laugh. “No.”

And then, my mouth took off with no fear or foresight. “How about teen movies from the 90s? I mean, it’s not nearly as exciting as having my hand up a dead grizzly bear’s ass all day, but it’s got to count for something, right?”

He made a face, finally catching on to my sarcasm. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Yeah, you did. Didn’t even wait to see if I was kidding.”

“Were you?”

I folded my arms. “Does it matter?”
 

He shrugged. “I just think it’s sad, is all. I can’t imagine living my life without something I was passionate about.”

I just looked at him for a second with flushed cheeks, imagining myself kicking him in the face. But instead, I smiled tightly. “Well, it was nice to meet you, but—”

“Hang on, wait. We’re not going to hook up?” His face fell.
 

My hackles rose as I stood with a sardonic smile on my lips. “Listen,
Steve
, I’d love to take this back to your murder room so you can show me your knife collection, but I think I need to go wash my hair since I smell like a morgue. I really hope you and your
passion
are super happy together.”

He rolled his eyes. “Well, at least I didn’t waste money on your coffee first.”

“Unbelievable,” I muttered, and then I walked the fuck out of Roasted like my boots were on fire.

Patrick

I SMOOTHED THE LAST PIECE of tape over the girl’s shoulder blade, covering her fresh tattoo as she looked over her shoulder at me.

“Leave the covering on for the next four hours, then toss it. Don’t cover it up again, okay?” I handed her a care sheet. “You’ll want to wash three times a day with a non-scented mild soap. I really like baby soaps. It’s going to start itching in a few days, but don’t scratch it, all right? Just slap it.”

She raised an eyebrow as she sat up and righted her shirt.

I smirked. “Trust me. It works.” I rolled my chair over to my cabinet and grabbed a small apothecary jar. “Use this balm after you wash it to keep it moisturized.”

She batted her lashes as she took it. “All right.”

“Any questions?”

“Can I, ah, call you?” She bit her lip. “You know, if I need anything? I mean, about my tattoo?”

I smiled, choosing my words carefully. “Sure, you can call the shop if you have any questions.”

“Thanks, Tricky,” she cooed.

I was already breaking down my station. “You got it, Cherice.”

She walked to the counter as “Siamese Dream” blared over the shop speakers, Billie Corgan wailing his lament as she paid. I was peeling the plastic wrap off my tray when she made her way back and leaned over the low wall, giving me an eye level view of her cleavage.
 

“Thanks again,” she said with a smile and handed me a couple of twenties.

“Any time.”

She looked me over once more before turning and strutting out. I glanced at Joel, who watched her from behind the counter. He shook his head and shot me a smile.

The bell over the door rang, and I looked back, expecting Cherice again. My hands froze, needle gun in my hand.
 

I hadn’t seen Seth in nearly a year, when he’d called me for help. He needed money, which was the immediate reason he’d called. But more than that, I knew he needed to get clean. I’d been trying for years to save him. But he didn’t want my help, not then. He just needed someone to bail him out, get him a fix. Three days, he’d been high. And we fought. And I’d left him where I found him in his apartment, trying not to think about the knobby joints of his arms, his grey skin marred with bruises and track marks.
 

We hadn’t spoken since. I didn’t even know if he was still alive, didn’t realize how much it had weighed on me, not until that moment when I saw him walking into the shop whole and felt the rush of relief.

He looked more like the kid I met so long ago than I’d seen him in years — clean and smiling, blond hair combed, green eyes bright. I think his shirt was even ironed.

I glanced at Joel, whose eyes were narrowed as he watched Seth approach me. I set down my machine and stood, stepping around to greet him.
 

He laughed, pulling me into a hug. “Goddamn, Tricky. It’s good to see you.”

I hugged him back, feeling the warm weight of him in my arms. “It’s been too long, man.”

He let me go and stepped back, looking me over. “Way too long.” He glanced over at Joel. “Hey, Joel. Shop’s looking good.”

Joel had the good manners to smile and play along, even though I knew he disapproved. “Thanks. You’re not looking so bad yourself.”

He smiled back, looking proud and together. “Yeah, well. A lot’s happened.”

“Looks like it.”

Seth turned to me. “I was in the neighborhood, wanted to see if you were here. Got a minute?”

I nodded. “A few. Walk with me to Roasted. We’ll grab coffee for the shop.”

“Sure.”
 

I pulled off my gloves and tossed them. “Joel, text me what everyone wants.”

“You got it, Tricky,” he said, watching Seth like a guard dog.

I took a breath, not sure what to expect as we walked out of the shop and into the sunshine, still battling the shock of seeing him and the wariness I always felt when it came to Seth. Wary, but protective. Because no matter what had happened between us, I loved him. And if I could shake the habit, so could he.
 

I glanced over at my first friend, my oldest friend. My friend who I had been sure had been beyond saving, but was somehow standing next to me with no signs that he was using, twenty pounds heavier than usual, no listing, ringed eyes.

He looked sober.
 

Seth slipped his hands into the pockets of his jeans and looked down at his Converse. “How’s life treating you, Trick?”

I shrugged. “Can’t complain. You look good, man.”

“Thanks. I’m straight. For real, this time. The yo-yo’s out of string.”

I nodded. “How long?”

“Six months. It’s the longest I’ve ever gone.” His voice was a little distant, touched with wonder. “It feels good, man. I get what you’ve been selling me all these years. The other side.” He waved a hand like he was displaying a movie marquis.
 

I smiled. “Finally. Rehab?”

“Nah, couldn’t afford it. I went to NarcAnon, made the choice. How many times have we talked about it? A thousand?”

“At least. How did you handle the come-down?”

He shook his head. “It was … it was bad, man. Two weeks before I felt like I wasn’t going to die. I tossed my stash, even broke my phone so I couldn’t call anybody. I was too sick for most of it to even get out of bed or I would have found my way to Jared or somebody, anybody. I don’t know how you quit cold turkey like you did.”

“If I hadn’t had Joel to take care of me, I don’t know how I would have either.”

His eyes were sad. “Yeah. You’re lucky for that. But anyway, I just wasn’t ready before, you know?” Seth sighed, shaking his head. “I was lying there in my bed, shaking and sweating in between puking into the trashcan next to my bed, and I stared at the ceiling and realized I didn’t want to die, and I’d been killing myself for years. I just didn’t know it. I finally got what you’ve always said. I can’t quit for anyone but me.”

“Yeah, I know.” And I did. That choice changed the course of my life. Sometimes you find yourself at a crossroad, and the path you choose determines everything — when you find love or lose it, if you live or die. The choice I made, the choice made possible by Joel, was something I woke up thankful for every day.
 

He took a heavy breath and continued. “So, yeah. I got clean, got a real job, scheduling deliveries for a courier company. Basically, I listen to the radio and yell at messengers all day. Life could be way worse.”

I chuckled.
 

“I mean, not that bussing tables at Bartalotti’s wasn’t swanky as fuck. Remember Bartalotti’s daughter?”

“How could any of us forget Gia?”

“Right? The curves alone.” Seth shook his head and sighed, smiling. “You haven’t lived until you’ve nailed Gia Bartalotti in the walk-in.”

“Next to the tubs of bolognese,” I added.

“Man, I miss the free bread.”

I gave him a look. “Pretty sure it wasn’t free.”

He shrugged. “Free for me. Anyway, my sponsor found this gig for me. Feels like a fresh start. Like a get out of jail free card. Been there six months — I think that’s the longest I’ve held a job since Bartalotti’s too.”

I smiled over at him. “I’m proud of you, man.”

He smiled back, but there was pain behind his eyes. “Does it get easier?”

I thought about it as we walked for a moment. “Yes and no. I don’t think about it as much, not anymore. But every once in a while …” I let out a breath. “Sometimes you can’t hide. It’s part of who you are. You just have to want to be sober more than you want to use.”

He nodded as we crossed the street. “That’s what I’m afraid of. I quit drinking and everything though. I don’t even go out, which is fucked up. I basically just watch Netflix every night.”

“You found normal.”

Seth laughed. “Jesus. So what the fuck is new with you?”

“Same old. Working a lot. Painting.”

“You still at our old place with West?”

I thought I picked up a little bitterness at the mention of West, but when I looked over, it seemed to be gone. After I’d left Joel’s, Seth said he wanted to get clean, so we moved in together. Within a year, I had to kick him out, which was when West moved in. Seth never forgot it, either, that I’d made a new life, one without him, without drugs. “Yeah, still in the same place. Sorta, at least.”