Disoriented
Wynne was hungover, and it wasn't from booze or drugs. The night before had passed in a blur, but he did know he had pushed past his own limits...and that wasn't always a good thing. Waking up in a strange place with empty pockets, it was severely discomfiting. His mouth was dry, and he didn't have money to get a drink. He ran a pale hand over his face, felt day-and-a-half old stubble.
He walked down the sidewalk, the sun ever present no matter how much he tried to seek shade under the awnings of store fronts. Wynne scanned the vicinity for any sort of familiar face, but it was a weak effort. Most of the people he had gotten to know in Key West were of a more nocturnal sort. They were all probably sleeping comfortably in their beds.
The sun was making its glorious appearance now that most of the cloud cover had blown away, and Cassidy put on her shades against the glare as she exited the post office. Bit of a hangover from last night, and her head was still feeling a little thick. She was going to have to stop making Duval Street her second home.
The bottle of water she was carrying got uncapped, and she took a slow drink as she ambled down the sidewalk. She would need lunch soon, but something light so as not to threaten her stomach. This afternoon, there was to be more furniture shopping.
He stopped to lean against a wall, a sudden wave of dizziness halting his steps. Patting down his pockets again in the vain hope that his cell phone had decided to reappear, he found a small piece of paper. Wynne took it out to examine it, squinting to read the tiny writing. It was a coat check ticket, which he supposed would explain his lack of a jacket. Looking down, he realized he was wearing only a button-down shirt and a pair of jeans. The phone and wallet and everything else was probably in the jacket.
Sighing, he took a moment to collect the frayed, fragmented pieces of his consciousness. This wasn't new territory for him, but it had been awhile. Some movement down the walk caught his eye, and he saw a woman walking toward him. Wynne turned toward her. "Hey," he said, trying to sound non-threatening. "Do you know what time it is?"
"Just about noon, I think." She'd stopped wearing a watch a few years ago, but there had been a wall clock inside. It was either early or it was late in her opinion, and without a job she didn't need to know what time it was. Some things about being pushed into early retirement actually didn't suck.
"You kind of look like hell." And he did, as if he was freshly out of jail. Or rehab. "You all right?"
Wynne wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, then rolled up his shirtsleeves. He wasn't surprised at this assessment of his appearance, but usually he and his friends wore it with pride. Now, he just felt foolish. He sincerely hoped it wasn't part of growing older. "I'm fine. I misplaced some things, and lost track of time."
The sun briefly moved behind a cloud, and Wynne was able to fully open his eyes without his brain protesting. "At least, that's what I think happened." He gave her a sidelong glance. "I'm Wynne Barber." Part of him, an extremely arrogant part of him, hoped she would recognize the last name and spot him cab fare or something. Or at least buy him a drink.
She almost said 'how nice for you', because she recognized the tone and she was a little beyond the age of getting starstruck for pretty much any reason. But it was too early to smack anyone, even verbally, so instead she said, "What'd you lose? If you just came back from somewhere someone might have turned it in by now." Water sloshed around in the plastic bottle as she used it as a pointer to gesture down the street, and then she offered it to him.
"Here. You look like you could use it."
He scratched the back of his neck a little, sighing. "Everything. Jacket, phone, keys, wallet. The works." Wynne's accent had long since been Americanized, but a slight inflection came out nonetheless, especially when he was tired or pissed. "I don't even know where I was, so..." He gave a shrug. The problem wasn't replacing those items, it was the inconvenience of his current situation.
He took the bottle gratefully, taking a long sip. It was slightly warmed from the sun, but welcome nonetheless. The stuffed-cotton feeling of his mouth went away. "Thanks."
Budding alcoholism was common in Las Vegas, where the clubs didn't close until the very late hours and the casinos stayed open almost all the time. Cassidy wondered where his parents were. She had no maternal instincts at all, but she had some sense of common decency. And he couldn't have been much more than eighteen, if that. Her parents had never let her wander around on her own, more was the pity.
"What do you remember last?"
Wynne braved a quick glance at the brilliant blue sky. He couldn't really talk about what he remembered last, not to someone who wouldn't understand. There had been a lot of energy, and it wasn't exactly focused positively. But somewhere in there, he had gone to either a restaurant or club; the ticket was evidence of that. However, the tiny slip of purple paper had only a number on it - 291 - and not a logo or name of any sort. He took it out of his jeans pocket and showed it to her.
"I was here. I don't recognize where it's from, though."
The purple scrap of paper meant nothing to her. For all she knew, they color-coded their coat check stubs down here depending on the establishment. Still, he could try calling his cell and see if anyone picked up. Part of the human condition was being nearly unable to ignore a ringing phone.
"Barber." His clothes were in pretty good shape, despite his physical condition, and she glanced down the street as if expecting to see someone on the lookout for him. Behind the sunglasses, one eyebrow made itself visible. "Someone waiting up at home?"
"Maybe the housekeeper," he joked. His mother wanted little to do with him after his current lifestyle had taken effect, and his step-father was somewhere in Miami on dubious 'business.' If one of his acquaintances had his belongings, he doubted they would be in a hurry to come seek him out to return them. His sunglasses alone could have been traded for some very quality narcotics.
"It's fine. I suppose I could make the trek to my parents' place." They lived on the other side of Key West, but maybe the walk would help clear his head.
Cassidy eyed him critically. Mr. Wynne Barber was young, young and far too pretty by half. He'd have been an easy target in the neighborhood she'd grown up in, prey for the tough older boys who cut school and loitered around the pool hall. And in his current condition, the likelihood of him walking out in front of a car was possibly better than average. She didn't want to read about him in the newspapers after he'd strayed into her path.
She tugged her wallet out of her purse, knowing she shouldn't, that he was likely a rich brat who could afford it, but she gave him a twenty anyway. Call it nostalgia, because she'd done her share of looking out for the younger set on her block. Even a girl could be a protector when it was necessary.
"Take a cab. I'm sure you can find one even at this hour."
He took the bill, neatly folded it and slipped it into his pocket. "Thanks," he said, trying out the sound of sincerity on his tongue. Wynne looked at her a little more closely, his expression softening into mild curiosity. "I never caught your name." She seemed pretty streetwise, despite the brief moment of charity, so she probably wasn't a tourist.
"You're right, you didn't." Nostalgia was one thing, opening the door more than a little was another. A guy could get the wrong idea really easily. She unnecessarily adjusted her sunglasses, then pointed towards a marked public bus stop.
"I remember seeing a phone over there. If you can get some change I'm sure you can find a cab. Try not to get run over, huh?"
The corner of his mouth turned up a little. "Right. Thanks," Wynne repeated, looking toward the place where she had gestured. He had never noticed it before, but then, he had never taken public transportation here before. He gave a small, slightly dismissive wave as he began walking toward it, already thinking of excuses to make his mother take some small measure of pity on him - and convince his stepfather to fork over some more cash.