by Mercy Brown
“Great,” he says, shaking his head. But since Emmy isn’t in any better shape and still smells like the PBR she dumped in her lap earlier tonight, she’s an even worse choice.
“Look,” Cole says. “Can you just stand up straight and not say anything?”
“I guess?” I say. “I mean, how hard can that be?”
We climb out of the van and I steady myself against the side of it, still more drunk than I thought. Cole pulls a wad of bills from the cashbox and puts them into his wallet. He turns to me and inspects then straightens my dress, pulls my cardigan out of the backseat, and drapes it around my shoulders. Then he fixes my hair so it’s out of my eyes as I giggle like a dope.
“What’s so funny?”
“I get the feeling you used to play with dolls,” I say.
“I have a younger sister, remember?” he says. “And a secret love of Barbies, if you must know, but if you tell anyone I swear I’ll deny it.”
I open my mouth but he raises his eyebrows and shakes his head. “Aaah, just smile,” he says. “Smile and try to look like you’re about to have the best hotel sex of your life.”
“What?” I say, and burst out laughing. “Wait, wait, wait a minute. Am I?”
He grins and takes me by the hand. “Just follow my lead and try not to talk or look drunk.”
I nod in agreement, pursing my lips as I will my mouth shut in spite of a million things I want to say. We walk to the front lobby, and I can’t help feeling giddy about this. So giddy I start humming behind him and he pauses before opening the door and turns to give me an admonishing look.
“What?”
“No humming,” he says. “No talking, no singing, and definitely no drunk humming.”
I sigh, exasperated. “I’ll be fine, come on now.”
He doesn’t look convinced, but in we go.
The Motel 6 lobby is as utilitarian a spot as you might expect from a sixty-dollar-a-night hotel. Its mass-market decor of beige-and-blue wallpaper and bronze-tinted sconces on the walls shines under bright overhead lights. It feels harsh in here for three forty-five in the morning and I squint, trying to focus. There’s nobody at the counter, or in the lobby, except for us.
“Wait, where are the hookers?” I ask. “The drug dealers? What kind of a cheap motel is this? I feel kind of let down . . .”
“Sunny,” Cole says. “Please just don’t talk, okay?”
“But . . .”
“Sonia,” he says, and makes a zipping motion across his mouth with his hand.
Cole rings the bell on the counter and then leans all casually against it. About five more minutes go by before a middle-aged guy with graying brown hair, dressed in a not-quite-navy-blue polyester suit (it sort of matches the lobby, now that I notice it), comes grumpily to the counter.
“Good evening,” Cole says with a smile. “My wife and I are coming through town on our way to Nashville and we need a room for the night.”
The man looks right at Cole’s left hand and skeptically back up to his face. “Your wife, eh?”
“Yes, sir,” he answers.
The man looks up from the counter, across the room over to where I am. I smile and give a small wave.
“Identification, please,” he says in a monotone Midwestern drawl.
Cole pulls his license and a credit card from his wallet. “I’ll be paying in cash,” he says. “And if possible, can we get a room in the back, where it’s a little quieter?” Cole lowers his voice and gives the man a little smirk. “We’re still in that honeymoon state of mind and I’d hate to disturb your other guests.”
The man rolls his eyes before looking over at me again. I just smile awkwardly and let my blushing be all the confirmation the guy needs.
“Is she eighteen, Romeo?” he asks Cole, a slightly accusing tone to his voice.
“Am I eighteen?” I answer, totally indignant. Cole makes a desperate sort of face at me, willing me to shut up. “First of all, I’m right here and you can ask me yourself. And second, I’m a married woman, so of course I’m eighteen! I’m more than . . .”
“Actually she’s twenty-one, thanks for asking,” Cole says quickly, cutting me off. “Do you want to see her ID, too?”
“I’ll go get it from the car,” I say, getting to my feet and trying not to sway or stagger.
“I can get that for you, sweetheart,” Cole says, a warning edge to his voice.
“For the love of halibut, don’t worry about it,” the guy says. He takes out a bunch of paperwork and starts filling it out. “I’m not sure what I have available in the back, though.”
“Well, can you check?” Cole says as he signs us in. I have to see him write Cole and Sonia McCormack on the registry, so I walk over to where he is at the counter, sensing how he tenses as I approach. Mr. & Mrs. Cole McCormack, it says.
Cole wraps his arm around me to keep me standing up straight. I try to act how I guess a recently married couple would. I put my arm around his waist, rest my head against his shoulder. Cole clears his throat as I put my hand right on his ass and give it a nice, firm grab. He turns to give me a stern look and I blink innocently at him. He narrows his eyes in warning. “Now behave yourself, kitten, or I’ll put you over my knee the minute we get in the room. And no yodeling this time—we’re in a motel.”
My mouth drops open and I can’t help it, I start to giggle uncontrollably. I cover my mouth with both hands to shut myself up.
The manager rolls his eyes and says, “Look, I’ve got one double open back in the corner here. But it’s a nonsmoking room, got it? No smoking. If I smell smoke in there, your credit card is getting charged.”
“But, wait, I’m not clear on something,” I say. “Can we smoke?”
The front desk manager is not amused. He ignores me. Cole grimaces.
“We’re not smokers,” he assures the guy. “No problem.”
“Yeah, right,” the manager says, then hands Cole a set of keys and points to a diagram of the Motel 6. “You’ll be in 236 A, bottom floor. In the back, just like you asked.”
***
We manage to get everyone and all the guitars into the room without anyone seeming to notice there are five of us in this fake marriage, not just me and Cole. The minute we get inside, Emmylou drops her bag on the floor, does a nosedive onto one of the beds, and sprawls across it. The room is a lot smaller than we expected, with two full-sized beds, not even queens, and not enough room between them for one of us to sleep on the floor there. The only spot of floor space, after we stand the guitars on end next to the bathroom, is right in the front of the beds next to the TV. Joey spreads out his sleeping bag there and grabs a pillow off one of the beds.
“Marmaduke takes the rug, motherfuckers,” he says, stripping down to his underwear, which are a pair of red boxers with yellow happy faces on them, and I bust out laughing again. He flings his clothes onto the chair in the corner.
I try not to stare but I can’t help it. Beneath that goofy, sweet exterior, Joey has a body that’s worthy of a Playgirl spread. The boy is sculpted everywhere—his arms, his legs, his back, and his chest. His six-pack could be played like a washboard and would probably sound like girls’ panties disintegrating. As I’m sitting there staring at him, Travis pulls his shirt over his head and stuffs it into his backpack. Now his naked back is to me, all taut and sleek, and I feel like poking Emmylou awake so that I’m not staring at the love of her life without her consent. Travis is normal-man sized, not a he-man like Joey, but still, he’s defined and, from what I can tell, flawless from head to that part of the waistband of his jeans where his back disappears into the rise of what I’m guessing is a pretty sweet ass. Cole clears his throat behind me and I turn to look in his direction, and I have the distinct feeling I’m blushing.
“What?” I ask, sort of defensively. “I was just . . .”
“Nice vie
w, right?”
“Yes?”
“Oh yeah, Cole?” Joey says, making the world’s dopiest body-builder pose. “You like that?”
“Yeah, maybe I should share a bed with you tonight,” Cole says. “You can be the big spoon.”
Joey gets into his sleeping bag, but then sits up and points his finger at us in an accusing sort of way.
“Look, you guys,” he says. “Serious new ground rule—nobody does any fucking in here, even if you think I’m asleep, because that’s just going to be weird. Do it in the bathroom if you horndogs can’t keep it in your pants. And, Trap, stuff a washcloth in Emmy’s mouth or something this time. Be a prince.”
Travis looks down at Emmylou, all sprawled out, facedown, eyes closed, mouth wide open. A tiny little snore comes out of her.
“You’re safe, Joey. I don’t think shower sex is happening tonight,” Travis says. “Not with Emmy, anyway.”
“Well, don’t look at me,” Cole says, dropping on the other bed. “Wait, were you looking at me?”
“You do look damn sexy in those Dickies, Cole,” Travis says. “I meant to tell you earlier.” He lobs a pillow at Cole’s head before picking his backpack off the floor and rifling through it for a clean T-shirt and a pair of shorts.
“Thanks,” Cole says. “They make my butt look good, I think.”
“Yeah, like a welder,” Travis says. “Or, I guess like a welder. The only welder’s ass I think I’ve ever noticed is Jennifer Beals’s in Flashdance.”
“Hell yeah, that calamari scene,” Joey says. “Who knew eating fish could be so hot?”
“It was lobster,” Travis says. “The luckiest lobster ever. Except for the being boiled alive part.”
“Great, now I’m hungry,” I say, as Emmy’s snore turns into a broken chainsaw buzzing in the room.
“Yeah, you should eat something and take some Advil,” Cole says. “I’ll get the peanut butter and bread out of the van.”
“Well it’s not lobster, but I guess that’ll work,” I say.
Cole gets up and goes out to the van to fetch some snacks. I’m still buzzed by every standard available, so I just smile after him, thinking about what an awesome boyfriend he’d make. Or so I think. I’ve never had an actual, technical boyfriend in my life because I have terrible instincts and worse luck with guys, and Hank Hanley doesn’t count. Apparently, months of flirtation and then losing your virginity to someone in their band van doesn’t make them your boyfriend. Hank definitely taught me that.
Travis pauses before heading into the bathroom.
“Sunny, would you rather share a bed with Cole or Emmy?” he asks.
“Oh,” I say, not sure how I should answer. “What do you want to do?”
“Whatever you want,” he says. “It’s cool either way.”
“What do you think Cole wants?”
“I’m sure he’s fine either way.”
“You guys, why doesn’t Cole have a girlfriend?” I ask, before my brain has the opportunity to think better of it. “I mean, he hooks up with so many girls but never gets serious with any of them. Why is that?”
“Um, well . . .” Travis says. “Did you ask him?”
“No way,” I say. “I would never ask him that.”
“You know, Tina burned him pretty bad,” Joey said. “He’s just cautious, that’s all.”
“Tina DiColleti? That stuck-up Summit Barbie doll with the giant boobs he used to go out with?”
“Yeah,” Travis says. “They were pretty serious.”
“Yeah, well he was, anyway,” Joey says. “She cheated on him and then told him she was never serious about him. She said she could never get serious with someone like him.”
“Someone like him?” I ask. “What’s that supposed to mean? Someone awesome and sweet and gorgeous, too?”
“Oh my, Sunshine,” Joey says. “You got it bad, huh?”
“Come on,” I say. “What was her problem?”
“It was because he wasn’t in college,” Joey says. “Tina told him she needed someone with a real future. She cheated on him with a finance major. It was a really low blow.”
“He has a real future!” I say, feeling angry and offended for Cole. “He’s going to be a fucking star, just like the rest of you guys!”
“I love the way you think, Sunny,” Joey says.
“Yeah, that’d be so nice,” Travis says. “At least the money part.”
“Well, isn’t that why you’re all out here?”
“Sure, of course,” Travis says. “So you’ll share the bed with Cole, then?”
“Do you think that’ll make me seem too eager or desperate or something?”
“You?” Travis asks, surprised. “Seriously?”
“He doesn’t think you’re desperate, Sunny,” Joey says. “Trust me.”
“Well, what does he think? Has he said anything to you guys about, you know, me?”
The doorknob jiggles and then the door swings open. Cole walks back in the room holding half of a loaf of bread, a jar of Skippy, and two Cokes fresh from the vending machine. He plops himself down on the bed next to me and pulls out his pocketknife and is about to dip it into the Skippy jar when I put my hand on his arm.
“Did you wash that?”
He pauses, looks at me. “Even drunk, you make a solid den mother, you know that?” Then he gets up and goes into the bathroom and I hear the water run.
“What do you think?” Travis says. “You think Cole makes peanut butter sandwiches for me at four a.m. on a Monday night?”
“He probably would,” I say.
“If he asked nicely,” Cole says as he walks out of the bathroom, and I make a face.
“Hey, Cole, can you make me one, too?” Joey asks.
“Sure,” Cole says. “Do you really want one, Trap?”
“Yeah, now that you ask.”
The four of us polish off the last of the bread and the Skippy, all the while Emmy snores away. We talk for a while about the coming shows this week as I grow more and more sober. And I never do answer Travis about where I’d like to sleep tonight, not in words, but I suppose he takes the hint as I curl up next to Cole on the bed, and hey, I’m short and Cole is on the tall side, so really, he’ll be more comfortable sleeping with me than Travis. I pass out like that before we can have much of a conversation about it anyway. When Cole gently shakes me awake, it’s to make sure I drink another glass of water and take two ibuprofen before I’m out for the night. Travis and Joey are fast asleep along with Emmy by now. I get up and head into the bathroom to splash my face and change into my tank top and sleeping shorts. When I come back out into the room, I find Cole sitting on the edge of the bed, putting on his shoes.
“Where are you going?” I ask, confused.
“I’ll sleep with the gear tonight.”
“Is it likely to get stolen here?”
“No,” he says. “It’s not that.”
“Then sleep in the bed,” I say. “Can’t we just share?”
I climb into bed and pull the covers down and pat the empty space next to me. “I promise to keep my hands to myself, even if you did promise me the best hotel sex of my life.”
Cole laughs and gives me a smile that melts all the tension between us. “You sure?”
“Yeah, of course,” I say. “No big deal, right?”
“I just don’t want you to wake up in the morning and feel . . . something different,” he says, his voice rough and quiet as he finishes the sentence.
“I won’t,” I whisper back. “Will you?”
“No way.”
“Well, you have nothing to worry about.”
He nods, okay. He looks unsure, though. But he takes off his shoes and then goes into the bathroom. When he comes out a few minutes later I try not to stare at him but I really can’t help
it. As good looking as Joey and Travis are—and trust me, they are—Cole is a whole other level of perfection. To me, anyway. He’s wearing these black gym shorts he brought for sleeping—and nothing else. I watch the light play off his face, so tentative as he approaches. I stare at his shoulders, strong like a wrestler’s, and I’d like to take some time to just stare at the contours of his chest and everything between it and the top of those shorts, which I’d like to shred with my teeth so I can see what lies underneath. He slides into bed next to me, and oh God he smells good. He smells so good it’s all I can do not to just lean over and inhale him. He lies down on his side, studying my face.
“I’m not really drunk anymore, you know?” I say. “It’s mostly worn off now.”
“That’s good. Maybe your hangover won’t be too brutal this time.”
“I need to learn to pace myself,” I say, sheepishly. “I’ll have no liver by Maxwell’s at this rate.”
He laughs and I can smell his toothpaste, feel his breath on me. I want to reach for him, but I don’t because I don’t want to make him feel weird. “Sunny,” he whispers, our eyes locked.
“Yeah?” I whisper back, hardly able to breathe.
He lets out a big sigh. “Maybe you should roll over and face the other way.”
My face falls with disappointment, but I roll over, onto my side, facing the wall. I don’t know how much space there is between us, but it feels like miles and miles. Miles of unasked, unanswered questions and all the stupid ideas I still carry around about myself and every guy I’ve ever liked. Of course it’s awkward. Of course I’m putting him in some kind of bind, because he doesn’t want to be here—he’d rather sleep in the van on a ninety-degree night than have to sleep in the same bed as me. But I’ve made him feel like he’ll be offending me if he does what he wants—which is not this.
I feel his weight shift on the mattress and curl myself into a little ball. Cole rolls over and curves his long body around mine, all warm and sweet as he drapes his arm over me and pulls me close to him. I’m almost in shock when he does it, too. And I feel like I’m screaming inside, like I’m about to float up, over my body and look down so I can see with my own eyes that Cole McCormack, the biggest crush of my entire life, is spooning me in a hotel room in Kentucky. I feel his nose against my neck as he breathes in, and I wish I’d taken a shower because I’m sure it smells like the stupid club and the bazillion cigarettes Anton smoked while I was hanging out with him, but the way Cole sighs, maybe not. Cole holds me tighter and now I’m a lightning bolt trying to stay in one place—nothing but a charge waiting to strike. I breathe faster and squeeze my eyes closed.
