Round Rock - Michelle Huneven [69]
HAPPY YOLANDA’S door was flung open. Inside the warm darkness, a coppery blur of faces and a sad Spanish love song rasping on the jukebox. Bottles clinked. A drunken laugh rang out. Lewis inhaled the sour breath of his old life: smoke, spilled alcohol, disinfected air.
What if he walked in and ordered a double bourbon, neat? Surely nobody would say, “Hey, aren’t you Red’s assistant out at the drunk farm? Sure you want to throw away all that hard-earned sobriety?” The bartender would more likely pour the drink, his face blank as lumber.
Libby sat on a stool at the end of the bar, talking to Arvill Hartwood, a big-shot rancher in the valley. Lewis had seen him around town. Though not in Billie’s league, Arvill was still rich by anybody’s standard. He was famous for having both Morrot and Fitzgerald blood, and for his kindly nature. Even Victor Ibañez, who praised no man, admitted Arvill was sweet, but he called Arvill’s wife, Charlotte, “the Barracuda.” The Barracuda had walked out on Arvill for the fifth or sixth time two months ago—which was probably why Arvill was slumming in Happy Yolanda’s—and Victor had a pool going for the exact date of her return.
Arvill, thought Lewis, was probably just the right man for Libby; maybe fifteen years older, and not bad looking if you don’t mind grizzle. Wiry, charming, and rugged in spades. Arvill raised longhorns for a hobby in the pastures around his ranch-style home; if Libby married him, she could admire lunky cattle with silky, speckled hair and handlebar horns from various picture windows.
Lewis sat at the other end of the bar. Libby spotted him, said something to Arvill, and carried her drink over. She’d been home and changed into jeans. Her hair was shiny and floating around her face. Her green, ribbed shirt was tight enough that Lewis could see bra straps and nipples. “Swacked yet?” he said.
“It’s club soda, dummy. I know better than to drink around you.”
Arvill was watching them. Lewis stood up. “Let’s get out of here. That guy creeps me out.”
“Arvill?” said Libby. “He’s all right.”
“He wants to fuck you.”
“He does not.”
Lewis put his hand on her back and urged her off the bar stool, steering her out onto Main Street. The night was bright, with an almost full moon. You could see the bricks in the buildings, the green bridge arching over the river, the brush-covered hills rising up behind town. He nudged her up Main to the Mills, then through the lobby and up the stairs. In his room, he pushed her down on the unmade bed. “Lewis,” she said. “We’re going to talk.”
He evaded her hands, peeled her shirt up until she lifted her arms, and her breasts, in her lace bra, sprang free. She covered her chest in an ineffective show of modesty. “This isn’t talking,” she said.
“We’ll talk,” he said, and unhooked the bra. He pulled her hands away, kissed her breasts, yanked the buttons of her Levi’s, which opened in a rapid arpeggio. She kept trying to cover herself, but she was also starting to laugh.
He put two fingers inside her and looked her in the eye, which she never endured with equanimity. She bit her lower lip. “Talk to me now,” he said. “What’s on your mind?”
“I remember this trick,” she said, and arched away from his fingers. With his other hand, he held her pelvis in place. She tossed her head and began moving against him. He climbed on top of her, still using only his hand. She felt juicy, warm, complicated. She couldn’t look at him for more than a second. She kept pulling stuff out from under her—a balled-up T-shirt, a pencil. She twisted and squirmed, cried out, pulled a book from under her thigh, and finally came, as if to get away from him.
She was still, eyes closed, breathing hard. Then she reached for his belt buckle. “Take off your clothes,” she murmured.
“I’m fine,” he said, and moved away from her. He stood, found the cigarettes, lit one. She reached for it; he gave her a puff. She closed her eyes and patted the bed. He sat down beside