Author's Note: For those of you who predicted dark, I can tell you that your predictions are quite accurate. ;o)
The club was as alive as ever at two in the morning. The scent of beer and sweat permeated the air, and one or two girls tried to pull him into a dance, but all Greg wanted was the bar. He wove in between the hot bodies as the pounding music aggravated the headache that wasn't entirely gone from earlier. He found an empty stool and took a seat. Lyle's back was turned, but soon the bartender pivoted and caught sight of Greg. He seemed wary at first, but then he smiled and approached Greg.
"Back again, I see," said the bartender.
"Wild horses couldn't keep me," Greg replied with a smirk. "You off the junk?"
"That's a heroin nickname," Lyle chuckled. "And I'll quit. Starting tomorrow. You know, alcohol is a drug too. Just because it's legal doesn't make it any healthier."
"Shut up and bring me my scotch."
Lyle rolled his eyes but nodded and he was off. Greg's eyes wandered, taking in the crowd, scanning it for the woman he knew had to be there… And sure enough, there she was, sitting at the end of the bar in a very revealing hot pink tube top as she laughed a little too loudly at the jokes of a scrawny red-headed twenty-something kid.
Greg's eyes narrowed as his blood began to boil and Lyle showed up with his drink again. "Here y'are… What are you starin' at…?" He followed Greg's gaze. "Ah. You gonna call her out?"
"Thinkin' about it," said Greg, his eyes never leaving the cocky brunette.
"Be careful," Lyle warned. "She may be a bitch, but she's a good tipper. If you know what I mean."
Greg was too focused on his target to understand the innuendo of that statement. "Yeah, I can handle her," he said before sliding off his stool and sidling on up behind her as she flirted with her unwitting victim. He tapped her on the shoulder and with a flip of her perfect sienna hair, she turned.
"Yes—oh shit," she cursed, her smile faltering at the sight of Greg.
But his strengthened. "Hey, babe. I think you owe me money. And some credit cards. And a cell phone."
She glanced back at the confused redhead and then to Greg again. "What are you doing back here? Most guys don't come back to the scene of the crime."
"Well I'm a criminalist, so crime scenes are kinda my thing." He held out his hand expectantly. "My stuff, bitch?"
"Excuse me, Cam, is he bothering you?" asked the redhead, who Greg actually doubted was over twenty-one. "Because I can totally kick his ass for you."
She gave him a pout and put a hand on his cheek. "Oh, you are too adorable. But that's OK, sweetie, I can handle. Finish your drink."
He put the beverage to his lips when Greg called, "I wouldn't if I were you. She spiked it, you'll be out of it in five minutes."
Though skeptical, the boy lowered the glass and eyed it, nervously.
"Considering how fast it worked orally, I'm thinking that your drug of choice is either ecstasy or GHB."
Camellia turned swiftly to the redhead for some damage control. "Sweetie, I wouldn't do that to you," she cooed sweetly. "He's just a jealous ex, pay no heed to him."
"You know, I should have you arrested," Greg growled, seizing her wrist.
"Let go of me!" Camellia demanded.
"Security!" the boy yelped, but he wasn't loud enough to be heard by security over the music and everyone else kept dancing.
"OK, look!" Camellia hissed, leaping to her feet and shooting daggers at Greg. Though he still held her wrist, she used it to lead him away from the redhead and into an alcove, which was slightly quieter than the main room. "Yes, I robbed you. Get over it and leave me alone!" She whipped her hand out of his grip.
"I should have seen it before…" said Greg. "That accent? You're not from Alabama, you're from Queens!"
"You ever been to Queens, sugar?" Camellia asked, folding her arms and putting her weight onto one foot in a very New Yorker fashion. "Maybe I wanted to be from a small town in 'Bama, K? Can ya blame a girl?"
"I can, and I am," said Greg. "Give me my money, Camellia. Which I'm fairly certain is not your real name."
"What if I told you it was?" she asked.
"Right, just like you're from Alabama. Give me my stuff and I won't press charges, OK?"
"And what if I said I sold it already?" she asked.
"You moved goods in twenty-four hours and had time to pull off another job?" Greg cocked an eyebrow. "If that's the truth, then I'll be really impressed. My stuff. Now, please."
She rolled her eyes and opened her purse, in which Greg could see three other phones that he was certain weren't all hers. "Em… what's it look like again? As you can see, I—"
"Give me that!" Greg demanded, yanking her purse away and rifling through it.
"Don't you know it's rude to go through a lady's purse like that?" Camellia asked.
"Aha!" Greg exclaimed upon unearthing his cell phone. He saw he had seven missed calls and rolled his eyes before tucking the phone away in his pocket. "Take that, you thief!"
"I don't have your wallet," she confessed. "That's back at my place. You're outa luck, buddy, unless you want to come home with me."
"No thanks," said Greg, in a much more cheerful mood. "There was only about ten bucks in cash in it anyway, and I've already cancelled all my cards." He looked up at her and handed her back her purse. "So what did you slip me, anyway? Out of curiosity?"
She smiled. "Why, did you like it?"
"I seem to recall a vague sense of happiness, yeah," he said.
"Valium can cause anterograde amnesia," said Camellia.
"Valium, eh?" Greg was intrigued. "That was it?"
She nodded. "Nausea, too, that's a side effect that made you ruin my new shoes."
Greg paused for a moment, turning the seed of an idea over in his mind before planting it deep in the soil of his brain. "Do you… happen to have anymore?"
She was suddenly very interested. "So you did like it."
"A drug that can make me forget about myself for a while and leave me with a vague sense of happiness when I wake up again? Sure, I guess. Plus, it's Valium. I can handle Valium. It's what depressed housewives take. No one gets shot over Valium, do they?"
"I don't know…" Camellia said slowly, a smile spreading across her lips. But she began digging through her purse again until she pulled out a tiny orange bottle and shook its contents. "Aw, but you're out of cash."
"Consider the wallet you stole from me your payment. And the fact that I'm not arresting for dealing and assault and theft."
"Why my good sir, are you blackmailing me?" Camellia asked with a hint of aroused intrigue.
Greg hadn't thought about it that way. "Give me the drugs," he said, and she handed them over, seemingly amused by his behavior.
"I had no idea you were this dirty, sugar. Otherwise, I would have never targeted you."
"Why did you?" Greg asked. "Target me, I mean."
"You were depressed and you were alone," Camellia said simply. "The loners are always easy. Plus, you looked like a decent guy. Sweet. Trusting. Naïve. I knew I could use that."
Greg chewed on his lip and stared at the bottle in his hand and rolled it between his fingers. Naïve…he repeated in his head. He looked up at her again. "Is this all you got?"
She chuckled. "My, my, you are anxious, aren't you?"
"No," he said, shaking his head and glancing out of the alcove over her shoulder at the nervous redheaded boy at the bar, who was still eying his drink warily. "Where do you get your stuff?"
"That's not your business," she replied.
"When can you get more?"
"Maybe… next week?" she replied.
He nodded, his fingers closing around the bottle. "Good." And then, he marched out of the alcove and over to the bar, knocking the drink all over it and spilling it on the boy's jeans.
"You asshole!" the kid exclaimed.
"Ooh, sorry, my bad," Greg said, with no hint of apologetic tones. "I guess you're gonna have to go home and change your jeans. Tragic. But not as tragic as you getting kicked out of here for being under age." He nodded at the exit. "Get the hell out of here, kid."
The boy looked like he wanted to pick a fight, but seemed to think better of it and hightailed it out of there, leaving Greg laughing.
"You son of a bitch!" he heard Camellia exclaim behind him and he turned around to see her with her hands on her hips. "He was an easy hit! Daddy's little boy, with a yacht and everything. He could afford to lose a few bucks!"
Greg held up the bottle. "This is no longer yours." He pocketed it. "It's mine. And you won't be back here tomorrow, will you Camellia?"
"So that's why you took it? So I'd be dry?" She seethed. "Are you even going to use it?"
"No," said Greg. "It's toxic."
"Tell that to the pill-popping housewives," Camellia growled. But then, she smiled. "You'll try it."
"How do you know?" Greg challenged.
"Because one day, sugar, you're going to get tired of playing the hero. Gimme your phone."
"You aren't gonna steal it again, are you?" Greg asked.
She shook her head. "Just give me the phone, querido."
Greg frowned. "Are you Hispanic?"
"Puerto Rican, on my mother's side," she replied. "I just want to program my number. So you know how to reach me, if you want more."
"I won't," he insisted. "Except to buy you out."
"Right," she said. "That gets a little expensive, doesn't it? You gonna keep saving these kids forever?"
Greg chewed on his lip, but said nothing.
She laughed. "You get a freebie this time, because of the wallet thing, and the punching you in the stomach thing, and the whole blackmail thing. But next time, I expect cash. Because blackmail gets real old, real fast, and I know a couple of guys who could take care of you, if I asked them to."
"Hey, I'm a nice guy, right?" Greg asked, handing Camellia his phone.
"Oh yeah," she replied, punching in her number. "A real sucker." She handed the phone back to Greg. He didn't look at it.
"I won't call this number," Greg said, blinking. "I have no need for it."
"Then why did you give me your phone, baby?" She was smirking, because they both knew the answer to that.
"Just in case," he said. "You know, if I want to arrest you for all your charges." Greg finally looked down at the phone and saw that she had filed it under "Cam."
"Did you know that the Camellia is the state flower of Alabama?" she asked with a wink.
"That's really not your name, is it?" Greg asked.
"Ah, cariño, that's for me to know, and you to never guess."
And with another dramatic hair flip, she turned on her heel and disappeared into the crowd, with Greg watching her retreating back. And Greg was left alone with the pills.
He had no more business being at that club, and was averse to lingering, so decided he would head home and feed his new cat, which was probably hungry again. He needed to pick up some real cat food for that thing, but that would have to wait until the stores were open. There were so many things that he needed to do, it was beginning to bring back his headache.
He moved to the exit and slid out into the fresh night air, heading for his car, when someone grabbed his arm. Greg stopped and looked up to see that a man who was much larger than Lyle and had a red crew cut was clutching his arm. He wore a polo shirt and blue jeans and looked like the meanest rich kid Greg had ever seen. He tried hard not to laugh at the freckles on the guy's face.
"Did you spill my brother's drink?" he demanded.
"Oh!" Greg muttered. "So you're his brother. I get the hair thing, now." He pulled his arm out of the burly redhead's grip and dusted himself off. "Look, I did your brother a favor. That girl is trouble. She spiked his drink, was probably gonna—oof!"
Greg's exclamation came after an abrupt blow to the stomach, knocking the wind out of him completely and he stumbled backwards into the wall. He tried to speak, but as the air had fled his lungs, he had no means to do so, so his mouth simply opened and closed in airless gasps.
"You mess with my brother, you mess with me, punk."
Wham! Right across the jaw, so hard Greg had to open his mouth to make sure it wasn't broken.
"Fuck!" He'd found his voice again, and the air he so desperately needed, even if he did sound wheezy. "What's your problem? I saved his ass—"
Another one, to the temple, and Greg was immediately disoriented, flashes of light exploding before his vision as he staggered, drunkenly. He tried to blink to clear his head, but a blow to the temple is not easily ignored. Greg brought his fingers up to the side of his head, inwardly panicking that he was hemorrhaging even as he stood there, and then the guy's knee connected with his stomach again and he doubled over.
"Christ!" But the word was interrupted by a staccato "I" and sounded almost like a sob. "You might have killed me, you know," he snarled, spitting out some of his blood to the ground. He straightened up to see the two brothers gloating and chuckling like alpha males.
"That's it," Greg rumbled, wiping his mouth. "If I'm gonna die because of you assholes… then I'm tired of trying to help idiots."
And he landed a punch of his own, right in the older brother's face, and there was blood everywhere as Greg shook out his throbbing hand. "Dammit, I knew that's not how you should hit someone!" He looked up to see that the man who had been so tough seconds earlier was crying now. Large wet sobs were pouring out of him as the tears mingled with the blood on his face.
"You broke by dose!" he whined, his little brother putting his hands around his shoulder.
Greg, who was by no means unscathed, began to massage his sore jaw. "Yeah, well, don't pick a fight you can't finish, yuppie."
And just like that, the two brothers retreated with their tails between their legs. With them gone, Greg allowed himself to relax and feel the sharp pain that was throbbing in his torso, jaw and head. He leaned against the wall for support, his fingers moving over his abdominals, then his chest to search for broken ribs. Everything seemed OK. The guy was mostly talk anyway, and if the blow to his temple had been lethal, Greg surmised that he would have probably been unconscious by that point anyway.
Still, it hurt like a bitch.
Groaning, Greg made his way across the street to the parking lot and found his car, which, he was very grateful to discover, hadn't been stolen. He tried to ignore the rhythmic pounding in his head like bongo drums and focus on the road. Finally, he made it home and climbed up the stairs to his apartment, where he found the cat waiting for him again.
The feline said nothing as Greg walked through the living room and to his bathroom, where he pulled out his medication and looked at his face in the mirror.
"Aw, man!" he moaned, noticing the tinge of brown and purple that was forming on his cheek bone. "They're gonna ask about that at work tomorrow…" He tried to get a better look at it by turning to the side, but gave up. Something buzzed in his pocket and he remembered he had his phone back, so he reached inside. His hands brushed against something cool and cylindrical and his heart skipped a beat as he pulled out a tiny orange bottle instead. He stared at it for a moment as his phone continued to vibrate before setting the pills down and reaching again for his phone.
Not thinking, he said, "Hello?"
"Asshole, you're in possession of a stolen phone and I—"
"Nick, is that you?"
There was a pause on the other end. "Greg?" Another pause. "Hey, wait, you said you lost your phone!"
"I did," Greg said. "Just got it back." Something beeped at him. "And damn, it's on really low battery."
"Greg, while I have you on the phone, I, uh… I wanted to, um, apologize, for—"
"Can't hear you Nick, I have terrible signal," Greg lied.
"Greg, I was wondering if I could come—"
"And the battery is fucking low. And I mean l—" He hung up and turned off his phone.
He slid the machine back into his pocket and looked at his reflection in the mirror again.
He didn't like what he saw.
His eyes narrowed as he seized a few random bottles and made his way to the kitchen, grumbling all the time. "Serves me right for just trying to help, I get my ass kicked every fucking time I stick my nose where it doesn't belong, or someone ends up dead or I end up getting yelled at or all fucking three."
His cat leapt up onto his kitchen table and meowed at him.
"Here, here, Liver!" Greg cried in response to the feline. He reached into his fridge and pulled out a bottle of beer, uncapping it and sitting at the table where he had dropped all the pill bottles he had taken from the bathroom. He looked up at his cat.
"I'm sorry, did you want one?" he asked, gesturing at the beer.
The cat simply blinked. Greg could see himself in its cloudy white eye.
"OK, more for me," said Greg. He looked at the bottles he had randomly snagged. Advil, Tylenol, Excedrin, Valium…
Valium.
Greg snorted and grabbed the Excedrin, popping a pill into his hand, and subsequently his mouth, which he downed with a sip of his beer. He looked at his cat again, but did not speak. The two of them had a staring contest for a while, until Greg remembered the feline was blind in one eye, and would therefore most likely always win.
Blinking, he looked instead at his assortment of pill bottles. He organized them in a row on the table from the least potent to the most potent.
Advil, Tylenol, Excedrin, Valium…
That wasn't right.
Tylenol, Advil, Excedrin, Valium…
Advil was actually stronger than he gave it credit for, so…
Tylenol, Excedrin, Advil, Valium…
He gave up and pushed the other three bottles off to the side, placing the orange bottle in the center of the table. He moved down in his chair, resting his hands on the table and his chin on top of them as he watched the bottle.
It seemed harmless enough. Just another addition to the medicine cabinet.
He was a chemist. He knew what Valium was. Diazapam. A Benzodiazepine. Muscle relaxant and anti-anxiety medication. Side effects included somnolence, impaired motor function, and reflex tachycardia. Sixty-four percent of rats tested would self administer. Sixty-four percent addictive.
Pill-popping housewives.
Vague sense of happiness…
Greg closed his eyes and shook his head. He was being ridiculous. He gathered up all of the pills and headed back to his bathroom, where he pulled open the mirror cabinet and shoved them all inside. He stared at his own reflection again.
"Why did you? Target me, I mean."
"You looked like a decent guy. Sweet. Trusting. Naïve. I knew I could use that."
A lot of people used that.
And Greg was tired of being used.
He sighed as he turned around and marched back into the hall. The cat was still on his kitchen table. Greg didn't think of chasing him off. It's not like he ate anything at that table anyway. He did, however, grab his beer and plop down on the couch to channel surf. The pain medication did its work, quieting the bongo drums like noise canceling headphones. Greg knew it was still there, he just couldn't feel it. And that was fine with him. Soon enough, the cat joined him, leaping up onto the couch.