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Ching-ching - Between the Bottles and Her Name

“What the fuck did you need that you drank the whole damn country dry?” the man barked with his tone not-so-polite.

It had been three days since Wolf had holed up in the garage, trying to sober up or pretending to. No one knew what reason or heartbreak had driven him to get that wasted, but in the past seventy-two hours, he’d tried to fight his own men three separate times and even chased them around with a baseball bat. They’d only managed to stop him when Jack, fed up with the chaos, landed a punch square in Wolf’s face hard enough to knock him out for another twenty-four hours.

Now he was awake,barely, and eyes bloodshot, brain still drowning in leftover booze, with no real memory of what the hell he’d done. “Does Camilla know you’ve turned into a full-blown alcoholic? Wait, scratch that. She already knows you are one. But does she know you’ve gone for a record? Three days, no home?”

At that, Wolf reached for another can of beer, cracked it open, and took a long swallow before muttering, “She’s… busy. With something, I don’t know.” He paused for a second. Then, almost to himself, he added under his breath, “Or someone.” No one caught the last part. Hell, they could barely make out the first. His words slurred together, soaked in the sound of cheap beer and bad decisions.
In his drunk, twisted logic, Wolf told himself Camilla was probably too busy to notice he hadn’t been home. Maybe that made them even, both pretending to be too busy to care. Ching-ching. No problem at all.

He kept drinking whatever bottles were left in the garage, waving for the guys to refill the stash. Another blackout was on the way, and he didn’t mind one bit.