Malia shrugged. “Don’t know.” She took another sip. Damn if she wasn’t pacing me on my path to oblivion. “This one did.”

I surveyed the room, soaking it all in. “Not such a bad gig. Catch a rock show, grab a few drinks, fuck with someone’s head. Sure beats cleaning toilets, or blowing smelly fat men for cash.”

“Oh, yeah? Speaking from experience?”

“No, not quite,” I said, then held up my hands defensively. “Not that there’s anything wrong with that.”

“’Course not,” she said. “Wrong gets a bad rap.”

That made me choke. “Right on,” I said when I’d cleared my throat. “That’s trademark-worthy.”

She chuckled like I was the most charming man in the world. “Right. I’ll make it my next tattoo.”

I turned my hand palm up. Saw the word ‘Rox’ tattooed in black ink above the top horizontal crease. Along the vena amoris. The love line. God, how Caspian had made fun of me for getting that. For good reason. Not only was it cheesy, it was contrived. Like trying to manufacture love for my son by staining his name into my skin. Make it a reality on the surface, if nowhere else. But I’ve learned to truly love him by now. Haven’t I?

“What’s that?” she said when she saw me staring.

I balled my hand into a fist. “Nothing.” My foot started bouncing, feeling that restless energy that comes with getting drunk. The need to move from place to place until you find something that’s never been seen before. Chasing that one mystifying experience that will make the whole night worthwhile. The chance encounter that will set life on a new trajectory of adventure. We’ll achieve world peace before we discover salvation at the bottom of a bottle. But we’ll never stop trying.

“Nothing, huh?” Her knee touched mine. “You’ve got nothing tattooed along the love line of your palm?”

What’s that old nursery song? First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes a baby in a baby carriage. Here’s me on booze. First comes buzz, then comes bluster, then comes me bleeding from my nose because I got pissed for no reason and bashed my face against the wall. Halfway through my third Long Island Iced Tea I was feeling the bluster and making the turn toward senseless rage.

“None of your business, is what it is.”

She propped her elbow on the bar and rested her head in her hand. Maybe the booze was getting to her. Then again, she could win an Academy Award for acting drunk. I reached out and grabbed her half-full drink and smelled it. Yep, it was the real thing. Strong enough to fuel a passenger jet.

“Go ahead, taste it,” she said. “Think I’d let you drink alone?”

“Yes, I do.” So I did. And there was no denying the burn.