The Sullivan Sisters

Drink, Confession, Drink

If someone had asked Paloma how she'd managed to escape the gas station, swap Ava's car out for her own, and drop in on the closest bar she could find, all in under fifteen minutes, she wouldn't have an answer for them.

Then again, ever since she could remember—from the time her Sunday school teacher forced her to copy every word of Genesis as a reminder that there were consequences for children who talked back to adults, to when her college professor verbally—and incredibly openly—ripped her paper to shreds in a lecture hall occupied by well over a hundred students—Paloma's emotions had always managed to light a fire fierce enough to get things done in record time and now was no different.

It had been a while since she'd been to a bar. These days, she found herself opting out of late night excursions with her and Ava's friends, knowing that the outing would do nothing more than infringe on her promise to herself and her family to keep the booze at arm's length.

Between the long hours at work and Ava's prying eyes—both intent on keeping her in check—Paloma hadn't thought it all that difficult to keep away.

Only, now, she found herself craving the burn alcohol never failed to ignite in her throat as it quenched her thirst like only it knew how. She was more than aware that going to a—less-than-mediocre—bar wasn't the best decision on her part, but after the events that Wednesday night regurgitated, Paloma longed to be practically anywhere that wasn't home.

Grimacing at the sticky substance that coated the underside of her barstool, Paloma sought refuge in a thin napkin, scrubbing her hands free of the subtle reminder as to why she'd avoided such shabby bars like the one she'd stumbled upon that night.

"What'll it be?"

Paloma's diluted, brown eyes only fell on the bartender's for a second before darting to the beer tap that practically sparkled, even under the dusky, artificial light.

"...Coke," she decided, her voice thick with apprehension. "No ice." Anything to suppress the bile that was making a steady climb from her belly.

The bartender's bushy brows rose. He could hardly serve up the drink before Paloma guzzled every last drop, leaving nothing behind but the glass it came in.

"Another?" he gruffed, clawing away at his salt and pepper beard.

Paloma didn't bother going through the motions by offering up an "excuse me" for the audible burp that followed her urgent consumption. Instead, she gifted the man a bitter grin; certainly not his first of the night.

"You catch on fast," she quipped. This earned her a deep scowl from the server but she hadn't noticed in the slightest.

Paloma had adhered to her max of three drinks a week religiously, often times not even reaching it. But that night, she knew without a shadow of a doubt that she could down a month's worth of that agreed upon allowance in one sitting. The wine that accompanied dinner had only hit the tip of the gargantuan iceberg.

Like the first, she quaffed the second coke as though she was suffering from chronic dehydration, all the while pretending it was liquor, mercilessly tearing its way through her insides.

"You're drinking alone, too, huh?"

The smooth voice in itself was enough to drag Paloma's attention from her empty glass and escalate towards the dimpled smirk of a man who stood no shorter than six feet.

His polo—whiter than an arctic bear's thick, winter coat—was just tight enough to broadcast his pecs for all to see, the smooth canvas that was his chest peeking out from the opening his unlatched buttons allotted. His biceps, like two glistening mountains, tightened as he pulled out the stool next to Paloma and took a seat.