Page 14 of The Hanging Dolls (Zoe Storm #1)
THIRTEEN
Scott stood outside the crowded bar, the neon sign above flickering in the evening mist casting a dull, red glow onto the wet pavement.
Through the large, fogged-up windows, he could see the throngs of people packed inside, their voices rising and falling with laughter, shouts, and the clinking of glasses.
It was too damn tempting. He wanted in, wanted to get lost, wanted to feel like he was floating and flying and laughing again.
The door swung open every few seconds, letting out bursts of music and the warm, intoxicating scent of alcohol. He could feel the pull, the familiar ache gnawing at him, as he fidgeted on the sidewalk, shifting his weight from foot to foot, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides.
Scott knew he shouldn’t go in. He’d been clean for months now, but guilt was a relentless weight on his chest, pressing down harder with every passing day.
Lily’s face flashed before him, her lifeless body in the woods, the rope, the picture—it was all he could think about.
The thought that he hadn’t done enough, that he had missed something, was tearing him apart.
The need for relief, for something to take the edge off, was overwhelming.
He swallowed hard, his throat dry and tight, and before he could stop himself, he found himself pushing open the door.
Inside, the air was thick with the smell of spilled beer, whiskey, and sweat, mingling with the faint scent of old cigarettes that clung to the walls.
People crowded around the polished wood bar, their elbows jostling for space as they ordered drinks, laughing and leaning into each other’s conversations.
Scott slipped through the crowd, his heart pounding in his chest. Just one drink, he told himself. Just one to quieten the thoughts that wouldn’t stop racing through his mind. He found an empty spot at the bar and sank onto the stool, his fingers drumming on the worn wood surface.
The bartender, a burly man with a beard that seemed to take over his face, approached him. “What’ll it be?” he asked, his voice gruff.
Scott hesitated for a split second, the words sticking in his throat. Then, almost too quickly, he said, “Whiskey. Neat.”
The bartender raised an eyebrow, as if sizing him up, then nodded.
“Coming right up.” He turned to grab a bottle from the shelf.
Scott’s heart raced as he watched the bartender pour the amber liquid into the glass, the sound of it seeming to fill the room and drown out every other noise around him.
“Here you go,” the bartender said, sliding it across the bar with a knowing nod. “Rough night?”
When the glass was set in front of him, he stared at it for a long moment, his reflection distorted in its depths. His hand trembled slightly as he picked it up, the cool glass feeling familiar and yet alien in his grip.
Scott forced a smile, the corners of his mouth barely lifting.
“Something like that.” He brought the glass to his lips but didn’t take a sip.
He just sniffed it, inhaled deeply. The smoky scent slid up his nose and he closed his eyes, warmth spreading through his chest and sinking into his bones.
He knew how it would taste—like sin. It felt like coming home, like waking up a part of him that had been asleep for too long.
The edges of the world softened, the noise of the bar faded to a distant hum, and for the first time in what felt like forever, the turmoil inside him stilled.
But he couldn’t do it. He had come too far. He pushed the glass away.
“Look what the cat dragged in,” a throaty, unkind voice said next to him.
He knew exactly who it was from just the smell of her perfume. “Get lost, Carly.”
“Back to your dirty old habits?” she mocked him.
He looked at her gaunt face plastered with tacky makeup and her curly, red hair that made her stand out in the bar. “You picking up clients at the bar now? This place is a little too classy for you, don’t you think?”
Her expression hardened. “It was a mistake to come here and offer you a few words of kindness after that girl was found dead in the woods.”
“I don’t need anything from you. Especially not your fake sympathy.”
“It’s not fake. I’m a mother too, in case you’ve forgotten,” she retorted, her voice cold.
He didn’t need alcohol to loosen his tongue. “Yeah, I can imagine what kind of mother a coked-up hooker is.”
Even as the words left his mouth, guilt twisted in his gut. She inhaled sharply, tears welling in her eyes as she turned to leave.
“Wait.”
She turned back to face him, lips pursed and eyebrow raised, waiting for him to grovel. That’s how it always went between them. She’d push, he’d snap, and then he’d apologize. The same cycle, every single time.
He steadied himself. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”
A slow, satisfied grin spread across her face, and he instantly regretted the apology. She leaned in, her voice dripping with that familiar, cutting sweetness. “I understand, Scott. Maybe if you’d done your job right, that girl would still be alive.”
Speechless, he watched as she walked away, her hips swaying with deliberate confidence. His vision narrowed, the room closing in on him like crinkling, burning paper.
“Another?” the bartender asked, eyeing him carefully.
“No.” Yes .