Numb

Numb Ch. 3

"I don't believe we have that dish, but I can check with the kitchen if you want."

Natasha belted out a horrifyingly high pitched cackle and reached over to slap Zeb's arm flirtatiously. "You're so funny!"

James' phone buzzed in his pocket and he whipped it out gratefully, glad to get away from this dinner from hell for at least just a moment. But to his dismay, it was only a text. From Jed.

Get in there, man. The fag's stealing your date.

James just shut his phone without responding and stood up. "I'm going to the bar."

"You have to be twenty-one to go in there," Zeb informed him.

"Like I care," James mumbled, already walking away.

~*~

Two hours later, James was still in the bar, and Jed was still out there with the two girls. He was going to be scoring double tonight, because James sure as hell didn't want any. He was already drunk, but when he was drunk he was sober. When he was sober, he was drunk.

He pulled out a pack of cigarettes and stuck one between his perfect white teeth. He didn't smoke often, and only kept a few with him, just in case of times like these.

"Hey!" the bartender called. "You can't smoke in here."

"Watch me," James said, searching his pockets for a lighter.

"Seriously, man. Please go through these double doors and into the smoking section."

James got up, but was too wobbly to intimidate the guy. Rather, he listened to him.

On a stool in the smoker's section, James still didn't have a lighter.

"Here," a gruff voice beside his grunted. A kerosene lighter was shoved into James' face and a flame flickered at the end of his cigarette.

"Thanks." James took a long pull from the cancer stick, and reveled in the feeling of the burning in his lungs.

"Name's Molly," the man said, offering a labor hardened hand. James took it and gave it a shake. "Call me Mo."

"Your name's Molly?"

"The 'rents wanted a girl. What's yours? Brandon or Henry? What are you, the star football player of your high school?" Mo had a thick Southern accent. "How about Austin? That seems like a pretty sissy name to me."

"It's James." He narrowed his eyes at Mo.

"Hoo-ey!" the man howled, lifting off his cowboy hat and circling it over his head like a lasso. "Well, howdy there, James. You play football in your high school? I'd believe it."

James straightened his back and puffed out his chest. "As a matter of fact, I do. And I swim, play baseball, and wrestle. Got a problem with that... Mo?" he spat sarcastically.

Mo laughed, his large hand resting on his pot belly. "Not at all. Does your daddy make you do them?"

"No..." James mumbled, looking down at the idling cigarette in between in fingers. Now that he thought about it, his father had forced him into almost every sport. Except swimming. That was James' passion.

"There somethin' bothering you, James?" Mo asked, spinning around in his stool to place his elbows on the bar's counter.

James sighed. "No."

"Don't believe ya."

"Well, there's nothing going on with me, so just drop it," James snapped ferociously. The few people in the bar turned to look at him. He lowered his voice considerably. "There's nothing going on."

"Come on, tell Uncle Mo," he prodded, pushing Jame's shoulder gently. James shot to his feet abruptly.

"There's nothing to tell and you're not my uncle." He stomped outside and down the steps of the bar, and stood in the freezing cold, sucking on his cigarette.

But suddenly, he didn't want to kill anymore of his brain cells. He didn't want to feel the burn in his lungs from the cigarette or the scratchy feeling at the back of his throat when he drank alcohol. He wanted to spill his guts about everything that was going on in his life. He wanted to tell someone, because he was ready to burst at any moment.

He looked back at the bar.

And there was Mo, ears at the ready and there. For him. No one had ever been there for him. No one had ever really cared about what he thought. They just wanted him to take the school to the championships, or get into his pants because he was just so goddamn hot. But did they ever stop to ask what was wrong? Why he was always so unhappy and ready to kill someone? No. They didn't.

And at that moment, James didn't want to feel anything. Not anger, not sadness. Nothing. He wanted to feel numb.

~*~

Whew! Two uploads in two days! I wish you guys would comment on this more. I really like writing about James. He's actually my favorite character. :) Who's yours?