Total pages in book: 61
Estimated words: 56831 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 284(@200wpm)___ 227(@250wpm)___ 189(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56831 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 284(@200wpm)___ 227(@250wpm)___ 189(@300wpm)
“Did you drink all this whiskey? If so, I should maybe take you to the hospital,” I said, as I held up the empty bottle.
He squinted at it as he knit his brows. Then he shook his head and told me, “It was half-empty when I started. I only had, like, five shots. Maybe six. Possibly seven…”
I crouched down and studied him closely. “I hope it wasn’t seven. That’s way too much for someone your size.”
He turned his head to look at me, and it was like he was seeing me for the first time. “I don’t know you.” I shook my head, and he asked, “What’s your name?”
“Marcus. What’s yours?” I’d known I wasn’t going to go with my most frequently used alias, but I surprised myself by giving him my real name. Not that it mattered, since it seemed unlikely he’d remember any of this in the morning.
“Romy.”
“Is that short for something?”
“Romeo, but nobody calls me that, thank god. I don’t even know why my mom chose it. It’s not like she’s into Shakespeare or anything.”
“Did you ask her?”
He nodded. “She said she liked the way it sounded with our last name, but there has to be more to it than that, don’t you think? A name is supposed to mean something.”
“Is it?”
“I think so. Does your name have a meaning?”
“I doubt it.”
He considered that before asking, “Do people call you Marc?”
“No. Never.”
“Okay, then I won’t either. It’s too plain for you anyway. You don’t look like a Marc, but you do look like a Marcus. It’s a noble name. Makes me think of Marcus Aurelius. That suits you for sure.”
I grinned a little and asked, “The name of a Roman emperor suits me?”
He nodded, and then he shifted around so he was on his knees, facing me. When he started to reach for me, I flinched. I couldn’t help it. Then he said softly, “It’s okay, Marcus. I won’t hurt you.”
That should have been funny. I was a huge guy, and he was this fragile little thing. How could he possibly hurt me? Somehow though, it came across as very sweet.
He proceeded to brush my hair out of my eyes before tracing one of my sideburns and lightly skimming my jaw. “Definitely noble,” he murmured, still on his random tangent. Then he asked, “Are you Latino?”
“In part. I’m also Greek and Italian, according to one of those who-the-fuck-am-I genetic screenings, but then my last name is English or Irish. Between all of that, I guess I’m basically a mutt.”
“You’re beautiful, Marcus,” he murmured, as his finger outlined my lower lip. “I’d be afraid to talk to you if I wasn’t really drunk. Gorgeous men always intimidate me.” Romy pulled back his hand and looked embarrassed. “I should stop, because I’m probably making this weird. You’re not supposed to randomly touch strangers, and you’re definitely not supposed to cry on them. I know this, even if my inhibitions seem to have clocked out.”
He sat back down on the floor and leaned against the bar, and I sat beside him and said, “It’s okay. You’re obviously having a rough night.”
“Horrible.”
“Want to talk about it?”
He glanced at me and asked, “Do you really want to hear this?”
“Sure.”
Romy looked away again and began fidgeting with the hem of his windbreaker. “I went out on what should have been a routine call tonight, a heart attack. We got there too late, though. I performed CPR but the man died, right there on his living room rug with his wife crying her eyes out beside him.
“His name was Dave Johnson, which normally wouldn’t even register with me because it’s such a common name. But then his wife called him Hitch. I’d heard that nickname before, so I looked around the room and there was this couple’s wedding portrait on the mantel. It was maybe twenty-five years old, judging by the clothes and hairstyles, and that was when I realized who he was. He’d aged badly. I would have walked right by him on the street without recognizing him. But in that wedding picture, he looked exactly like the man in the photo my mom had saved for me.”
“Of your father?”
Romy nodded. “He bailed when she got pregnant—told her he was moving to Philly to go to work for his uncle, and that was the last she heard from him. Except, it turns out he just moved across town. Not long after, he married someone else, had two more kids, and forgot all about me. I pieced the story together, between the things his wife was saying and the rest of the photos on the mantel. Not that I told her any of this, of course. She had enough to deal with.”
I muttered, “He was an asshole,” and Romy glanced at me again.
“I know, and just to be clear, I didn’t need him or want anything from him. My mom and brother took good care of me when I was growing up. But would it have been so hard to come and see me? Just once. He knew where to find me. This bar’s been here almost forty years, and my mom’s name is right above the door. It’s literally called Mandy’s Place.” Romy sighed, and after a pause he added, “I tried searching for him a few times over the years, but it was impossible to find him. His name was just too common, and I didn’t have a way of narrowing it down.”