This is an ecerpt from my debut solo novel, entitled Founder; to be released on July 11, 2007 with Torquere Press.
He would never drink whiskey again, Aubrey decided as he lifted his head from the toilet bowl.
In his state, he was frankly surprised he was able to form a coherent thought at all. He'd seen far too much of three a.m. in the last couple of days, most of the time feeling exactly the way he felt right now. Although, come to think of it, he was starting to feel better for having purged the offending spirits from his stomach.
In fact, he was feeling much better. He stood up and pulled the hand towel from its ring beside the sink, soaked it in cold water, and laid it over the back of his neck. He took a few minutes to wash his face and brush his teeth too, frowning when he noticed that they– that he – was almost out of toothpaste.
Chet had always bought the toothpaste because he was picky about it. Aubrey didn't give a good goddamn what he used as long as it tasted minty and wasn't a strange color, but Chet had to have tartar fucking control or something. Whatever. As far as Aubrey was concerned, Chet could take his baking soda and peroxide and let it whiten and disinfect where the goddamn sun didn't shine.
Aubrey dropped the wet hand towel in the sink and shuffled stiffly back to bed. He knew he was pathetic, laughable even, like an old, tired-out country song. His man left him and he was out of booze. Even the dog had left him. Never mind that Chet had been a cheat and a liar. Never mind that the asshole had been fucking other men in their bed for God knew how long. Oh, no, never mind all of that. When Aubrey'd finally thrown Chet out, the man had packed up in about ten minutes, told Aubrey it had been a good time with a patronizing tip of his fucking hat, and walked out the door with the goddamn dog.
Aubrey was going to miss that dog. He'd miss Chet, too, but he was really going to miss Beauregard.
Aubrey sat on the bed with a longsuffering sigh. Somewhere on the other side of this hangover his pride was waiting for him, and he knew he'd get it back. He'd get it back just as soon as he felt like facing the world again.
And after he made sure he hadn't lost his goddamn job.
Chet Bayard. Chester Alexander Bayard. God, he'd hated it when Aubrey called him 'Chester'. It was a fairly pretentious name for a lying, cheating son of a two-dollar whore. Or maybe even a one-dollar whore. Or not even a whore because Aubrey knew a couple of them and they were nice people. Maybe just a son of a bitch. That wasn't necessarily a whore, you know? Just a bitch.
Fuck, Aubrey's head hurt. Fucking buzz. Fucking headache. He lay down on the bed again, but wasn't happy about the way the room started to spin.
He wouldn't need to be so drunk, Aubrey figured, if he wasn't so goddamn mad. Spitting mad. Fighting mad. Chet hadn't even looked sorry. Chet didn't look like he was going to miss a goddamn thing. He just slipped his feet into his walking boots and strolled right out of the house.
"See ya'round," Chet had said as the door closed behind him.
"See nothin'," Aubrey grumbled bitterly. "Trust me, you don't want to get seen by me right now, Chester."
The house felt too quiet and although it was small, Aubrey'd been knocking around inside it like a penny in a piggy bank. He hated it. But he wasn't lonely or broken-hearted. Nope. He wasn't as pathetic as all that. He was… well, fuck, he was pissed was all, and he was gonna miss that goddamn dog.