Sheryl asks again, and this time Deacon doesn’t even bother to answer her, his glare worth at least a thousand words, his eyes saying everything that needs to be said, and she sets the mug of Budweiser and the shot of Jack down on the bar in front of him.“Fine,” she says. “You’re a grown man, Deacon Silvey.” And then she takes a step back from the bar, crosses her arms, and watches him.“What? You’ve never seen a drunk fall off the wagon before?”“I’m not saying a word. This is between you, your pregnant wife, and the bottom of a bottle.”Deacon stares at the two glasses and then stares at Sheryl, then stares at the beer and the bourbon a little more.“What’s that crap on the jukebox?” he asks and wipes sweat off his forehead.“Someone else’s quarter,” she replies.“Well, it sucks ass. You know I hate that hip-hop shit.”“So find somewhere else to get smashed,” and then someone shouts at her from the other end of the bar, and Sheryl leaves him alone with the two drinks.
