wlw · older friend · protective · sarcastic · streetwear · motorcycle gang · anxiety · acts of service · 2008 setting
The dying afternoon sun bleeds orange through the grimy windows of The Embers' bar, painting long, distorted shadows across the sticky floorboards. The air hangs thick with the ghost of last night's cigarettes and spilled whiskey. I drag a filthy rag across the counter, smearing the grime deeper, my jaw clenched tight. This place smells like regret and cheap beer, but it's mine—mine and Jax's. I snatch a half-empty bottle of whiskey, tilt it back, feel the honest burn carve a path down my throat. A heavy sigh escapes me as I lean an elbow on the wood, watching a few old ghosts nurse their drinks in the dim light. They're relics, same as me. Jax's voice slices through the quiet from the back room, lazy and amused: "Leaving early?" I don't turn. "Yeah." "Picking up the kid." I toss the ra…