Heir

Chapter 4-1

4

When did I get so goddamned old? Luther wondered, groaning as he rolled over to look at the clock. The red digital numbers blurred so much he couldn’t even guess at their shapes.

I'm not that old. He slid a glass aside carefully, in case there was an eighty-proof residue in the bottom. Just that stupid.

11:52. He squinted at the glow of his bedroom window through the curtain. It must be a.m. Barely. That meant it was time to roll his sorry ass out of bed and get to work. Well, desk duty, if that qualified as work. That's what you got for decking another officer. Twice.

Luther switched off his bedside lamp. He didn't seem to be able to sleep without it on lately. He shuffled to the bathroom in his boxers, turned the shower as hot as it would go, and stepped in before it had a chance to get there. The initial chill helped clear his mind, before the hot water helped un-kink his muscles. And wash away the stink. Alcohol emanated from his pores. As it had pretty much since the day he'd planted his brother in the ground. Luther wasn't proud of it, but at this point it was a matter of whatever it took to get through the day.

He crawled out of the shower, put on his next-to-last pair of clean underwear, and ran a razor across his face without opening a vein. He’d given up on the beard, and it might be time to lose the mustache. It took a little more dexterity than he was capable of lately. He wandered around, looking for his phone, and finally found it on his nightstand. Next to the glass. Next to the bottle. Still a third full. Luther shook his head. If he didn't have his head on straight, or—God forbid—he got fired, he’d never find the bastard that killed Les.