I drive without any sense of direction. My mouth is dry and my hands are shaking. I need a drink.

Shifting in my seat, I crane my neck and study the smeared neon sign and the crowd gathered outside an industrial-type building. My fingers tap-dance against the soft fabric of the wheel cover. Eight hours on a lonely highway turned me into a neurotic mess. The thought of driving myself into the nearest tree to end the torture once and for all did cross my mind. Yet the rational part of me stopped the sadistic one from doing the stupid thing. Sometimes it feels like I'm two different people. They're fighting each other over my sanity because some days I know what I'm doing and some I don't. Today is the latter.

I circle the block, thinking about getting a drink in a bar I just passed. Owen and I had partied hard before River came to us. I had my first fake ID at seventeen. Loud places with hundreds of strangers never made me uncomfortable. I just haven't had a reason to go anywhere of the sort lately. There was never a shortage of wine and liquor at home after we buried our baby.

After the third loop, I pull into the busy lot and thrust my Prius between two SUVs. My heart thumping inside my chest threatens to demolish my rib cage. I shut the engine, roll down the window, and take in the sounds of rock music blasting from inside the building. Owen and I used to go to lots of concerts before my pregnancy. Coldplay, Foo Fighters, Linkin Park, My Chemical Romance, Disturbed. My husband had a soft spot for loud, angry, unconventional music. All that stopped when River was born. We were suddenly buried under a pile of medical bills and insurance paperwork. There was very little time left for entertainment.

The moment I step outside, cold air crawls under the sleeves of my sweater. Trying not to pay attention to the catcalling and the stares of the local crowd, I clutch my fingers around the straps of my purse and beeline for the entrance. The bouncer's face gives away no emotion as he studies my driver's license. My outfit doesn't seem to bother him as much as it bothers the guys on a sidewalk who won't stop the immature whistling. For a second, I think wearing the skinny jeans was a mistake. Or coming here was a mistake.

"The cover is twenty," the bouncer barks, returning the ID.

"To get into a bar?" I ask, scanning the neon sign above his head as if the answer is going to magically appear there. "Is this a male striptease night?"

"Live music."

Drawing a deep breath, I search my purse for some cash and hand the money to the bouncer. Unbelievable.

Inside, the floor is packed with the clouds of white smoke consuming the sweaty bodies ramming against each other to the wild beat of the song. The place is dark and moody. I slowly make my way to the bar and take one of the only two empty seats left. The music blaring from the vicinity of the stage is aggressive and vulgar. Not my first choice if I were looking for a live band to see, but I don't care. The desire to get anesthetized is stronger than my aversion toward the offensive lyrics that make no sense.

The bartender approaches me with a lopsided grin. After requesting a shot of tequila and a food menu, I take a few moments to study the anarchy on stage. The singer's longish dirty blond hair sticks out in all directions as he violently shakes his head like he's been possessed. He is young. Nineteen, maybe twenty. Wearing a simple black t-shirt and a pair of jeans. I find his performance and particularly his gut-wrenching screams somewhat disturbing, but I suppose if the place is this busy, the band must be popular.

The bartender is back with my drink shortly. Wrapping my fingers around the shot glass, I scan the list of the food items on the menu. It's strange; hunger is the first feeling that has awoken in me after two years of complete numbness.

As soon as the song comes to an end, I use the opportunity to order a burger and fries, then down my shot and ask for another. By the time my food comes, the familiar lightness has already taken over my body and mind. The band is about to wrap up their set when someone very unsteady snatches the stool next to mine. Slamming his massive hand against the counter, the stranger demands a drink. His slanting body invades my personal space. His elbow starts making its way in the direction of my plate.

Moving my food aside, I finish the rest of my drink and send a few fries in my mouth to soften the burning in my throat caused by tequila. I like being numb. Because this is when I don't remember. The emptiness always consumes me in the morning. It always hits harder than the night before, but I'm too tired to fight. Too tired to think. Too tired to live.

My side vision catches the crew disassembling the mount of amplifiers on stage. The singer jumps in the crowd and makes a few rounds, shaking hands and taking photos before he disappears in one of the booths, conveniently tucked in the dark corner on the opposite side of the floor.

The asshole next to me slides his stool closer to mine. "So, what's a g-guy gotta do around here to g-get an attention of a pretty lady like you-yourself?"

I play dumb. "Excuse me?"

He doesn't beat around the bush. "You want to go back to my place and have some f-fun?"

"No, thank you." I return to my food.

He thrusts his knees into my thigh and slurs, "You look like you c-could use some good time, sugar. Come on...I can show you a good time."

Anger starts simmering beneath my skin. I silently move my chair and ignore his remark.

He doesn't get that I want to drink my alcohol and eat my food alone. "What's it gonna do, sugar?" His hand goes for my thigh.

"Get off of me!" I raise my voice and push him away. My first night of what's supposed to be a trip to rediscover myself is being ruined by some asshole. Just my luck.

"Come on, sugar." He moves closer, trapping me against the counter with his body.

"I said, get off of me." I shove both hands at his enormous chest. "I don't need company."

The new voice drifting from the dark has a hard edge to it and a hint of raw power. "You deaf, bud?" A male silhouette, lingering among the bar crowd, slowly swims into focus. He is tall and lean. The hood of his sweatshirt, thrown over his head, hides his face. "Didn't you hear the lady. She doesn't want company."

As if on cue, a bulky male in a Dodgers jersey disengages from the crowd and retrieves the asshole from his spot. The ease he does it with startles me. The bar-goers cheer the Dodgers guy on. Two seconds later, the idiot who almost drunk-drooled into my food is ancient history.

The mysterious stranger moves closer and gestures at the empty stool. "Hey." His voice softens. "I hope you don't mind. I promise to behave."

"Sure." I nod, drinking him in. He looks handsome and sober. Not that his looks, or his toxicology report, matter.

My pulse starts to race when he leans closer and whispers into my ear, "Do you mind if I buy you a drink?"

"I thought you said you were going to behave?"

"I just want to buy you a drink as a peace offering." His eyes meet mine. They are silvery gray, big and bottomless.

I don't know if it's the alcohol but my stomach does a few unexpected flips. Something I haven't felt in over two years.

"Okay." I nod again, studying his spinning—stunning I dare to say—face. He is a little older. Definitely over thirty, but the good side of it, the youthful and sensual. A few silky strands of black hair sticking out from under his hoodie curl chaotically over the collar of his leather jacket.

The big guy in a Dodgers jersey materializes behind us. His hand rests on the stranger's shoulder. There's an inaudible exchange of stares and cryptic gestures between the two, then the Dodgers guy gives the mystery man a pat on the back and disappears into the crowd.

"What are you drinking?" The Tall, Dark and Handsome inquires, keeping his distance just as he promised.

"Tequila."

"Wow, you're not kidding around." A soft chuckle leaves his mouth.

"Nope." I take a deep breath and break the eye contact.

"What's your name?"

I tilt my head and stare at the man. The hoodie he is hiding under is distracting but the longer I study his features, the more I'm convinced I know his face. The brooding eyes, the elegant curve of the lips, the sculptured cheekbones, the thin fringe of stubble on his chin. Even the letters tattooed on his left-hand fingers.

"Is this some sort of interrogation?" I ask carefully after a few failed attempts to read the word this man chose to imprint on his body forever.

He shoves his left hand into the pocket of his jacket and says, "No. I thought it'd be easier to communicate if I call you by your name instead of 'babe.'"

Yeah. Definitely not that. I cringe at the silly nickname. "Hazel."

"Hazel?" The corners of his lips perk up. "I like that."

"Your turn."

"Daniel."

"Nice to meet you, Daniel." I feel a bit disappointed. He doesn't look like a Daniel. The obvious bad boy thing this man has going on—the leather jacket, the boots, the faded jeans—would probably work better with some cool, exotic, never-heard-before name.

"You don't like my name?" The little blue lights dancing in the gray pools of his eyes as he narrows them at me make me giddy. I haven't sat this close to another man in years. And right now, the two tequilas I had and the mess in my head are causing me to feel weird things.

"I just expected something a little more...provocative," I say, sipping on the leftovers of my second drink.

"Provocative?" He leans closer. "How provocative?" I like the way he smells. Clean with a hint of an ocean breeze, mint, and spice. His voice is suggestive, but not over the top.

I roll my eyes, maybe a bit too dramatically. My excuse is I can blame the irrelevance of everything I do and say right now on alcohol.

Daniel orders another tequila for me and a beer for himself.

"Are you in hiding or something?" I dip my French fry in a pool of ketchup.

"Why would you think that?" He places his elbow on the counter and props his chin with his hand. The sleeves of his jacket slide down a little, revealing some more ink designs, but I still can't read the letters on his fingers. It's almost as if he doesn't want me to. Fine, that can be the challenge of the night.

"Because of...all this." I wave my hand in front of his face. "But you forgot the sunglasses."

"I'm at a bar." He smiles again. "I'm trying to blend in."

"Well, it's not raining here."

He shakes his head and laughs inaudibly.

The bartender returns with our drinks.

"You don't want to be recognized or found." I let him in on my theory.

"Maybe I just had a bad haircut," he counterattacks.

A man this gorgeous can't have a bad haircut. Even with his head shaved he'd still probably look like a god.

Yes, Hazel, you are officially drunk.

"Figures." I sigh, reaching for my tequila.

We silently clink our drinks. He slowly sips from his bottle while I down the shot in one go. The buzz in my head intensifies.

"So, are you going to tell me who you're hiding from?" I ask, chewing on my tasteless fries.

"My ex."

"If she is your ex then why the hiding?"

"You know, she is one of those who doesn't get that it's over when it's over."

"Ahhh...I see." His beautiful face is starting to turn into a blob. What a pity. I liked looking at him. "You want my burger?" I slide my plate in his direction.

"I'm good."

"Whatever."

"What about you?"

"What about me?"

"What are you doing here on a Friday night alone?"

"Drinking."

"I can see that." He brings his stool closer to mine. "Do you want to tell me why?"

"What if I don't?"

"I mean, I'm not going to force it out of you." He takes another sip of his beer. "But isn't it the point of doing this?"

"Doing what?"

"Going to a bar, getting drunk, talking to a complete stranger about your issues, and then never seeing each other again? Kinda like going to a shrink but for free."

"You do that a lot?"

"Actually, no. I just go to a regular shrink, but I wanted to try this since the regular shrink doesn't do any good." He smirks again. Damn him. I don't know if it's the alcohol or just me, but I want to keep talking.

"So..." I drawl. "You have a regular shrink?"

"Is that a problem?" His left eyebrow shoots up his forehead.

"Not...not really." I blink a few times to bring his face back to focus. "The way things in this country are going, everyone will have to have a mandatory shrink soon."

"That wouldn't be so bad, would it?"

"So...wanna tell me about that ex of yours and why you're hiding?"

His lips touch the rim of the beer bottle again. His lips are...fine."She's been served."

It takes me a good minute to get what exactly he is talking about. "Oh." My heart shrinks at the thought of my own divorce. "Did she not take it well?"

"Not really."

"Did she not see this coming?"

"I don't know." He shrugs. His eyebrows pull together as he runs his hand over his unshaven cheek. "Is this some kind of interrogation?" A smile.

"You started it," I slur, fighting the unexpected laugh rippling through my chest. "I'm just trying to be a good bar shrink."

"You're doing an excellent job, babe." His hot breath makes my skin prickle as he whispers this into my ear.

If I were sober, I would probably tell him off and ask him to leave, but the fuzziness in my head, the strange pulsating sensation in my stomach, and the fact that I no longer owe anything to Owen indicate it's okay to keep this conversation going. I find Daniel intriguing, a little different, cocky even, but interesting enough to have me distracted from the depressing thoughts in my head. Maybe Rayna is right after all. Maybe I just need to get out more.

"Do you call every woman you meet at a bar babe?" I ask, doing a ninety-degree spin on my stool to face him. "I thought we agreed on the name." I have to lean against the bar to prevent myself from falling off. Three shots of tequila and two fries are making me lose control over my own body. I do know I don't want to end up on the floor.

"Right." He nods, shifting on his stool too, his knee is connecting with the legs of mine. "I'll do my best to keep my word."

"Hey." I wave at the bartender again, wanting shot number four.

"You got a ride home?" Daniel asks after I order another drink.

"I thought this is a no-strings-attached situation?" I mumble, downing my tequila, my tongue barely moves in my mouth. The plate of fries, now stale and cold, is still sitting in front of me.

"I know. I just want to make sure you get home safe," he says. "I promise I won't follow."

"Pfff." I try to suppress a hiccup. "That would be considered breaking the rules of the bar therapy."

"Sounds like you're a bar therapy pro."

"Not really... I don't typically..." I have to stop for a second to think about what I was going to say. Everything in the bar, including my plate, is spinning. My fingers miss at least twice while trying to find the little container with ketchup. "...go out and get drunk in a bar on a Friday night. I'm a stay-at-home type."

The silence between us becomes weird. I avert my gaze, make another ketchup-dipping attempt and bring the fry to my mouth, but of course, miscalculate. The sticky substance has a mind of its own. It decides that painting my sweater red is a far better idea than being devoured by my hungry self.

"Shit." I rub my fingers against the fabric of my sweater. Why did I not wear something black? Black is nice. It's the color of my life.

"Here." Daniel hands me a stack of napkins and waves at the bartender. Two seconds later a wet towel is being shoved at me. My attempt to clean off the ketchup turns into a disaster. My fingers are not listening. I keep dropping the towel on my jeans. My sweater looks like one huge red blur, my hair keeps falling down my shoulders.

Bottom line: Drinking at home would have spared me the embarrassment.

"You mind?" Daniel slowly pulls the towel away. I can feel his hand grasping my shoulder to steady me while his other one slides across my chest, up and down....up and down. His face is even a bigger blur, the music is muffled, the lights dancing in the back are fading in and out. How did I get here? What am I even doing? My son is dead, my husband and I are getting a divorce, and I'm drunk out of my mind, letting some stranger in the bar grab my breasts.

"Hey...you okay?" His voice starts pulling me back to reality.

"I'm fine," I say breathlessly, sliding from my stool and waving at the bartender. "I'm...going home..."

Daniel wraps his arm around my frame. "How are you getting home? Someone picking you up?"

"I need to close my tab," I blurt out at the bartender, trying to ignore the fact that Daniel's hand on my waist doesn't feel too bad. On the contrary, it's strong, nice, warm...and muscular. Even with all those layers of leather and fabric rubbing against my sweater. I'm sure it's because Owen and I haven't been close for a very long time and it's just a normal physical reaction. Nothing more.

"Hey, why don't we get you a cab, huh?" he mumbles in my ear, giving some silent signals to the bartender.

"What am I supposed to do with my car? Just leave it?" I huff.

"Listen, you can't drive like this, babe. I'll get you a cab or an Uber, alright?" he insists.

"I don't need you to get me a cab or an Uber... I...can...t-take care of m-myself." I slam my hand against the bar and switch my attention to the bartender, who keeps ignoring my requests to close my tab. Summoning all the strength left in me, I shout, "Anyone working here?"

"I already took care of the bill. Come on." Daniel hooks his arm through mine.

"I d-did not ask you to," I growl, jerking my other arm, which causes his beer to fly off the bar. I can see it traveling down in slow motion, the bubbly content spilling on my sweater and jeans like a well-deserved punishment for getting wasted.

"Fuck," I blurt out as the bottle bursts into pieces right next to my feet, spattering the leftover liquid all over my boots.

"Just put it on my tab, man." I can hear Daniel's instructions right before he walks me toward the entrance.

There are a few blank moments too; I don't exactly remember how my purse ended up on my shoulder, but I can feel it bumping into the bodies of strangers as we rip through the crowd.

The air outside is crystal cold. My lungs start shrinking as I take a deep, shaky breath when we step into the parking lot. Correction: when I get dragged into the parking lot.

"What's your address?" Daniel asks, tapping the screen of his phone.

I sway on my feet, back and forth, trying to keep my balance, watching the thick clouds coming out of my mouth as I attempt to produce a coherent sentence.

"N-no strings attached, r-remember?" A quivering combo of mumbling and slurring comes out from my mouth after the third try. My body is starting to shake, my eyes are closing, my stomach is churning. This is not good at all.

"Look, I'm just trying to help, okay? You can't even stand still. How the fuck are you going to drive?" Irritation in his voice is evident.

"What d-do you care?" I whisper, fighting the gravity.

"You're right, I don't. But I'd be an asshole to let you get behind the wheel in this condition."

I blink a few times, trying to focus on the letters on his fingers while he runs his hand across his forehead, pushing some of the hair back under the hood.

F A I T H

"Just leave me alone," I choke out, fighting the twister in my head. What happens after that, I'm not sure. I black out.

Want to know what happens to Hazel and Justice next? 

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