“Who’s that?” Wapi asks when I walk in.
“New tenant,” I grunt, as I go back to shimming the window in the frame.
“Lucky bastard,” Wapi mumbles under his breath, and I throw a sharp glance his way.
“She’s a cop.” I’m not sure if I’m warning Wapi or myself at this point.
We work in silence after that. Three bedroom windows are done when I call it a night. It’ll be dark before we’ll get the slider in, so it’ll have to wait until tomorrow.
“What time?” Wapi asks when we get the tools cleaned up.
“Nine, and pick up some donuts.”
“Gotcha.”
I watch him drive off before I turn back to the small apartment beside the building office. Back to the quiet oppression of those four walls. When my eyes drift up to her front door, I abruptly turn around and aim for my bike. Everywhere I fucking turn, bad decisions are pulling at me.
I ride without a real purpose other than distraction, but even as the sun is starting to sink behind the mountains, I feel the need for something more burning a hole in my gut. Breaking out in a sweat, I pull off on the side of the road. I fish my wallet from my back pocket to look for the piece of paper Brick handed me a few weeks ago.
It’s the schedule for meetings at a community clubhouse, not too far from the apartments, but right now I’m on the other side of town up in the mountains. Even if I hustle, I’ll be late. I don’t even know if they’ll let me in once a meeting has started.
I realize I’m creating excuses, which is something I’ve been very good at. My life, until the day Trunk put me on that plane, had been a continuous stream of excuses. At the center they didn’t put up with that, but it’s still an easy trap for me to fall into.
Knowing I need to pull myself out of this spiral, I shove the paper and my wallet back into my pocket and aim my bike back to town.
I find a spot in the busy lot, park, hang my lid off the handlebar, and take a deep breath in. Here goes nothing.
Handwritten signs direct me to a large room, set up as a theatre, which allows me to slip into the back row without drawing too much attention. Better than the circle of chairs at the church.
“I see a few new faces,” the guy at the front points out. “Maybe this is a good time to introduce ourselves.”
One by one people stand up, and I sink farther down in my seat, not quite ready to do anything but listen. But the next moment I sit up straight, my eyes drawn to the person speaking.
CHAPTER 3
Lissie
“MY NAME IS Lissie, and I’m an alcoholic.”
My knees are wobbly and I’m sick to my stomach, as I feel all eyes in the room on me. It’s the first time I’ve said out loud what I’ve denied myself to be for more years than I care to admit.
I’ve never been a stumbling drunk, but vodka became my numbing agent of choice somewhere in my early twenties. At first it was hidden in girly mixes tasting more like Kool-Aid, just so I didn’t have to feel the sharp taste of the alcohol, but eventually I drank it straight, welcoming the slow burn down my esophagus.
I never drank during my shifts, but the moment I’d get home, after dealing with the dark side of humanity all day long, my bottle was waiting for me to wash away all that ailed me. There was a lot that would stick to me—too much—but I’d never found anything that would work its magic like a couple of shots did.
I’d looked up meetings as soon as I moved here. I’d never went to any back in Albuquerque, for fear of bumping into someone who might get word back to my family. A futile attempt to hide what ended up becoming the weapon my father wielded to bend me to his will. Memories of that confrontation still cut sharp and reinforce my need to stay sober.
Which is why, after today, I needed more than my own will holding me up.
The few meetings I attended here before I sat quietly in the back, absorbing the strength of others as they shared their stories. Tonight just listening is not enough.
“Hi, Lissie,” the communal mumble goes up, and I dart a quick glance around the room before sitting back down.
Somewhere behind me, I hear the next person introduce himself and I cast a look over my shoulder when my eyes freeze on a familiar figure.
Shit.
I can’t escape the intensity of his blue eyes as he stares at me attentively. There isn’t much else I can read from his blank expression and it makes me feel like a bug under a microscope. I straighten in my seat, barely able to focus on what is being said.
It makes sense now, the scene at the bar. It also makes things a little more complicated.
I hold no illusions I could keep the attention of a guy like Yuma. Not on a romantic level anyway, but what I’m looking for doesn’t require romantic, or long term. All I need is a foot in the door and an AA meeting could be a good place to find common ground.
Unfortunately, by the time the group jointly recites the acceptance prayer and falls on the refreshments set out in the adjoining kitchen, the chair where Yuma was sitting earlier is empty.
I head straight home. Forfeiting the pastries I can do without—all they do is gather on my ass—using fatigue as an excuse with Frank, the middle-aged banker who volunteered to be my sponsor at the first meeting I attended. I’m not a blabber by nature, and the fact he spilled his life story within five minutes of meeting me had me hesitate to accept his offer. I got the distinct sense he was more interested in a sounding board for his divorce woes than he was providing a failsafe for me.
I’m still on the fence about the whole sponsorship thing. I can see the benefits for some, but I don’t make friends easily because I don’t trust easily. I have my reasons.
The craving for sweets is persistent, so I stop at the City Market on my way home and raid the bakery department. Good thing I have more than one size of jeans in my closet.
“Is that your truck?”
Ezrah, the boy who lives with his sister and grandmother in the apartment next door, is sitting on the steps when I get out of my truck. I stop and grin up at him.
“Yup. All mine.”
“Never seen no chick drive a truck like that.”
I swallow a chuckle at the chick label. Before I have a chance to respond, Lisa appears at the top of the stairs. When she first introduced herself to me as the kids’ grandmother, I had trouble believing it. She looks way too young.
“Ezrah. Get your bony ass inside and finish your homework, boy.”
He grudgingly gets up and drags his butt up the stairs, mumbling something under his breath, for which he earns a flick to the back of his head.
“Mind your manners.”
“Night, Ms. Bucco,” he dutifully complies.
“Call me Lissie, Ezrah. Night.”
I climb up the stairs where Lisa is shaking her head, watching her grandson go inside their apartment.
“I swear that boy is growing sassier by the day,” she mutters. “Thought enrolling him in regular school this year would be good for him, but I’m wondering if it’s that good for me.”
“Handful?”
“You have no idea. Anyway,” she says, pointing at my grocery bags. “I’m sure you have stuff that needs to be put away, and I better get in there and make sure he’s doing what he’s supposed to.”