I tossed it back, feeling my head begin to swim into the shallows of beer and bourbon.

I chuckled, a legitimate laugh, and it surprised me. I chugged the rest of the bitter liquid and stood. “I am this terrible—all the time. Thanks for the beer.”

I put a twenty-dollar bill on the table for Jerry and waved goodbye to him, then tossed the bottle in the trash on my way to the door, waved goodbye to him, and pushed the horizontal bar to open the door. I took a deep breath; summer and city filled my lungs, but it couldn’t have been more different from Vegas; thin and crisp, even though it was warm. Asphalt and a hint of food mixed with the indigenous trees one might expect to smell in Colorado.

In Vegas, I worked security for hotels and then the private sector. The thin but constant sheen of sweat on my skin reminded me of my desert home in Arizona and still busy enough to provide me with the distraction I craved, from missing Matt; from memories of my deployments. And the laws were a little more lax there. A scuffle on the Strip wasn’t unheard of.

I exhaled, stopped at the curb, and fished my keys out of my pocket, balancing an unlit cigarette between my lips. The door closed a second time behind me.

“No Uber tonight?” Zeke asked.

I paused. He was right. I’d drank enough to forget I’d drank too much to drive.

“I can drive you, then I’ll Uber home,” he offered. I glared at him, but he was unfazed. “What? You’ve been alone with me before, and besides, we both know you can kick my ass, probably faster inebriated. I’ll never admit I said that, by the way.”

“Fine,” I said, handing him my keys. “The matte green FJ,” I said, pointing.

Zeke smiled. “Army green. I would have guessed that was yours.”

I frowned. I hadn’t considered it Army green.

We walked together across the street, and he opened my door. I pushed it shut. “Don’t do that.”

“What? Open the door for you?”

“Do I look like I need you to open the door for me?” Fuck. I’m slurring.

“Yeah. You kinda do. Quit being a dick.”

I opened the door again and crawled in. Zeke jogged around and opened the driver’s side door, adjusting the mirror and the seat, checking for headlights and the blinkers like he was about to take a test. He reached for me, and I shoved him hard, his back hitting the driver’s side door. The FJ rocking a bit as he stared at me in shock, his hands up.

“The fuck?!” he yelled. “I was getting your seat belt, Naomi, damn!”