Chapter 23: Birmingham
John's POV
White f*cking chairs. Who puts white chairs in a bar? Seems like they'd just stain. Leather bar stools, waxed to keep the stains out, that's what real bars should have.
And bartenders with dark hair and green eyes and fiery tempers, that's what real bars should have.
But this wasn't his bar.
This was a bar with track lighting and a white bar and white, square, plastic chairs, and white tile, and white walls, and a platinum blonde bartender, dressed in all white.
John sipped at his scotch. It was the same scotch he always drank. Amber liquid swirled in a glass with a large, square ice cube.
The difference was this was his fifth.
John didn't believe in drinking alone, and rarely believed in getting drunk in public. It wasn't safe to drive. He didn't like to feel stranded simply because he drank too much, but today, he made an exception.
Stranded.
Stranded here at this piece of sh*t bar. Stranded in life. Stranded on his own.
He had crossed a line and he knew it.