Page 55 of The Illicit Play

Storming across the street, I make it into town a torrid mess. My mood is foul, and I’m not sure where I’m going or what to do.

I don’t feel like Dr Pepper. Or any kind of soda for that matter.

What I want is a drink. A real drink.

But I don’t have my fake ID anymore. Dammit!

With a huff, I slow my pace, figuring I’ll just wander around like I did on Friday, aimlessly trying to calm this storm in my chest.

No parties this time.

At least it’s the middle of the day. I’m safe. There will be no raves, orgies, or drunken blowouts happening right now. Well, not easily accessible ones anyway, so I won’t be tempted.

Although, a drink would be really nice right about now.

Just a little something to take the edge off. Not the reckless shots I did on Friday… and whatever else was put into my drink.

I shudder, not wanting to think about that.

But just a beer or two.

Or something to quell this storm inside me.

Looking up ahead, I take in my surroundings and notice a bottle shop across the street.

Don’t do it.

The only way I can get something out of there is smuggled in my bag or tucked inside my jacket pocket.

It’s not worth it.

Checking the street, I cross when there’s a break in the traffic and ignore my sensible brain, swinging the door open and wandering in like I’m supposed to be there.

The guy behind the counter eyes me up, and I give him a bright smile. “Hi there.”

He nods at me, obviously suspicious.

Bail now. This isn’t going to work!

Turning left, I head down the next aisle, scanning bottles of spirits while heading toward the beer fridge against the wall.

I sniff, then scratch the side of my nose, checking for cameras and mirrors. I glance up at the big convex one on the wall, a bubbly eyeball reflecting everything back to the man behind the counter.

Crossing my arms, I walk a little farther until I’m pretty sure I’m out of view.

Eyeing up the bottles, I wander along until I get to the smaller ones. There’s a half-pint of vodka right there that would easily fit into my bag.

Picking it up, I scan the label, then place it back on the shelf, turning away as if I’m not interested.

The bell above the door dings when a new customer comes in, and my insides do a little dance, hop-stepping it around my chest when the woman starts up a conversation.

“It’s my husband’s birthday next week, and I want to get him something special. He loves his scotch,” she’s saying while I take a step back to the smaller vodka bottles and pluck one off the shelf.

Slipping it into my bag, I glance around the aisle,making sure my disinterested mask is firmly in place before heading toward the exit.

“We’ve got a really nice Macallan 18 Year Sherry Oak that he’d probably like.” The man is smiling. I can hear it in his voice. “What’s your budget?”

I make a beeline for the door, stoked that he’s too distracted to notice me.