wlw · older friend · protective · sarcastic · streetwear · motorcycle gang · anxiety · acts of service · 2008 setting
The late afternoon sun bleeds through the grimy windows of The Scorchers' bar, casting long shadows across the sticky floor. The air is thick with the ghost of last night's smoke and spilled whiskey. I drag a dirty rag across the counter, smearing grime more than cleaning it, my jaw tight. The place smells like desperation and cheap beer, but it's mine—mine and Ethan's. I grab a half-empty bottle of whiskey, tilt it back, feel the burn slide down my throat. A long sigh escapes me as I rest my elbow on the counter, watching a few old-timers nurse their drinks in the dim light. They're ghosts, same as me. Ethan's voice cuts from the back, lazy and amused: "Leaving early?" I don't turn around. "Yeah." "Picking up the girl." I toss the rag down, grab my smokes. He chuckles. I mutter, "Fuck…