Danny shielded his eyes against the last rays of sunlight, admiring the lush greenery that snaked around homes and skyscrapers. The long strips of golden sand called to him, reminding him of warm days and volleyball tournaments. In a few minutes, the jet would touch down at San Diego International Airport. The tabloid in his lap displayed a month‐old picture of him leaving a Habit Relief facility in Washington. The headline screamed: ‘Danny Roland: Dead in Three Years.'
Reading this didn't deter him though. A hunger had grown in the pit of his stomach, and it wouldn't be satiated by putting his beliefs in Habit Relief's mantras. This time he was ready to show the world he was fine. The anticipation of success coursed through his veins. He closed the newspaper resting in his lap and snapped his seatbelt into place.
A cool, feminine hand touched his shoulder. “Mr. Roland, may I get you anything to drink?” the flight attendant said. She wore a gray two‐piece suit, with a loosely knotted red scarf.
A double shot of scotch on the rocks.
A searing pain blinded him. He placed a hand over his forehead. “Water will be fine,” he managed to gasp. She patted his shoulder before sashaying down the aisle toward the beverage cart.
In the seat across the aisle Robert snored, woke up, and then resettled into his dream and his seat.
“We'll be touching down at San Diego International in fifteen minutes,” the pilot's voice squawked over the speakers.
After parting ways with Robert, muscle memory carried Danny's legs to Bailey's Lounge, a bar about ten blocks from the San Diego International Airport. A cool, brick building by the bay filled with ambient light, it had a small stage and too many tables to allow dancing. But that had never stopped Emily from pulling him up onto an empty table and slowly swaying to a reggae beat. This had been their favorite hideaway spot.
He pushed through the revolving glass door and made a beeline for the alcohol. A knowing flash of recognition flickered in the blonde bartender's expression when he nodded in her direction. She smiled as she selected some vodka and orange juice. It was a signature drink he'd shared with Emily.
Danny accepted his drink from the bartender, thought better of it, and asked for a glass of ice water. The orange concoction still taunted him and he thought of how to remedy that. Fumbling in his jean pocket, he pulled out a bottle of pills. He dumped his prescription in the cup, sloshing orange juice on the bar in the process. He watched with vicious satisfaction as they dissolved into a milky cloud.
They were supposed to take away his desire for cocaine—at least, that's what the rehab doc at Habit Relief had told him. But the good doc conveniently forgot to mention this magical pill came at a cost—headaches that often brought him to his knees and subsequently increased his desire to use. Fuck rehab. He was twenty‐seven years old, and after three unsuccessful vacations with them it was time for a new game plan. Tough it out and go cold turkey.
He glanced at his titanium watch. It was 7:30 p.m. He grabbed his cellphone and dialed Brian's number.
“Sorry I missed your call. Leave a message at the beep, and I'll be sure to get back to you,” his brother's cheery baritone said.
Liar. As if he were clairvoyant, Danny could predict his big brother's routine down to the second. It was a weeknight, so Brian left work at 4:30 a.m. He grabbed a few drinks with alumni chums and came home at 7:00 p.m. Probably popped a TV dinner in the oven and was munching on it as he ignored Danny's call.
“Hey, thanks for letting me borrow the Mustang.” He'd missed his flight, but luckily his mom had reminded him Brian still housed the Mustang at the airport. It was a twin‐engine jet aircraft he'd bought Brian for his thirty‐first birthday. For some reason Danny used the Mustang more than his travel‐thirsty sibling. Brian went out of his way to snub any gifts Danny had given him. He'd used a commercial airline on his last trip to China. Danny tried his best to ignore the stabs of betrayal, holding out hope that one day things could go back to normal between them.
He took a sip of his ice water. The bite of the cold reminded him this was as close to a ‘drink' as he'd ever get again.
“Emily Lowell, he killed her.”
Danny shifted in his seat at the sound of Emily's name.
“I'm serious. He killed her.” A brunette sat at a table barely five feet away, giggling with a guy Danny guessed to be her boyfriend.
He forced a smile on his face and sauntered over. “What makes you say that?”
The smile on the brunette's face melted into a mixture of horror and surprise.
Her boyfriend, a crew‐cut blond a few years Danny's junior, glanced at her then jumped out of his seat, hand outstretched. “I'm a big fan. I loved that last movie, The Occult 3.”
“Everyone knows you buried evidence.” The brunette smiled, but her eyes goaded him.
His body hardened into steel. Robert's life-changing choice to hide the cause of her death had created dark rumors. But Danny still believed it had been the right thing to do. Emily deserved to have some of her dignity preserved in death.
“How long before we're reading Nia Waters' obituary?” All pretense of politeness vanished. Her smile turned to a sneer.
He blinked. “Excuse me?” A futile question, but better than calling her a bitch in this crowded room.
“You know you're bad luck, right? First your father then Emily. Poor Nia.”
Danny grasped the young man's hand in a firm grip. The man's jaw tensed as Danny squeezed the feeling out of it. “You should tell your girlfriend to stop talking shit about things she doesn't know.”
The man's mouth gaped open like a fish struggling for air, but Danny didn't wait for his response. He returned to the bar and laid down a ten spot. This was no longer his hideout. Without Emily, he was quickly discovering he had nothing.