Gentlemen Only

Whiskey Glasses

Jet swirled the contents of his glass slowly, enjoying the rich color of the amber whorls as they rotated around the glass. His eyes swam out of focus, more from lack of sleep than intoxication. The dismal abyss that resided where his stomach once was churned with roiling emotions, none of which were bright. A place where his affection for Meredith lived now housed the darkest sentiments, the kind that made him want to curl up in a fetal position and not resurface for a long while.

It was his fault, really, when he thought about it. His intentions, however pure they may have been, ended up totally alienating the first woman he had ever allowed himself to care for, other than his family. It was a feeling he wouldn't get use to, a reality that he couldn't swallow.

Meredith was no longer in his life, and he didn't expect her to return. That was his own mishap, formed out of love but forged with desperation. He could clearly visualize the moment Moretti slid the photos across the desk, Meredith's face coming into focus, completely throwing him off his game. There was no other tactic he knew of to thwart such an underhanded, devious attempt to coerce.

Jet's shock at the length Moretti and Steele would go to ensure their secrets were kept was slowly fading. He understood why they'd come to him, now that he was of clearer mind. They knew he was intelligent enough, that after adequate prodding and poking around their business dealings, he would be able to launder their dirty deeds. He was capable of it, but every intention of declining and turning them in to the authorities went out the window when they threatened Meredith's life.

So here he was again, sitting alone at the club, which use to feel like a reprieve. Without Meredith, it felt more like someone had ripped his heart from his chest and crushed it. Thus, the whiskey flowed into the empty space where she should be, a numbing burn in a hollowed soul that did little but mask the pain. It would be there again in the morning, surfacing from his subconscious the minute he stirred, an aching reminder of his failures.

He would subsequently remind himself that he was keeping her safe, at least for the time being. That was all he really wanted, despite the longing in his gut that willed her anxious laughter to grace his hearing. Jet wished he had made her laugh more, so that now, in the desolate place of his heart, he could almost hear her. It was growing increasingly difficult to remember the exact way her lips curled when she smiled, and that saddened him.

If he had ever felt depression pressing down on him relentlessly, it was now.

A young man, Davis, was tending the bar tonight, and as luck would have it, he didn't question Jet's choice in beverage, nor did he reprimand him for his count. He kept sliding refills across the counter, barely glancing at Jet, but when he did it was with an emotion resembling pity.

Jet didn't want to be pitied. It was his damn fault: all of it, and he longed to tell Meredith so. To apologize and pull her into his arms would be such a blessing, an embrace that he didn't deserve. He wouldn't be surprised if she ended up leaving his company.

His brain wandered to places he'd rather not go as he tipped up a fresh glass and downed the liquid, no longer feeling a sting as it went down.

Memories of his time with Meredith, breaking through her shell, flooded him like an uncontrolled movie reel. Every small minute he chipped away at her walls was beautiful in his mind. From their first awkward interview, which he thoroughly enjoyed reliving to this day, to him introducing her to his mother, each held a special place in his heart.

An image of her the first time she wore her hair down caused his body to tense in all the right places. It cascaded perfectly over her slim shoulders, and he recalled that in that moment he wanted to know what it felt like to brush it away from her neck.