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with that. After you," Althea said, dramatically holding her arm out toward the bedroom.
     
     

 
     
     
     
    CHAPTER TWO

     
    Nicholas Griffen Tate rubbed his face and gritted his teeth as he drank his Macallan Gold Scotch on a stool at the crowded downtown Pittsburgh bar two blocks away from the glamorous Fairmont Hotel , which would be his home for the next two weeks.
    His mom wanted him to stay with her, but he couldn't do it. Even now that his father was dead and buried all these years, it still hurt to be in that house — the whole street for that matter. If a zip code could be filled with regret and lost opportunities, for Griffen, that was it.
    "Need another?" Griffen looked up quickly at the nattily dressed bartender.
    "Yeah, a double sounds good."
    "Gaht it. Comin' right up." Griffen smirked bitterly into his glass as he emptied it and shook the perfectly square ice cube against the sides.
    He hadn't heard the Pittsburgh dialect in years, but it was as distinct as they come. The years away were disappearing for him with each extended vowel he heard.
    "Hey, you look familiar," the bartender added as he started to fill a fresh tumbler. "Have you been in 'ere before?"
    "No, I, uh, grew up here, but I'm thirty-one, man, I doubt you know me from then."
    "Nah, that's naht it. Sorry, but it's gonna bug me all night." Someone elbowed him behind the bar and whispered in his ear. "Oh man, I didn't realize — you're Griffen Tate, the writer! I heard you were from da Burgh, but this is crazy. Though, it looks like you probably don't want any attention, right?"
    "No. No, I don't want attention, just the drink."
    "Gaht it," the bartender said as he switched out the glasses. "Man, that's so cool though. I love those Cade Jackson movies," he whispered across the bar, his young hands gripping the edge.
    "Thanks. You know they were books, too, right?"
    "Oh yeah, I read 'em. I just love watching all that stuff blow up for real in the movies."
    Griffen winced. Of course this kid would like his Cade Jackson stories. Young males with a love of booze and a desire to live like they were in a video game were his target audience. He nodded at the grinning bartender in thanks for the second round, hoping that getting drunk would take the edge off his shitty mood, and then hating himself for sounding just like his dad.
    He sighed, feeling weary down to his bones. It wasn't too long of a drive down from New York, but for him it had felt like an eternity. He'd been filled with dread each mile that he drove closer to his hometown and all that it meant to him.
    Everyone raves about the view coming out of Fort Pitt Tunnel into the heart of the city. You emerge from the belly of an ancient mountain to see each of the three rivers and all of the triangular shaped modern downtown area laid out in front of you, as though you're trapped in some enormous snow globe. Yet, for him it had felt like a slow march into a past he'd been running from for longer than he cared to admit.
    Christ, man, just drink your scotch and turn down the self-loathing a notch already, will you, he told himself.
    Being back here was doing a number on his head. He ran his hand through his wavy dark hair and squeezed for a second. He shook his head, letting his hair flop across his forehead and his hand fall back to his glass. Griffen wasn't a drink snob, but he'd felt like getting from zero to wasted as quickly as possible, and a glass full of the throat burning hooch had seemed like an effective way to start.
    Ten years.
    That's how long he'd stayed away and it would have been longer if it were up to him.
    Forever seemed like a good length of time.
    Griffen jerked when his phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out with a grimace. Kevin Stevens texting again: Glad you made it in all right. The key to your office for the next 2 weeks is with the provost. Thanks again kid!
    Griffen snorted. He definitely wasn't a kid anymore, but he couldn't complain. Coming from