A/N: I'm back! I want to say a HUGE thank you to everyone who reached out to me during my time of grief. It makes me appreciate our nerdy little community so much. I love you all and I'm glad I'm able to post this tonight!
Here is the new fic! It's titled Drunk Me and stars our favorite couple, Tommy and Kim. This will be a very heavy Kim fic as my stories usually are. This will be set in the early 2000's, right after Tommy's time in Dino Thunder. Also, Tommy and Kat were never a thing in this. They went on a few dates but that's it. There will probably be no Kat bashing due to this but you never know since I hate her hahaha.
As always, I own nothing. I leave that business to Hasbro. But, I will take JDF anytime. :D
Drunk Me
1.
Fuck, someone turned on the sun this morning.
It felt like razor blades being sunken into my retinas as my eye lids drug themselves open. The instant pounding inside of my temples reminded me I had a pulse, meaning that I, Kimberly Ann Hart, had managed to survive another night. Though it sounded like a Monster truck rally was being held in my skull, I reached over and slammed my hand onto the alarm clock that was giving off that disgusting shrill noise. Once it was off, my hand slid off the end table and my arm drooped over the side of the bed. Why on Earth had I set the alarm? Clearly, I didn't have any motivation of doing anything today. Rolling on my side, I buried my face into my pillow and tried to coax myself into drifting back asleep. I was almost there when I heard my cell phone start to vibrate next to my head. Blindly, I searched for it with one hand. When I felt it under my fingers, I lifted my face so I could see the screen. Joey Ramone. My boss. Fuck.
"Hello?" I managed to croak out as I hit the answer button.
"Kim, you better not still be in bed." His deep voice said in my ear. The night before was starting to come back to me. I had set my alarm because I was supposed to be in early today to do inventory.
"I'm not. I'm getting ready." I lied, shifting so I was now sitting up. I let out a hiss as the room spun slightly from the movement. "Can you still pick me up?"
"Sure. I'll be there in fifteen. I'll be sure to bring coffee." I heard the smirk in his voice, and I glared at the wall in front of me.
"Good thinking." I heard the phone click and I set mine down on the bed next to me. The white tank top I had changed in to last night when I came home was crooked on my torso, my right boob practically hanging out of the arm hole. I still wore my jean shorts, my abilities not reaching that mark apparently. Half way was better than no way, I suppose. Taking a deep breath, I stood up. The dizziness hit me like a brick, causing me to stand perfectly still for a moment. As it subsided, I allowed my head to roll backwards so I was gazing up at the cracked ceiling above my head. The old familiar shapes where there; the triangle, the outline of Nevada and the perfect representation of Donald Trump. I had recognized them after the many long nights I had spent here, starring up at the ceiling. The lack of television will do that to a person.
Swearing under my breath, I finally braved the idea of walking. Using the wall for support, I found my way out of my closet sized bedroom into the hallway. I spotted my coat on the floor here, along with my shoes. It was amazing that I make it home clothed most nights. Shuffling my feet, I took a right and found the doorway to the bathroom. The curtain was drawn in here on the small window above the toilet. The porcelain was dingy and brown, opposed to the bright white it should have been. I lifted the seat and peered down into the water. A wave of nausea washed over me, and I gripped the toilet in my hands as the contents of my stomach projected from me. My whole body heaved as I threw up, the last bits of bar food I had consumed at some point last night making their way out. I continued to heave until nothing came out, telling me I had emptied the tank. Wiping my mouth, I flushed the toilet. It all washed away, not a single trace but the sour smell in the air. Slapping the seat back down, I plopped down onto it and pressed my face against the cool tile of the wall. The sink was directly in front of me and I propped my elbow up on it. My head felt like it weighed fifty pounds all on its own and I wished that it would just pop off my shoulders.
Bending forward, I opened the cabinet door under the sink and felt around until I felt my fingers graze what I was looking for. I wrapped them around the neck of a glass bottle before pulling it out. In my hand, I saw the bottle of Mr. Boston's vodka. The remaining liquor, about two thirds of a liter, splashed around inside of it. Twisting the cap off, I took a large swig from it. The burn didn't mix well with the acidity of my vomit in the back of my throat but a second and third sip made that pain vanish. I took a fourth for good measure before putting the cap back on and shoving it back into its hiding spot. Slowly, the feeling of death began to fade, and I was able to stand up from the toilet. I gingerly brushed my teeth, hoping to avoid the prospect of vomiting again. I knew Joey would be coming any moment now, so I decided to skip the shower. I quickly washed my hair in the sink, tossing it up into a pony tail when I was finished. Heading back to my room, I replaced my tank top with a cleanish bra and a t-shirt that had some construction company logo on it. I had no clue where it had come from. Probably some guy I had met at some point. It was comfortable and didn't make me feel like I was going to sweat to death today. That's all the mattered.
Now somewhat ready to face the day, I made my way from my bedroom to the kitchen. Well, I guess you could call it a kitchen. And a living room. My apartment was the definition of tiny. I had just enough room in this part of my house for a little loveseat, an end table, two chairs and a small table. The rest was filled with the fridge and stove my landlord supplied. If you sat on the couch, you could open the fridge. Though convenient, it gets really old when you're trying to do something. I don't cook much though. I prefer to have my meals on the go or when I'm at work. It's easier and cheaper that way too. Joey lets me eat for free while I'm on shift. Saves me a whole lot of money on food. And greasy bar food is some of the best food when you wake up feeling like a soggy kitchen sponge.
Walking over to the fridge, I pulled the door open and grabbed an off-brand name bottle of cold coffee. It was supposed to be better than the leading brand according to the label. I would beg to differ, especially after drinking the first on from the package the other morning. It passes as breakfast of some type I suppose and it helped settled my stomach slightly. I popped the cap from it and swallowed half the bottle in a couple sips. It helped wash down the vodka taste from my mouth. From my place in my kitchen, I saw a little red pickup truck pull into the driveway. I finished off the coffee as Joey honked his horn. Leaving the empty bottle on the table, I grabbed my purse from the back of the chair before heading out the door.
"You look like shit, kid." Joey's raspy voice said as I opened up the passenger side door of his truck. His thick accent that screamed he was from the Bronx seemed to almost penetrate my skull as he spoke. Reaching into my purse, I shoved my sunglasses on my face to help shield my eyes from the agony the sun provided.
"You're such a charmer." I muttered, securing my seatbelt. The thinning dark blonde hair on the top of his head was slightly gelled and spiked. His blue eyes looked bright in contrast to the black t-shirt he wore. Joey always tried to dress like he was younger than he actually was. He was edging towards sixty with a small pot belly growing that he tried to hide with designer jeans and tight shirts. It didn't work as well as I think he thinks it works but who am I to judge a guy for trying? Joey's a nice guy, someone who gave me a job when I was at my lowest. Granted, it's not singing at the Ritz, but it is singing, and it puts a roof over my head. I also make some extra money when he's down a bartender or needs someone to help pick up the slack when Becky, the head bartender, is out on maternity leave. She currently is, just popping out baby number three last week. He isn't a sleezy ball, something that is rare in this part of town and he watches out for us girls.
"So, what happened last night?" He asked, pulling out of my driveway and heading north up my street. I saw the typical people outside, the small gang that lives three doors up from me sitting on their front porch. They eyeballed Joey's truck as we passed but Marcus, the leader, smiled when he saw me. He was a nice boy, about nineteen. He was only 15 when I moved in and his mother insisted he help me move in my furniture when she saw me struggling. Him and his cousin, Jose, helped me out all day and both of them still come around, asking if I need help with anything. I guess calling him and his friends a gang is a bit presumptuous since I don't believe none of them could hurt a fly. But I have read in the paper where gang violence has been getting worse around town. Marcus' mother would more than likely beat him with a broom if he was involved in anything like that. Mrs. Santiago didn't play any games when it comes to her kids. Sometimes she yells so loud, I think I'm in trouble.
"Nothing." I muttered, squinting up the street. Joey scoffed as he took a left at the stop sign.
"Right. You stumbled out of the door about two last night. Hank said he thought he saw a guy following you to your cab." He peaked at me from the corner of his eyes.
"There wasn't anyone that I saw." I replied, frowning. Was there? I'm pretty sure if there had been a guy somewhere last night, he would have been next to me in my bed when I woke up. It's sometimes a common occurrence in my life, especially when I am feeling the need to entertain myself. "I think Hank is seeing things."
"Well, just in case, I think one of us is going to start bringing you to and from the bar. I don't want a repeat of last summer." I let out a small laugh that made my head hurt.
"Joey, I don't think a girl can get two stalkers in a lifetime. If that's the case, I'm going to play the lottery."
"I really wish you wouldn't joke about that. It's not funny." He replied, frowning in my direction. He's referring to an incident that occurred last summer. I was closing the bar up one Tuesday night. He had gone home, his mother needing him for something. Becky had been off, and I had told Hank, our bouncer, that he could leave too. A guy tried to come in after I had locked the doors. I told him we were closed, and he swore at me. The next thing I knew, he was showing up everywhere I was. If I was at the park with Becky and her kids, he was there. One time, Joey took me to the store to get food for a special party and the guy was there. I didn't think anything of it until I started seeing him outside of my house. I confronted him and he acted like he was just minding his own business. He even introduced himself as Gary Shipman, a contractor that lived just a few blocks up. I warned him to stay away from me. He didn't though. He started coming to the bar to watch me sing. I finally broke down and told Joey about it. He threw the guy out of the bar and Hank threatened to cut his dick off and feed it to his pitbull if he ever came back. We haven't seen him around since then.
"Trust me. If it was that psycho, we would know it." To the right of the street, the parking lot of the Glenmore Bar appeared. The truck shook as he pulled into the lot, the small bar looking surprisingly cheerful in the sunlight. It was a good-sized building, large enough for the bar and two offices upstairs. It was dressed in beige colored siding and a blue roof. A large sign that said Glenmore was perched on one side of the building. Neon lights that read the names of beers hung in the windows, their light not on since we weren't open. Wednesday is the only day we don't open for lunch. It's our inventory day and Joey makes sure to keep to that schedule.
"Just be careful, okay? I know you haven't had the best year and you're going through things-." He started but I cut him off.
"I'm fine, Joey. Really. I know how to take care of myself. Believe me." I yanked my seatbelt off and climbed out of the truck. He followed, pulling his keys to the front door. Together, we crossed the parking lot and he unlocked the door. The difference between the bright outside world and the dark bar was instant. It took my eyes a moment to adjust while Joey walked over to the fuse box. He flipped on the lights of the bar room and they seemed dim in comparison to the sun. The room smelled clean, the hint of lemon fresh in the air. I saw the fifteen tables in the main portion of the room, their chairs on them to make it easier to mop. The booths along the sides of the room also looked clean. Alan, our cook and janitor, does a great job in cleaning the place up after closing. I turned right and walked over to the long bar. It was made of a dark stained wood, chipped varnish covering it. Eighteen bar stools were lined up in front of it, the red leather on their seats looking slightly worn down. It was almost time for Joey to replace them again. He likes to do so every five or six years or so. Before, they were this gross green color. I liked the red but hoped he would go with black. It was a better color and would be easier to keep clean.
"I'll do the freezer and the fridge if you can man the bar." He said, gesturing towards the wall behind the bar. There was a large mirror here that ran the almost entirety of the bar. The bottles of our finest booze were set up here, the most expensive on the top shelf. Our cheapest was on the bottom, these varying in their amounts. I nodded, setting my purse on the bar top.
"Sure."
"Make sure you check the glasses too. I think I might need to order some more." He called before walking through the swinging door that led to the kitchen. Walking behind the bar, I grabbed the book that was kept next to the cash register that was older than I was. I flipped the book open to last week's inventory list. This was a print out of the different types of alcohol we have and how much we had last week. Once our amounts get below a certain level, we make a list of what we need to order. There was also a list for the sodas, juices, garnishes and other things we might use to make the mixed drinks.
Looking down the list, I found a cheap brand of rum that was almost full. Turning, I scanned the shelf until I saw it. Reaching out, I picked up the bottle and shifted it in my hand so I could see how much was in. It was still pretty full, probably only three drinks taken from it. Eyeing the door to the kitchen, I grabbed a plastic cup and poured it almost to the brim with the rum. I could smell the alcohol coming from the clear liquid as I twisted the cap back onto it. I put the bottle back before bringing the glass to my lips. I chugged the liquor, the plastic cup crinkling in my hand as I sucked the alcohol from it. I panted as it drained, tossing the empty cup into the garbage by my hip. On the inventory sheet marked with today's date, I marked that the bottle I had poured from was half full now.
I spent the next hour, going over each item in the bar. Now and then, I would take some of whatever I was measuring. I made sure to stick with the cheaper bottles, not wanting to screw Joey any more than I already was. I knew he got a great deal from the nearby liquor store, getting the cheap booze whole sale rather than the typical price. Besides, he never measures the amount of what Becky or Sandra, the other bartender, pour for each drink. Becky tends to underpour while Sandra, whose always hungry to get more tips, will overpour. A drunk customer is one who is more likely to give more in a tip, something she told me when I first started. She was right. Both of these things worked in my favor.
Drinking isn't something I just like doing. Granted, I usually have a grand ol' time doing it as long as I'm around good people. It's something I find that takes the edge of this shitshow I call life. Looking back, I never would have pegged myself as someone who needed to have a drink to get through the day, but I also never saw myself working in a dive bar in Miami, Florida. It is what it is though and you gotta take what life gives you. I wouldn't call myself an alcoholic or a drunk. I just drink because there's nothing else to do with my time. And plus, working at a bar is something that lets me drink for free. When I sing, Joey gives me free drinks. When I tend bar, especially nights Joey isn't here, I drink with my customers. They like it, I like it, and I walk out with more tips than I would if I didn't. Some nights when I'm not entirely drunk of my ass, I do find myself feeling ashamed of how I handle myself. That's when I typically go find myself someone to keep me company at night. It works, aiding to the fact I'm not interested in anything serious. Most of the time, I find guys like that too. It works for the both of us. I mean, now and then, I'll get a clinger but ghosting them is pretty easy.
Opening the small fridge under the bar, I grabbed the tubs that held the fruits we use for drinks. There were five in total and I lined them up on the bar. In the first tub, there were strawberries. They were cut up into slices mostly, the thicker pieces on the bottom. The next tub had black berries. Becky makes an amazing fizzy drink with blackberry rum and fresh berries that is to die for. Joey loves them too, so he added them to our drink menu. The remaining tubs held blue berries, limes, and lemons. My eyes lingered on the tubs for a moment, the colors of the fruit making the breath in my throat hitch. Red, black, blue, green and yellow. They are just colors, I mentally told myself. That's it. My eyes fell on the lemons, the bright yellow of their peels burning my eyes. I then realized it wasn't them that was hurting my eyes. It was the tears that were trying to form. I blinked them away, scooping up the bins and shoving them back into the fridge. Quickly, I scribbled on the sheet that we would need more of all of them. I didn't even bother to try to count them. I couldn't bring myself to do that right now. I glanced at the alcohol list and found a cotton candy flavored vodka that was pretty full. I took five gulps right from the bottle, the horrible artificial taste making me shudder more than the burn did. I made a mental note to never drink that shit again.
"How we doing out here?" Joey asked, coming from the kitchen. He wiped his hands on a dish towel, glancing over at me. I set the bottle down, giving him a smile.
"All done. I don't think we're going to need much before the weekend rush. How's the kitchen?" I asked, closing the book.
"No more than usual." He eyed me for a moment, something waiting on his lips to be said. He shook his head though, sighing. "Wanna go to the store with me? I could use the help."
"Sure." I replied, feeling the small rush of fear I hadn't noticed appear in my chest begin to subside. I was fine. He didn't know. There was no way he could have known. It's not like he has cameras here in the bar.
"Good. I'll get my truck."