3
Brock
The bulk of patrons at The Watering Hole lounged at tables behind me, their voices a din atop the country music filtering through out of sight speakers. No TVs. No pool tables or dart boards. No hot women to tempt me into living my last night with humanity to its fullest.
Just as well. I wasn’t in the mood to make small talk or get personal enough to weasel my way between a woman’s thighs.
If the patrons of the s**t bar knew what I’d done, I’d be ostracized just like I’d been back home. Staying private kept inner turmoil brought on by assholes away. I had enough of my own to deal with.
Best to keep to myself. Dale, the bartender and owner, had taken my one-worded answers to his prying questions as the hint I’d meant them to be and left me alone.
My love of adrenaline highs an
