Chapter 1
The Rusty Spur Bar had always smelled like the end of the world.
Colt stared into his whiskey (trying to remember how many I had already taken) the fourth or fifth. He’d lost count. The liquor was so cheap that he wasn’t doing his job. It slid down his throat, a familiar fire that licked at his gut but failed to burn away the real problem. The problem was a cold, buzzing hollowness that had taken up residence behind his ribs.
He felt disconnected, a ghost in his own skin, watching his hand lift the glass, watching the dim lights reflect off the scarred surface of the bar. He saw the other patrons through a haze: a couple leaning into each other in a booth, their laughter a distant, irritating chime. Two old-timers at the end of the bar, heads together, their hands gesturing as they traded the same lies they’d been trading for forty years.
Colt swallowed the last of the whiskey, the burn a fleeting, unsatisfying distraction. He wanted to feel something real. The solid weight of a body against his. The shocking heat of skin. A grip tight enough to leave a mark, to prove he was still here.
“You gonna pay for that one, or just stare through it, honey?” The voice, rough as gravel, cut through the noise. It was Loretta.
She stood opposite him, wiping a glass with a rag that had seen better decades. Her dyed red hair was piled high, her eyes sharp and knowing behind a veil of blue eye shadow.
The word ‘honey’ landed like a spark on dry tinder. A casual, meaningless intimacy that grated on his raw nerves. He didn't look at her, he just dug into the pocket of his jeans and slapped a crumpled ten-dollar bill onto the sticky bar top.
Loretta sighed, snatching the bill. “Have it your way.”
She moved away to help someone else and the jukebox switched to a more upbeat, boot-stomping number that only made the emptiness in his gut feel wider but the need… the need was a living thing.
He shoved his stool back with a sharp scrape that turned a few heads, which he ignored, as he always did. He then heading for the men's room, a place of last resort, where a different kind of thirst could, if he was lucky, be quenched.
The bathroom door swung shut behind Colt, cutting off the jukebox and sealing him in a fluorescent tomb. A single flickering tube overhead cast everything in a stuttering, unreliable light, making the stall door seem to writhe.
Just as he wishes, he wasn’t alone.
A man stood at the single urinal, the one against the wall, with a thickset build packed into a worn flannel shirt. As Colt watched a faint tremor running through his shoulders. He turned toward the sink, a grimy porcelain basin with a mirror above it so cracked it looked like a frozen spiderweb.
Their eyes met in the fractured glass and he could see that the man was older, maybe late forties. His face was fleshy, and tired, but his eyes were sharp and they held Colt’s gaze for maybe a beat too long.
Colt saw the man’s hand with a thick, plain gold wedding band gleamed dully under the flickering light. The man’s gaze dropped from Colt’s eyes to his mouth, then back up. He didn’t smile, he didn’t move. in fact he simply waited. But that was all the invitation Colt needed.
Three short strides and the space between them was simply gone. Leaving only the raw, desperate need. Colt’s hand came up and curled around the front of the man’s jeans. His thumb pressed down, finding the thick, solid ridge beneath the coarse denim.
The man’s breath hitched as his whole body went rigid then the his own hand came up and clamped down on Colt’s wrist, to hold him there. His eyes was dark and hungry now, and they were locked on Colt’s.
Taking the man’s tight grip on his wrist as permission, Colt pushed aside the worn denim and the thin cotton of the man's briefs. The man was thick, heavy, and gloriously uncut with a single, clear bead of precum wept from the tip, glistening. Colt’s fingers wrapped around the shaft. The skin was hot, velvety, and alive.
A ragged groan tore from the man’s throat, and his head lolled back against the grimy tile wall, his eyes squeezed as Colt’s own breath hitched, his body responding on pure instinct. He began to stroke, his movements were so fast, rough and almost punishing, that didn't seem he was trying to be gentle. He was chasing a release that wasn’t even his own.
The man’s hips began to twitch, bucking against Colt’s relentless hand. His grip on Colt’s wrist tightened until it was almost painful, his knuckles white around the condemning gold of his wedding band. His breathing was a ragged, wet pant.
He was close, so close.
Then a sudden explosion of drunken laughter echoed from just beyond the door, followed by the heavy thud of boots. And the change was instantaneous. The shared heat in the man’s eyes vanished, replaced by pure panic.
He shoved and it was a violent, two-handed thrust to Colt’s chest that make him stumbled backward, his balance already shot, and the heel of his boot skidded on a slick patch of tile. He went down hard. The back of his head cracked against the grimy wall with a sickening thud, and an icy shock radiated down his spine.
He looked up from the floor, dazed, to see the man standing over him. “Get the hell off me, you freak.” he hissed, his voice a low whisper. He turned his back on Colt, making a deliberate show of turning on the tap and washing his hands with furious, jerky movements.
As the group voices grew louder just outside, the man yanked a paper towel from the dispenser, wiped his hands and moved to the door. But he paused and glanced back at Colt, still sprawled on the filthy floor. Then he cracked the door open just enough to see the group of men passing by. With a sneer that twisted his lips, he jerked his thumb back toward the bathroom's interior.
“Watch out for that one in there.” he said to the taller one with a voice loud enough for Colt to hear every single word. “He likes to get friendly.”
Colt, for a long moment, just stayed there. The sharp crack of his head against the wall echoing in his skull until he pushed himself up. A dull throb had started at the base of his skull but he ignored it. It was a shallow pain, a surface wound.
He shoved the bathroom door open so hard it slammed against the wall, the sound lost in the bar's raucous noise. He stepped out, blinking in the dim, smoky light. And he saw a familiar face.
Beau and his two cronies were leaning against the bar. And with them was the man from the bathroom. He was using Colt's humiliation as a currency to buy his way into the circle of jeering hyenas.
The jukebox, the laughter, the clinking of glasses… it all faded into a low, distant hum now. All Colt could hear was the frantic pounding of his own heart as he started walking toward them, his boots making no sound on the beer-sticky floor. He wasn't really thinking. He was a loaded that the hammer had just been cocked.
Beau was the first one seeing him coming. A slow and predatory grin spread across his face as he pushed himself off the bar, puffing out his chest.
“Well, look what the cat dragged in…” He glanced at the man from the bathroom, who gave a slight, affirming nod. “Hear you were tryin' to make a new friend in there, pretty boy. Didn't anyone ever tell you? This ain't that kind of bar, you fuckin' faggot."
In that moment it wasn't no thought, no plan. Only the primal, screaming need to make it stop. So Colt launched himself across the space between them.
The first punch was pure impact. He put the entire weight of his body behind it, his knuckles connecting with the bridge of Beau’s nose with a wet, crunching sound. Beau’s head snapped back, a spray of blood erupting from his nostrils. Surprise flashed in his eyes before they glazed over.
He staggered backward, but Colt was on him with a whirlwind of violence. He grabbed the front of Beau’s shirt, slamming him against the bar. Bottles rattled, and a half-full beer stein toppled, shattering on the floor.
Beau’s friends quickly gathered around him. One grabbed Colt’s arm, and Colt spun, his elbow catching the man square in the jaw. The other tried to tackle him around the waist, and Colt brought his knee up hard into his gut.
Every blow he landed came with a scream. A chair went over with a crash and people were shouting, scrambling out of the way. Colt felt a fist connect with his cheek, a bright starburst of pain that he welcomed. The metallic taste of his own blood filled his mouth.
He was on top of Beau now, straddling his chest on the filthy floor, his knees pinning the man’s arms. He rained punches down on Beau’s face, not even aiming, just hitting.
He was lost to it. Deaf to Loretta’s screams and the chaos erupting around him, aware only of the satisfying give of flesh and bone beneath his knuckles. He was a force of pure, undiluted rage, and he didn't care if it burned him, and everyone else, to the ground.
Something wrapped around his chest. A thick and powerful arm that yanked him backward with brute force. He struggled against it with his arms still flailing, his knuckles screaming.
“That's enough, kid. It's over.”
The voice was deep and calm. It cut through the red haze of Colt's rage. He was hauled to his feet, still heaving for breath, his entire body trembling with adrenaline. The bar slowly swam back into focus.
Beau’s friends were nursing their jaws and ribs, giving him wide, wary looks. And on the floor, Beau was a groaning, bloody mess, trying to sit up and spitting a crimson stream onto the floorboards. The man from the bathroom was nowhere to be seen.
Then, through the swinging doors, came the flash of red and blue lights, slicing through the dusty air in silent, rhythmic pulses. The door swung open and in walked Sheriff Brody.
He was just a man who looked bone-tired of nights like this. His uniform was rumpled, his stocky frame filling the doorway as his gaze settled on Colt, who was being held in the firm grip of the burly patron who’d pulled him off Beau. Brody’s face didn’t register anger or surprise, just a profound and weary sadness.
Brody walked toward him, his boots heavy on the floor. He nodded at the man holding Colt. “You can let him go now, Earl. I've got him.”
Earl released his grip, and for a moment Colt swayed on his feet, the rage draining out of him, leaving a dizzying emptiness. Brody stepped in front of him, his presence solid and grounding.
“Turn around.” Brody said, his voice quiet but absolute.
Colt obeyed, his body moving on autopilot. He was too exhausted to fight anymore. He felt the cold, metallic kiss of handcuffs on his skin, one wrist, then the other. The double-click was a sound of absolute finality.
Brody put a firm hand on his shoulder and started steering him toward the door. As they passed the bar, Loretta leaned over, her face pale, her usual sass gone, replaced by a look of genuine pity. “He had it comin', Brody.” she whispered.
Colt didn't say a word. The energy was gone and the fire was out.
Colt was shoved inside the back of the Sheriff’s cruiser, the door slamming shut with a heavy, final thud that vibrated through his bones. Through the metal grate, he watched Brody speak quietly to one of his deputies before getting into the driver's seat. The engine turned over, and the car pulled away from the curb, leaving the lurid, flashing lights of The Rusty Spur Bar behind.
The town slid past the window. The gas station, the closed-down diner, the darkened storefronts. A town he’d grown up in and now felt utterly alien to him. Each streetlight they passed illuminated the interior of the car for a moment, catching the blood on his knuckles, the split in his lip that was starting to swell.
The adrenaline had completely drained away. Just leaving a cold, sober dread in its place. His hands, cuffed behind him, ached with a deep, pulsing pain. He could feel his face starting to puff up where one of Beau's friends had landed a lucky shot.
He had no money for bail. In fact, not even a cent. His last ten dollars were sitting in Loretta’s register.
He had no one to call. His father was in the ground. His mother was a faded, gentle memory. There was only one person left. His sister. Savannah’s face came to his mind, her expression a mix of frustration and love the last time he’d called, begging for money. “I can’t help you until you help yourself, Colt. I can’t keep watching you do this to your life.”
His so-called friends were drinking buddies who vanished when trouble started. And Hank… a cold shudder wracked his body. Calling Hank wasn't even an option.
He was a twenty-four years old man, sitting in the back of a police car, bruised and broke. The faces of the men around him in the bar came to mind. But they were juts that: different faces of the same ugly truth.
Colt leaned his head back against the cold vinyl seat and stared up at the passing roof of the car.
The drinking, the desperate, the fight… It had all been a frantic attempt to outrun this exact feeling. This hollowed-out, profound loneliness. And all he’d done was run directly into its arms.
This is it, he thought, the realization settling with a quiet, deadening certainty. He had hit the rock bottom.
And from there, there's nothing left.
To be continued.
