Rewired (The Progress Series) by Amy Queau Read Free Book Online Page A

slipped.
    I’ll find the biggest fucker I can and wrap my hands around his neck…
    He lit a cigarette in the car while his knee bounced.
    I bought a fucking chicken.
    He turned a corner to see a neon Miller Lite board and a flashing red Open sign. Conveniently, a parking space in front was just opening up.
    I’ll find someone in here and thrash his head against the concrete floor… How could I have been so stupid to think she’d be over him?
    Hopping out of the car, he bounced his way into the bar. He slapped open the door as loud music pierced the sidewalk outside. His jaw constricted as he surveyed the room. Thoughts were still floating in and out, and the adrenaline was now showing immense physical side effects, causing his limbs to shake.
    He loved every second. The elation of hypo-mania was a nice place to visit. He welcomed it, as he hadn’t seen this old friend for many months. It’s the kind of high that people pay good money for, and he wasn’t about to let it go to waste.
    All of his senses were on high alert: colors were more vivid; a slight breeze felt like a wind storm; his nose filled with the scent of whiskey, beer, perfume, cologne, greasy food, and remnants of stale cigarette smoke from when the bar once allowed it; and the old piece of gum he had been chewing now stung his tongue with peppermint, as if he had just popped the piece into his mouth.
    What was a dark room suddenly illuminated with the dilation of his pupils. A few quick blinks were all it took for his eyes to adjust and see everything: the bartender, the six patrons, and one waitress. Standing near the entrance, he identified a slight change of pattern in the wooden floor boards across the room, three bottles on the shelf behind the bar on which the labels weren’t facing outward, the waitress stuffing a five-dollar bill in her apron, two flies mating on the cheap plastic of a dim overhead light, and a drug deal taking place at the small table in the back.
    From the unlaced shoe of the drug dealer to the cleft chin of the waitress and the fan in the corner blowing streamers into the warm room, he saw it all at once.
    His senses flooded like the rumblings of a nonstop freight train—sight, smell, taste, touch, sound.
    Smiling with his head back, he closed his eyes—delighting in the euphoric symphony his mind was conducting for his body—and stretched his trembling arms out to his sides.
    It would take less than a minute for it all to erupt. His hypo-mania was now becoming an extreme manic episode.
    Like watching a scene in fast forward, his emotions switched from pure joy to devastation within seconds. From unity to disparity, from gain to loss, from freedom to suffocation. Small movements suddenly became threats, laughter became his ridicule, and the first person to look at him would become his target. It was all he could do to breathe it in and let the rush run its course.
    Blocking the exit for one very unfortunate customer, Jesse stood brooding over him and waited. Waited for a word. A look. Anything.
    And he got it.
    “Excuse me, sir.” A man almost half the size of Jesse tried to step around him.
    That was all it took. It was nothing in the man’s tone or demeanor. It wasn’t because he acted strange or said something wrong; he was just the unlucky bastard who got caught in the wrong place at the wrong time.
    In what now felt like slow-motion, Jesse turned his head to survey any witnesses before pulling his arm back, winding up for his attack. His head snapped back toward the stranger, whose jaw ricocheted from Jesse’s fist. Hearing the crack of the patron’s jaw and watching the saliva spray from the man’s mouth, Jesse felt his arms bulge at his sides as his posture straightened. Letting out a relaxed sigh, he smiled as the man fell instantly to the floor.
    No one had heard any commotion over the music, and the scene hadn’t drawn any attention yet, so Jesse’s knee stretched back, supplying his foot with the