The town of Westwood, during the faint traces of daybreak and the heat of the mid-afternoon summer, was safe more or less from Knox Bryant. He had a bad habit of stumbling into his apartment by dawn, still high off of whatever drug he had taken at the club, and crawling into the shower, drenching himself in its cold water, clothes still on and all. He'd wake up hours later, still sprawled out fully-clothed in the shower, to a pounding headache and a hangover so bad he could barely talk let alone keep food down. He never really believed any of that "hair of the dog" bullshit actually worked but that didn't stop him from trying.
The night, however, was a different matter entirely. He put on a fresh suit, applied cologne, and popped about four aspirin before calling his driver to pick him up in a streamlined range rover in front of his apartment. Like a any other supposedly "well-adjusted" human being, he frequently called Dex or Kingsley or Dorian to join him (Kelan was usually too busy at his job as a bartender to actually go bar-hopping with them) in his drug-addled debauchery. Sometimes, however, he went alone and slipped the bouncer a fifty to forget the fact that he had been banned at that particular club for life. He was alone these nights, but never lonely, sipping his drink and scamming on desperate, attention-starved women by the bar.
On this particular night, he had been booted for starting a fight and telling the bouncer to go fuck himself. He wasn't always belligerent when he drank, but sometimes it just felt good to break shit and throw things. Knox thought it was hardwired in his brain as a man to crave violence of some sort, but mostly he thought it was just because he was an asshole.
There weren't many options. He was drunk, alone, and his phone was dead so he couldn't even call his driver to come pick him up. He considered walking home but with his luck and at this time of night, he'd probably get hit by some drunken idiot as some sort of divine retribution for all of the DUIs he had racked up over the years. Somehow, Knox ended up wandering towards the outskirts of the town park. He had emerged from the trees and reached the point where the path joined the bridge. The falling light magnified the dusky expanse of the park, and the soft yellow glow at the windows on the far side of the lake made the scene appear almost peaceful. He felt like Henry David fucking Thoreau if Theoreau had been borderline alcoholic with control issues.
As a dark figure approached, Knox felt his fists clench instinctively and then unclench when he realized the silhouette belonged to 1) a female and 2) Beatrix Ashley. She was wearing her ever-present frown and at that sight, he couldn't help but smile.
"I could ask you the same thing. Thought you'd be making children cry, not frequenting sketchy bridges at night," he said, the corners of his mouth turning upward and forming a smirk. Knox was determined to finish his fifth of whiskey and even Bea couldn't ruin that for him.