Messiahs by Matt Rogers (bookstand for reading txt) 📕

She bowed her head, shy now. ‘You don’t mean that.’

‘I do.’

Now, she thought.

She drained the last of her cocktail for dramatic effect and said, ‘I’m useless. I know you think I’m pretty, but I’m just … an empty shell. There’s nothing below the surface. I don’t know what I want from my life, I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m a failure through and through. I’m thirty, and what have I got to show for myself? I might as well become a monk or something. I’m a waste of fucking space, Brent.’

He reached out and put a gentle hand on her shoulder. ‘Hey, hey, hey…’

She bowed her head, blinking back tears.

He said, ‘You know that’s not true. You know you’ve got value. I can see it plain as day.’

‘You’re a great guy,’ she said through a mask of turmoil. ‘I’m sorry. You don’t deserve my baggage.’

He said, ‘We’ve all got baggage, don’t we? Part of being human.’

He was a great guy. She felt bad about what she had to do.

She turned to him. ‘Listen. I think you’re very attractive. I want to see you again. I think we could have some fun.’

He was halfway through downing his beer, but his face lit up. He put the bottle on the counter and said, ‘Well, Alexis, I’d like that too. What do you say we get out of here, find a quieter spot? Have some good conversation. I want to get to know you more. You ain’t an “empty shell,” I can see it.’

She stood up, and he mirrored her.

She said, ‘Not tonight, sorry. I’m just … look, everything came to the surface tonight. I’ll be in a bad mood for a day or so. But you should call me. Take my number.’

She was already inventing a fake number in her head when—

‘Come on,’ Brent said, taking a step forward. ‘What have you got to lose?’

He reached out to put his hands on her waist.

She inched back, millimetres out of range, so he grasped at thin air. His fingers were close enough to her belt to make him look foolish, putting him in an awkward spot. He’d either have to lunge forward, egregiously committing to the gesture, or admit defeat and step back.

He stepped back.

She stared right into his eyes. ‘Did you hear me, Brent?’

Drink clouded his gaze. He smiled back. ‘Oh, I heard you. But I know a girl like you is up for some fun. You’re a wild soul at heart, ain’t ya?’

He stepped forward again.

She lowered her voice and said, ‘Get the fuck away from me before I cause a scene. I shit you not, I’ll start screaming my lungs out, and you’ll look like a predator. Is that what you want?’

He froze up. She doubted a woman had spoken to him like that in a long time.

He said, ‘Well, I’m sorry…’

She said, ‘Save it. You’re just a scumbag like the rest of them. I was going to give you my number, maybe even sleep with you tomorrow, but you can forget about that.’

With a huff, she collected her purse off the counter and stormed out of the saloon.

He didn’t follow her, didn’t say a word to her back as she left. Probably just watched her rear end in the tight jeans and stewed with regret about what might have been…

When she stepped outside, she brought her emotions back down and coolly assessed the conversation.

Perfect, she thought.

He’d think she’d organically spilled her guts to him before things went south, and now he was jaded, full of resentment. Encouraged by the beers — she figured he’d drink plenty more tonight — he’d go and spread word of the gorgeous out-of-towner having a mid-life crisis, nearly crying over her drink. Pathetic, he’d say. Covering up for his unsuccessful pursuit.

Word would get out.

Hopefully, it’d reach the right ears.

She walked back to the Budget Inn.

20

King stepped into another saloon-style bar south of the main arterial, his mind already set on causing chaos.

You’re a disgruntled, disillusioned, dishonourably discharged vet, he told himself. Act like it.

He slammed the door as he came in, sending all the regulars’ heads shooting up like meerkats. King gave a couple of them dark looks, but most of his attention was fixed on the wall up the back. A closed door with a sign that read PRIVATE was positioned between a Polaroid collage of the bar’s celebrity guests over the years and the mounted head of a trophy mule deer. Through a rectangular glass window set into the door, King saw four or five bearded men playing pool. They looked tough, they looked mean, and they looked no-nonsense.

Jackpot.

He went straight to the bartender and said, ‘Whiskey.’

‘Which one?’ the guy said, not politely.

His tone radiated a message: You bring this attitude in here, it won’t do you any favours.

King said, ‘Jim Beam. Straight up. Two fingers.’

The guy poured it in menacing silence, because even though he didn’t like the newcomer, he wasn’t about to refuse business to a paying customer. The establishment wasn’t doing well enough to discriminate.

King downed the glass in a single gulp, jerked his thumb at the door up the back, and said, ‘What’s back there?’

‘Nothing that’s your business,’ the guy said, turning away.

King said, ‘Either you tell me what’s back there, or I go find out myself.’

The bartender wheeled back to face King. Then a sly smile played at his lips. He threw his hands in the air, took a step back, and jutted his chin. ‘Be my guest, buddy. Go find out for yourself.’

King said, ‘Another whiskey first.’

The guy thought about it, then shrugged. Probably thinking, Well, you’ll need it.

As he poured he said, ‘Who are you anyway?’

King said, ‘A guy who doesn’t like being told what his business is and isn’t.’

The bartender rolled his eyes. ‘I’m calling the cops as soon as you step away from this bar. Don’t think you’ll be getting beat half to death and then escape without getting held responsible for the damages.’

‘So whoever gets their