The plush carpet felt rough beneath my bare feet as I twisted my toes through the fibers. With each flick of my big toe my jeans brushed the back of my calloused heel. The sensation sent prickles through my knees, but it was oddly addicting. The charcoal grey leather of the overstuffed chair stuck fast to my bare back. I hardly ever turned on the air conditioning at night even in the sweltering summer months. The sometimes suffocating heat was a little reminder of home and at times, like now, a man needed just that.
A light perspiration covered every inch of my exposed torso and arms and I could feel it beading across my upper lip. Each rotation of the ceiling fan sent a breathy chill across the surface of my skin and was likely the only reason I was still awake as I sat there drowning in my whiskey. I stared at the old black and white movie on the television before me, but I was hardly paying attention.
It had been the longest damn day of my life. Really, it was a miracle that I was still breathing. I couldn't really say the same for old Lee, however. Ironic how these sorts of things come to pass. We both betrayed the firm. He gets a one-way ticket to the company morgue and I get a new office. I had been certain I would be taking up residence with Brutus and Cassius right about now. Maybe I'm just lucky.
My head fell back to the overstuffed chair and I closed my eyes as I was no longer able to hold the lids open. I was damn tired and the heat was starting to get to me. The heavy hit of the whiskey was little help on that front as well. It was making me feel quite content there in that chair and listening to the drawl of Gary Cooper and dreaming of a night with Grace Kelly, a starlet long dead and old enough to have been my grandmamma but one fine slice of bombshell heaven in her hey day. The movie itself I had seen enough times that it was playing out before me regardless of the fact that I was inspecting my eyelids.
"If you're honest, you're poor your whole life and in the end you wind up dying all alone on some dirty street."
Well, ain't that the truth? I knew I rather liked this movie for one reason or another. Maybe it was because I had just heard my own damn excuse for being the bastard I was stated in a more tactful way. Or maybe it was just because I liked to watch westerns when I was feeling sorry for myself. Whatever the case, the man had a point. I tried to ignore the devil's advocate telling me to look into the mirror to see who was going to die alone.
"For what?"
"For nothing," I mumbled to the television, in unison with Lon. I had seen this one a few too many times. I could blame my granddaddy for getting me addicted to the old cowboy pictures and stories, but my mama never did a thing to discourage him. Thoughts of the old rattlesnake still made me crack a half-smile.
"For a tin star."
And who wanted a goddamn tin star when you could have the cushy office and paycheck? I would be taking the latter, thanks. Angel could keep his shitty metaphorical star and I'd tell him where to shove it too. I may have helped him and his flunkies stop Wolfram and Hart today, but I was still going to be their golden boy tomorrow.
The glass in my hand clanged when it struck the side of the lamp table to my right as I fumbled blindly to set it down. Finding a steady surface finally, I let my hand drop from the glass to flap against the side of the leather chair with a long sigh. I had not the will or strength to peel my heavy ass from the seat and I relaxed in exhaustion accordingly.
Maybe Angel was right. Maybe I couldn't change. I was no humble sheriff. I was a hardened cowboy to the damn core. I did what was best for me. It was all I knew. And I failed to care if some lumbering gel-head had a problem with that. Lindsey McDonald had done his good deed for the decade. He'd be helping hold up the stagecoach from here on out. They might as well call me 'The L.A. Outlaw.' A chuckle held tight in my throat as I grinned. I kind of liked the sound of that.