Chapter 1: The Whiskey Dare
The air in The Last Call was thick with the smell of stale beer, old wood, and a hint of citrus cleaner that lost the battle years ago. A single bulb flickered in its cage above the pool table, dying a slow death and casting long, dancing shadows across the faded green felt. The jukebox in the corner played a low, smoky blues number, a bass line that vibrated through the soles of your shoes.
In their usual leather booth, cracked and sagging in the middle like a tired sigh, the group was ensconced in its Friday night ritual.
“So I told him, if you’re gonna charge ‘organic’ prices, the lettuce better not look like it lost a fight with a lawnmower.” Michele’s warm laugh cut through the murmur of the bar, her hands moving as she spoke. The silver streaking through her dark hair glinted in the dim light.
Shaun watched her, a small smile playing under his graying beard. He nursed his bourbon, the ice mostly melted. He was the still point in her lively orbit.
“Man’s got a point,” Marcus boomed, his laugh like thunder rolling in from a distance. He leaned forward, his broad frame taking up space effortlessly. “You seen the price of a avocado lately? It’s a felony.”
Tyrone adjusted his glasses, a smirk on his lips. “Economic inflation coupled with aspirational consumer trends. They’re not selling you food, they’re selling you a virtue signal.”
Derek just shook his head, his salt-and-pepper dreads shifting over his shoulders. He took a slow sip of his beer. “Virtue never tasted so much like mortgage payment.”
The conversation rolled from groceries to politics to their kids’ obscure sports leagues, easy and familiar. Another round appeared. The blues track switched to something with a slightly faster, pulsing rhythm.
It was during a lull, as Michele traced a finger through the condensation on her glass, that she said it. It wasn’t a declaration. More of a musing, tossed into the center of the table like a piece of incidental trivia.
“You know,” she said, her eyes on the water droplets zigzagging down the glass. “I think the only way I’d ever try anal is if I were completely, totally knocked out. Like, medically unconscious. No memory of it whatsoever.”
She glanced up with a flirtatious, self-deprecating grin, aiming it at Shaun. A classic Michele remark—bold, funny, a little shocking, designed to get a reaction.
The reaction she got was not the one she expected.
Shaun’s easy smile vanished. He set his glass down on the scarred wooden table with a deliberate click. The sound was oddly final in the bubble of their booth. He turned his whole body toward her, his observant eyes locking onto hers. The playful light in them had been replaced by an intense, unnerving focus.
“Completely knocked out,” he repeated, his voice low and steady, stripping away the joking tone she’d used. “No memory of it whatsoever. You mean that?”
The booth went quiet. Tyrone’s smirk froze, then evolved into a look of keen fascination. He slowly raised his glass to his lips, watching over the rim. Marcus’s eyebrows shot up, a slow, delighted grin spreading across his face.
Derek let out a soft, barely audible breath. “Well, damn,” he muttered into his drink.
Michele’s own smile faltered. A flush crept up her neck. It was one thing to say something outrageous for laughs. It was another to have it picked up, examined under a cold, sober light. Especially by Shaun. “I… well, yeah,” she said, her laugh now a nervous flutter. “I mean, theoretically. It was a joke, Shaun.”
“Didn’t sound like a joke,” Shaun said. His gaze didn’t waver. “It sounded like a set of conditions. Medically unconscious. No memory. Those are very specific parameters, Chelle.”
Marcus found his voice first, a low rumble of pure mischief. “Parameters. He said parameters. Y’all hear that?” He slapped the table lightly. “Man’s already drafting the mission statement.”
“Shaun,” Michele said, her voice tightening. This was veering out of her control, into a space that felt too real, too examined. “It was just a stupid comment. Forget it.”
“Why would I forget it?” Shaun asked, his head tilting slightly. That protective, anchor-like steadiness she loved now felt like being pinned in place. “You laid out a scenario. A hypothetical. I’m just seeking clarification. You’re saying, under those exact conditions, you’d be willing.”
The blues tune ended. In the sudden beat of silence before the next song hissed on, the question hung there, raw and unmistakable.
Tyrone finally spoke, his tone analytical, smooth. “He’s got a logical point, Michele. You introduced the premise. It’s fair to question its operational boundaries.” He gestured with his glass. “Is it strictly pharmacological unconsciousness, or would profound traumatic shock also qualify?”
“Tyrone, Jesus,” Michele gasped, but she was laughing again, a high, strained sound. This was her crew. They dissected everything.
Derek’s deep, quiet voice cut through. “Rohypnol’s out, though. That’s a memory maker, not a memory taker. Contraindicated for the stated parameters.” He nodded sagely, as if reviewing a clinical checklist.
Marcus was practically vibrating now. He pointed a thick finger at Shaun. “You hear that? Your boys are doing the research and development for you. The path is being cleared, my brother.” He leaned in, his eyes gleaming. “The question is, are you man enough to execute? She gave you the rulebook. Tonight. You got the good whiskey right here. A few more of these,” he shook Shaun’s near-empty glass, “and a Ambien chaser? We could have you prepped and in the operating theater before last call.”
The table erupted. Tyrone’s shoulders shook with silent laughter. Derek chuckled, a rich, rolling sound. Marcus roared, slapping the table again.
But Shaun didn’t laugh. He didn’t even look at Marcus. He just kept looking at Michele, watching the panic and the amusement and the deep-seated curiosity war behind her eyes. He saw the flash of genuine fear, the one that always lived alongside her bravado. He also saw, for the first time, a flicker of something else—not a yes, not even a maybe, but an acknowledgment that the door she’d kept bolted had just been nudged ajar. By her own hand.
He finally broke his gaze, picked up his bourbon, and finished it in one smooth swallow. The ice clicked against his teeth. He placed the empty glass down, straight and centered on its coaster.
The new song from the jukebox was all driving rhythm and wailing harmonica.
Shaun looked back at his wife, his voice barely audible under the music, but every word carried straight to her core.
“Okay,” he said, with a simple, terrifying finality. “Let’s go home.”