Six Bad Things_ A Novel - Charlie Huston [86]
—Hey, T, what’s up?
T points at me.
—This guy’s my friend. Keep an eye on him, OK?
She shrugs.
—Sure.
T puts his mouth next to my ear again.
—You hang here, I’m gonna go set something up with the pot franchise.
He squeezes into the mob of denim. I turn back to the bar just as the bartender sets a beer in front of me.
—First one’s on me.
—Ya know, I don’t.
But she’s already gone to take care of the service bar.
I look at the beer.
The Percocet has smoothed the edges of the pain in my leg and ankle. The scream is still there, but has been drawn away into the distance where I can contemplate it without feeling it. I like this. I like feeling like this. Feeling so little.
I look around the club. When was the last time I was around so many people, all crammed together, music blaring, that smell of beer and sweat soaked into the floor and the upholstery? Years.
I look at the beer.
I slide my finger through the drops of condensation on its side.
Drinking this beer would be a bad idea.
Something soft and smooth presses against my back. Hot breath hits my ear.
—Can I have some of that, cowboy?
I turn and look at the stripper standing behind me. Her face is inches from mine. Too much makeup, too much hairspray. I look at her hand, set lightly on my thigh. A woman’s hand touching me. I take in her body in its translucent sheath of pink Lycra. Breasts patently fake, booth-perfect tan, ass and legs stair-machined to some ultimate balance of muscle tone and body fat. She leans into me, reaching for the beer, and her superhero breasts graze my upper arm. She holds up the beer in front of my face.
—You mind?
I shake my head and she takes a long sip, then hands me the bottle. She’s so close.
—Thanks. Dancing makes me thirsty. Hot and thirsty.
I look at one of the solo stages. A stripper has one knee cocked around the pole and is spinning like an ice skater.
—I guess it would.
—What about you? Dancing make you hot?
She’s so close. She’s silly and fake, but she’s so close. And I don’t feel the panic, the visions that grabbed me when I scared the smiling Spanish girl on the beach.
She scratches a fingernail against the nape of my neck.
—You wanna dance with me?
I remember my last time with a woman. I was still drunk. Once I stopped drinking, I started thinking. That was it for women and me. I don’t say anything.
She smiles, mock sadly.
—Your loss, cowboy.
She turns and starts to leave, her hand slipping from my thigh. I grab her wrist. She turns to face me.
—Is that a yes?
I nod.
—Well, come on then.
She takes my hand and starts to pull me from the bar.
—Hang on.
She stops.
I shouldn’t be doing this, I shouldn’t be doing any of this. I know that.
I put the beer to my lips, turn the bottle upside down, and empty it.
—OK, let’s go.
And she leads me to the banquettes in the darkness against the far wall. She sits me down and the dress slides off. Wearing only a G-string and high heels, she takes my hat from my head and waves it in the air and rides my lap slowly, while “Sweet Emotion” plays.
I FEEL great. Honestly, I can’t remember the last time I felt this good, this great. It makes me wonder why I haven’t had a drink in so long. I mean, it’s been at least five minutes since I had my last beer.
—Hey, yo, ’nother Bud down here.
The bartender nods in my direction as she sets a couple drinks on a cocktail waitress’s tray.
—Comin’ up.
A guy with a buzz cut, wearing tight Levis and a PBR Tour T-shirt, shoves into the space next to my stool.
—Sorry, been tryin’ ta get myself a beer for ’bout a half hour.
I smile.
—Hell, no problem.
The bartender comes over with my beer and sets it in front of me.
—Eight bucks.
I pull out a twenty and hand it to her and point at the guy in the PBR shirt.
—Here, get this guy one too and keep the change.
She takes the money and looks at the guy.
—What ya having, cowboy?
—Burt Light.
She slides open a cooler, pulls out a bottle of Coors Light, yanks an opener from the back pocket of her low-rider jeans, pops the cap, and puts the beer on the bar.