I watched as Wilson and Sam left the loft, laughing at some shared memory. His arm was draped loosely around her shoulders, pulling her into him. She was huddled close to him, so close they were practically joined at the hip. They seemed...happy.

Part of me hated them. They pretended to be so happy, when they were marginally less miserable than everybody else.

That, and they were getting some some. Lucky bastards.

So, here I was, another Friday night, alone. Well, not completely, there was my porn, and the number of a particularly buxom hooker named Sarah that I'd met in the Clinic a few months ago. Sometimes, Clinic does have its advantages.

But, I wasn't in the mood for porn, or for hookers or strippers. I'd grown bored with them. I wanted something else, someone else.

Someone that I couldn't have.

So, I spent my summer break in rehab, trying to figure out what drew me to her. She was the forbidden fruit, the golden apple. One bite, and I was hooked for life.

I stood up from the couch, angry at myself. I hated that I dwelt on the past like that. The past was over, done. There wasn't a goddamn thing I could do about it. It was time to move on.

I limped to my room, ignoring the pulsating ache radiating from my mangled thigh. I tossed my ratty plaid robe on my bed, then dressed, fast. I pulled my old leather riding jacket out of the closet, as well as my helmet. It was time to get back on the bike. Literally and metaphorically.

I locked the door to loft, smirking smugly to myself. Wilson had left his keys conveniently on the kitchen counter. I turned my cell phone off.

I left the building, and walked the short distance down the street. There she was, all black and chrome, gleaming in the dirty orange street light. A poor replacement for the orange Repsol, but she stood out on the lot. On the right side, a large scrape marred the smooth tank, denting the chrome. I got her for six grand below market value; a good deal.

I put on the red helmet. My black one had been damaged in the crash last spring, and I hadn't replaced it yet. I straddled the bike, settling myself on the leather seat, listening to it creak beneath my weight. I put the key in the ignition, and opened the throttle, listening to it roar to life.

That's why I picked her. She may not be winning any beauty contests soon, but she makes up for it in pure power. I let her warm up, then, a few minutes later, I walked her out of the space, then, I shifted gears, and I rode into the dark night.

I rode out of Princeton like the devil herself was on my ass. To be honest, I'm surprised I never got a speeding ticket, as fast as I was flying. The bike responded smoothly to every turn, every shift of my weight. It wasn't long, and I was in Atlantic City.

It was nearly midnight, but the city never slept. The bright neons of the main drag illuminated me brightly, the blues, greens, yellows, oranges, and pinks reflecting off the black tank. The smell of salt and sea hung in the air, with the smell of a large, living city, exhaust fumes, and restaurants; as well as dead fish.

It's my kind of town.

I pull a little away from the main drag, and I find myself at a little club. The brick was crumbling, and about half the neon lights had winked out. The glass windows were small and frosted.

It felt like home away from home.

I limped inside, the heavy door creaking as I opened it. The place was dimly lit, the lights were in deep shades of blue and red; perfect for a jazz club. I made my way down a narrow hallway, then, the building opened up.

Sheer drapes hung from the walls, coating them like cobwebs. A long bar illuminated by green and blue lights stood guard at one end of the building, while a small stage took up residency at the opposite end. A lone microphone stood sentinel at the front of the stage, and there was an old, beat-up black baby grand piano near the back. A few small amps were scattered on the rough wooden boards, scuffed from nearly five decades of shoes.

There was a small dance floor directly in front of the stage, but there weren't a lot of people using it. People came here to listen. Tables were scattered around the rest of the large room, and there were a handful of people sitting at them, sipping at drinks, trying to forget whatever they were here to forget.

I limped over to the bar. I ordered a scotch, no ice, no soda, and I found a seat in the back.

And I waited.

For what, I don't know.

I sat there until the wee hours of the morning, nursing on scotches, waiting for god knows what. A lovely African American girl wearing a white dress took the stage. Her melodic, brooding voice echoed through the microphone through the club.

My thoughts drifted. So much was happening, and it was happening way too fast. I don't like change, but change is inevitable. Wilson was on the verge of throwing me out. I knew it; he knew it, hell, the entire staff of PPTH probably knew it. It was only a matter of time before he picked Sam over me.

Speaking of making the wrong choice, Cuddy and her love puppy were in happily unwedded bliss. For how long, I don't know. All I knew, was that I was on the outside looking in.

It was fucking depressing.

So what did I do for the rest of the night? Duh, I drank myself in a stupor, something I had been doing more and more of as of late. When the pain, whether from my leg, or from simply living, reared its ugly head, I stepped into a bottle, which is what I was used to doing; except now, it was a bottle of booze instead of a bottle of vicodin.

Closing time was announced, and last call. I decided that it was time for me to leave, and I got up. Big mistake. I'd misjudged how much I'd had to drink, and I crashed into the wall as I wobbled unstably. I made enough noise that people took notice.

The bouncer came up to me, a big burly youth in his early twenties. "You okay, man," the kid asked in a heavy Bronx accent. He put a meaty hand on my shoulder, trying to steady me.

"Just dandy," I slurred. He frowned, then turned to the bartender. "Call a cab. We got a boozer."

I jerked my arm out out of his light grasp. "I'm not your girlfriend." Damn, it sounded garbled, even to me. "I can call my own goddamned ride home." He took a couple steps back, his hands raised in an I surrender position. Good.

I reached into my pocket, and I pulled out my cell. I turned it on, and I found I had a voice mail. It took me a moment to remember I'd locked Wilson out of the apartment. F*ck, there went that option. I blearily scrolled down through the names, and I realized how empty my phone was. There was only maybe 3 or 4 people I could call.

Thirteen and Foreman were at the hospital, and they couldn't pick me up. There was no answer from Taub. Ditto for Chase. That left only one number, and I really didn't want to dial it, but I did, anyway.

A few minutes later, I hung up. I turned to face the bartender and the bouncer. "Gotta ride," I announced. Swaying slightly on my feet, I exited the building. Once outside, I slid down wall, slumping on the cement stoop.

And I waited.