The first thing he heard when he came to was the constant buzz of his bedroom's window air conditioner, eyes still resolutely shut against the day. The sunlight was far too bright when he finally rolled over in bed, rubbing his eyes. He checked the clock- 11:36AM.
Christ. What time did I pass out?
He rubbed his face a bit, stubble rough against his hand, and finally rolled out of the bed. The sheets were messy, the blanket half tossed off over the night in a bid to escape the heat when the window unit froze over at some point. His hair drooped a bit, mussed from tossing and turning, and he yawned as he scratched at his scalp.
He needed a few things at the moment- a shower being one, and he could list the rest for a few hours. A real job. Figuring out what the hell had happened between that trial and last night. Finishing unpacking the boxes that held his paltry few belongings. Checking with the landlord about getting a spare key. See if there was a school around here for Trucy. File the change of address form with the bank. Let Maya know where he'd moved to, now that he was out of the office. Tell her not to let him know. If the bastard even cared, he'd be able to find him easily enough.
At the very least, he'd managed to wait until Trucy was sound asleep in her bedroom before he started drinking. It was a start. Still...
That really doesn't help my headache. He covered his eyes with his hand, rubbing down his face as he yawned again. His feet brushed the cheap tan carpet underfoot, and he shuffled out of the room, still dressed in a shirt and his boxers.
The sounds hit him first, an auditory assault in the form of Trucy watching cartoons on the sofa. There was a smallish mixing bowl in her lap, with just a bit too much Chocolate Frosted Sugar Bombs scooped up on a large spoon. She turned back to him for a moment, smiling brightly at him and waving for a moment before becoming re-engrossed in the show.
He stepped into the kitchen, not bothering to flick on the light due to the power bill and enough light coming in the front window. There were fresh dings in the fridge door when he reached it, still having not quite shaken the bad habit of kicking it in anger at something (if he bothered to stop and think about it) completely unsubstantial. The most recent, and the one responsible for the distant and dull ache in his big toe, was the same one that left him to attempt to half-drown himself in a bottle of cheap scotch. Miles. The problem for him was always being left alone to think about things. He was fine when there was someone to look after, Trucy to add that sort of background noise in his life.
He braced his head against the cool metal of the freezer and stared down into the nearly-empty fridge. He grabbed the milk, drinking down the last dregs of it from the gallon bottle before tossing it in the garbage on his way to the table. It was simple, picked up at a used furniture store, with the sort of laminate top that matched nothing and two mismatched chairs. He roughly pulled the plain wooden chair from his side of the table, sitting down to look back over yesterday's paper. The classified section, sadly, did not have a section devoted to ex-lawyers who were framed and disbarred and seemed to have a knack for fucking up everything they touched.
So much for that. Maybe I'll just give up work and win the lotto.
He smiled a bit bitterly before lowering the paper, giving a bit of a start at Trucy sitting on the table, cereal bowl on her lap and top hat on her head. She thought for a minute, spacing out for a moment before she held up the spoon as if making an address. "You know what you need, daddy?"
"A stiff drink?" The headache was not helping matters much, at this point, but Trucy just shrugged off the look he was giving her.
"You need a job." She nodded. "We're out of cereal."
"...I've been trying."
She shook her head. "You're not thinking right." Think crazy. "What are you good at?"
He thought, and it struck him that he couldn't name too many things he had been good at that he actually cared about anymore. Law, acting, drawing...it had all come and gone. She had asked him the same thing yesterday, and, to be honest, he hadn't given it much thought.
...Wait. College. "I can play poker."
"Alright, then you'll do that for a living!"
A pointed look, and she smiled. "Poker doesn't pay the bills, Trucy. ...and you're not going to work."
"That's not true." She smiled again, poking his nose. "You can make money playing cards. I'll help! I'm a professional, after all!" A nod.
Right. "I can play the piano. I used to do that in high school for cash after class." He was thinking, running a thumb across the stubble on his chin and neck.
"So you'll do both, then!" She nodded. "So...what does the paper say?"
He turned back to it, furrowing his brow a bit as he flipped from the section he'd been looking at. There it was, at the very bottom of the page. Geeze. How do you even pronounce the name of this place? "This place needs a piano player...just someone to, you know, add ambiance. Background noise."
"So it's a start. And then it'll be Trucy Wright and her papa Phoenix! We'll have the only musical magical act on the west coast!"
I wouldn't hold your breath about that one. I'm not about to get sawed in half on stage by a second-grader.
He shook his head, circling the ad and looking at the phone. If he was lucky, they'd have connected it and he'd be able to call. "Let's just start with paying the bills, Trucy."