Give Me a Reason
by Brandon Barrows
About the author:
Brandon Barrows is the author of the novels BURN ME OUT, THIS ROUGH OLD WORLD, and NERVOSA, as well as over fifty published stories, selected of which are collected in the books THE ALTAR IN THE HILLS and THE CASTLE-TOWN TRAGEDY. He lives by a big lake in Vermont, with a patient wife and two demanding cats.
www.brandonbarrowscomics.com
Brandon Barrows is the author of the novels BURN ME OUT, THIS ROUGH OLD WORLD, and NERVOSA, as well as over fifty published stories, selected of which are collected in the books THE ALTAR IN THE HILLS and THE CASTLE-TOWN TRAGEDY. He lives by a big lake in Vermont, with a patient wife and two demanding cats.
www.brandonbarrowscomics.com
I stepped out of the bright Miami sun into the cool dimness of the bar. It took my eyes a few moments to adjust, but I spotted Houser almost as soon as they did. Two years hadn’t changed him at all.
Houser was sitting on a stool at the long, polished bar, his eyes glued to a sloe-eyed girl at a nearby table. She was sitting with a pair of other girls and an older man who was dressed too warmly for the south Florida weather. Everything about the man screamed tourist. Everything about the girls screamed “for hire”. It didn’t matter how much money the old man had, though; if Houser set his eyes on one of those girls, she would be his before long.
I slid a cigarette from the pack I bought on my prowl through the beach-front bars, looking for Houser. It took me two tries before I got it to stay lit. Florida is pretty much the only place you can still smoke in a bar. I’m not sure why I knew that. I never smoked before the sandbox and until now I never smoked outside of it. I knew beforehand that I’d want one when I saw him, though. He brought back more than just memories.
I took a deep drag, feeling the smoke coil down inside my lungs, then stepped up beside Houser and ordered an old-fashioned. There were people at the tables, but the bar itself was practically empty. Moving right in next to Houser made him turn to look at me. He stared for maybe ten seconds before saying, “Well, I’ll be damned. Chris Zender, the poor little rich boy himself.” He grinned slowly.
I forced myself to smile back. “Small world.”
“They let you out of that fancy hospital, huh?” Something wicked flashed through his eyes.
“Yeah.” I sipped my drink. “I didn’t know you knew about that.”
Houser’s gaze went back to the girl at the nearby table. She was laughing at something and her hand was on the older man’s arm. The tourist looked embarrassed, but delighted. It seemed to
annoy Houser.
He turned back to me. “What brings you down this way, Zender?”
“I’m on my honeymoon.”
Houser was amused. “Oh, yeah? Where’s your bride?”
I took a last drag off the cigarette and stubbed it out in a nearby ashtray. “A couple doors down, browsing souvenirs in one of those overpriced little shops.”
“You can afford it,” Houser sneered, amusement disappearing.
Houser was sitting on a stool at the long, polished bar, his eyes glued to a sloe-eyed girl at a nearby table. She was sitting with a pair of other girls and an older man who was dressed too warmly for the south Florida weather. Everything about the man screamed tourist. Everything about the girls screamed “for hire”. It didn’t matter how much money the old man had, though; if Houser set his eyes on one of those girls, she would be his before long.
I slid a cigarette from the pack I bought on my prowl through the beach-front bars, looking for Houser. It took me two tries before I got it to stay lit. Florida is pretty much the only place you can still smoke in a bar. I’m not sure why I knew that. I never smoked before the sandbox and until now I never smoked outside of it. I knew beforehand that I’d want one when I saw him, though. He brought back more than just memories.
I took a deep drag, feeling the smoke coil down inside my lungs, then stepped up beside Houser and ordered an old-fashioned. There were people at the tables, but the bar itself was practically empty. Moving right in next to Houser made him turn to look at me. He stared for maybe ten seconds before saying, “Well, I’ll be damned. Chris Zender, the poor little rich boy himself.” He grinned slowly.
I forced myself to smile back. “Small world.”
“They let you out of that fancy hospital, huh?” Something wicked flashed through his eyes.
“Yeah.” I sipped my drink. “I didn’t know you knew about that.”
Houser’s gaze went back to the girl at the nearby table. She was laughing at something and her hand was on the older man’s arm. The tourist looked embarrassed, but delighted. It seemed to
annoy Houser.
He turned back to me. “What brings you down this way, Zender?”
“I’m on my honeymoon.”
Houser was amused. “Oh, yeah? Where’s your bride?”
I took a last drag off the cigarette and stubbed it out in a nearby ashtray. “A couple doors down, browsing souvenirs in one of those overpriced little shops.”
“You can afford it,” Houser sneered, amusement disappearing.
Like the sample? Read the whole story in the Summer 2021 issue of Guilty Crime Story Magazine!
