by Claire Adams
She points to me, obviously telling them something, but it’s too loud for me to hear what she’s saying, so I walk closer to the group.
“…I mean a long time,” she says. “Leila, we were just talking about you! Come have a seat. Rick here is going to buy you a drink. What do you want?”
Drunk in the middle of the day: is this my life now?
“I guess I don’t have to go back to work today. I’ll have a tequila sunrise,” I answer, eliciting a cheer for some reason.
The one that must be Rick—my clever deduction is due to the fact that he’s the one leaning over the bar, ordering my drink—has dark, shoulder-length hair, and there’s a tribal armband only partially hidden under his shirtsleeve.
He’s really not my type. I’m more into the clean-cut gentleman, but now that I think of it, the only “clean-cut gentleman” I ever dated was Chad.
What the hell? I’ll see if there’s something to this Rick guy other than the tattoos and the somewhat unsettling look that he’s giving me as he hands over my drink.
Boy, he is really staring me down.
All right, maybe Rick’s not the guy, but I do feel like letting loose and maybe doing something stupid.
“So, what do you guys do?” I ask, scanning each of the four men in turn, looking for anyone who doesn’t look like they’d kill me in my sleep.
“Finance,” they all answer at once.
That explains it.
“We’re in finance, too,” Annabeth says.
“No, we’re not,” I rebut. The tone catches the guys off guard. “I mean, we’re in brokerage, but that’s hardly the…” I trail off, realizing just how full of crap I am. If Annabeth and I aren’t in finance, what are we?
Annabeth just smiles and touches my arm.
“Will you guys excuse us for a minute?”
Four men with blank faces nod, startlingly in unison.
We get about 10 feet away from the bar when Annabeth turns on her heel and asks, “What’s your deal? Those guys are totally into us.”
“I don’t know,” I hedge. “I guess they’re just not my type.”
“Yeah?” she asks. “What is your type, then?”
I shrug.
“I think I know what the problem is.”
“Yeah?”
If she has any ideas, I’m more than open to hear them.
“You’re scared,” she says. “It’s been so long since you’ve gotten yourself some strange that you don’t know what to do when it’s sitting right in front of you.”
“Strange is a pretty good way to describe it,” I say, looking over at Annabeth’s brood, not one of them speaking or showing any kind of emotion whatsoever. They’re just sitting there, staring off into what I’m nearly certain is nothing.
“You need to loosen up,” she says. “Now, drink that shit down and I’m going to order us some shots.”
“I didn’t really bring that much—”
“You’re a pretty girl in a bar,” Annabeth interrupts. “The last thing in the world you have to do is buy your own drink. There’s not a man in here that wouldn’t rather see you drunk, so chug that down and let’s get it started.”
“Get what started, though?” I ask, my adventurousness almost completely dissolved already.
“A nice, pleasant, one-hour relationship,” she says. “You need to get someone to clear out the cobwebs.”
“Cobwebs?”
“Right,” she says, “the rule. But you know what I mean. Just take a breath, will you? I’ll tell you what. Go over there and I’ll help you build some confidence.”
“They’re really not—”
“I’m not saying you have to marry any of them,” she says. “Just sit on the stool, drink whatever they buy you—I know you worry about roofies, but I promise, I’ll watch all your drinks, okay? Besides,” she says as she’s walking away, “something happens and we’re going over to your place.”
“What?”
She’s already back at the bar.
In response to something Annabeth is telling them, one of the men gives up his seat and motions for me to take it. Timidly, I walk over and sit down.
“All right,” Annabeth says, “who wants to buy this beautiful woman a vodka?”
My stomach churns.
“Not vodka,” I tell her.
She rolls her eyes. I’ve been getting that a lot lately.
“Fine, who wants to buy this beautiful woman a shot of bourbon?”
Rick raises his hand like he’s in junior high.
Maybe these guys aren’t so scary after all. Maybe they’re just idiots.
That’s better somehow, right?
“All right,” Annabeth continues, “so Rick, what do you think of my friend here?”
He blushes and looks away.
Yep. Not scary: idiot.
“I don’t know,” he says.
“Go on,” Annabeth says. “Tell her what you like about her.”
“Well,” he says, “she’s got—”
“Don’t tell me, tell her,” Annabeth interrupts.
This has to be the most uncomfortable moment of my life.
“You’re very pretty,” he says. “You’re tall, but not too tall. I like the way your hair catches the light.”
His friends are laughing at him, but this isn’t as bad as I thought it would be.
“Okay, you three,” Annabeth says, pointing to everyone but Rick and I, “you’re coming with me.”
“I don’t—” I start, but Annabeth puts a finger to my bottom lip.
“You’ll be fine,” she says. “I’ll be right over there.”
She doesn’t indicate where “there” is, but I suppose I’ll live.
“Now,” she says to Rick, “go on.”
She leads the other three away, and my shot arrives.
I down it without prompting, and Rick starts again.
“I don’t know,” he says. “This is kind of uncomfortable.”
It is uncomfortable, very uncomfortable, but I haven’t really had a man talk to me in so long that I tell him to, “Keep going.”
He sighs. “Well,” he says, “your hair reminds me of picking up chestnuts when I was a kid. I know that sounds weird, but—”
“It’s okay,” I smile. “Go on.”
“Your eyes,” he says, “I don’t know, they’re like, really blue.”
Okay, so he’s no poet.
“One more over here!” I call to the bartender.
The barkeep brings me another shot and I down it.
Bourbon just might be my drink. I haven’t felt the need to vomit once.
“Go ahead,” I say.
“This is too weird,” he says. “We just met, and I’m sitting here going on like I’m Wilhelm Shakespeare.”
“You’re really not,” I tell him.
Really, he’s not. “Wilhelm” Shakespeare would probably know his own name.
“Why don’t we just sit here and talk,” I say. “Where are you from?”
After the initial fear, pity, and revulsion, Rick and I actually start to hit it off.
He’s into foreign films, I’m into foreign films. Of course, he’s more Godzilla and kung fu while I’m more Amélie and 8 ½, but it’s something. He likes horse racing, and I like horses running free without someone kicking them to make them go faster.
All right, so it’s not a match made in Elysium, but I guess I could see myself spending a little time with him. Probably not more than the hour Annabeth suggested, but I’ve got to get back into the swing of things one way or another.
After I’ve had drink number four, I’m starting to feel tipsy again and decide that if I’m going to make a move, I’d better do it before I’m too drunk to remember anything, so I put my hand on his thigh.
His eyes grow wide and he stares at my hand as if it’s some alien object, the likes of which he’s never encountered before, and I ask, “Would you like to get out of here and go somewhere we can,” I blow a strand of
hair out of my face, trying to come off coquettish, but landing somewhere closer to clumsy, “talk?”
“Sure,” he says, far too eagerly, and he’s off his stool, walking toward the door before I’ve really given a serious thought to standing.
You would think that someone in finance would have a little more poise, or some sort of—what’s the word?—instinct, but this is my frog. I’m not expecting a prince.
Do I really want to sleep with a man that I’m not attracted to, though? If I wanted to do that, I’d see what Dane was up to. At least I know he’s been with a woman before.
I cringe and wait to see if Rick comes back, but he’s out the door and hailing a cab.
He must be waiting for me, and I don’t want to be rude, so I think I’ll just go out there and tell him—and now he’s getting in a cab and the cab is pulling away from the curb.
Well, there’s half an hour of my life wasted. I guess, on the bright side, I could have wasted what I’m sure wouldn’t be more than another three and a half minutes with him and then another hour, clutching my knees and rocking back and forth in the shower.
I look out on the dance floor and spot Annabeth.
She’s grinding with her three finance goblins. Best not to disturb whatever strange ritual this is, but I really don’t want to leave here empty-handed.
My options this time of day in this ridiculous hole are pretty limited, though. It seems like Rick was one of the better specimens available.
What a frightening thought.
So, I ask the bartender if he’ll pour me a shot of something strong enough to forget what a waste of time my life is, and when he reaches for payment, I just point to Annabeth, who, seeing the smile on my face, waves at me.
It’s close enough a gesture for the bartender to put the drink on Annabeth’s tab, and after one shot of what I’m fairly certain is kerosene and a quick trip to the ladies’ room to vomit later, I’m in a cab, trying to figure out where my life went so wrong.
Chapter Eight
A Breath of Rancid Air
Dane
I’m half-asleep when I hear the apartment door slam shut.
I get up and put some clothes on. If someone’s breaking in, I’m not going to be one of those people found dead with their dick out.
Slowly opening the door, I wonder if I shouldn’t go for some kind of weapon, just in case. Leila’s not supposed to be back here for a few more hours, and as far as I know, nobody else has the key to the place.
There she is, though, stumbling around drunk, trying to scoop some peanut butter into her mouth with her bare hands.
I think she’s a bit of a lightweight.
“How you doin’ out here?” I ask, trying to sound concerned and not like I’m thinking of her as that good girl who just got talked into breaking into her parents’ liquor cabinet for the first time.
Not that she’d really know the difference right now.
“Men are stupid,” she slurs.
“No argument here. What are you doing home so early, and, you know, drunk?”
“My boss told me to take the day,” she says, holding her peanut butter hand out and making a snatching motion, “so I took it.”
It would actually be somewhat endearing if I didn’t know that I’m going to be the one who has to clean the whole place up.
“I can see that,” I tell her. “Well, I’m going to go back to—”
“Dane,” she whines. “What is it about me that’s so awful?”
“Awful?” I ask. “What do you mean?”
“Oh, don’t act like you don’t know,” she says.
I’m getting the strong impression that she’s a lot drunker than she thinks she is. Hilarious.
“I don’t think you’re awful,” I tell her. I walk over to her and lightly grab her wrists. “I do, however, think you should wash your hands before you get peanut butter all over the entire apartment.”
“You know, you’re not such a bad guy, Dane,” she says. “I mean, you swear like a jackass and your tattoos look like they were done by a sociophatth—a scossiopthahh—”
“A sociopath?”
“Right!” she says, flicking her wrist in a motion that sends little bits of the chunky peanut butter flying in places I’m positive I’m never going to find.
“What was I saying?” she asks.
“Let’s get you washed up,” I tell her, turning on the kitchen sink. “You were saying that I’m not such a bad guy even though I swear and have tattoos.”
“Yeah,” she says, leaning her head back.
“How much did you have to drink?” I ask.
“Let’s see,” she says, “there was tequila and bourbon…” she’s using her fingers to count. Trying to get her hands under the water is a nightmare. “Oh!” she ejaculates, both of her hands going up in the air, peanut butter landing in one of my favorite eyes. “Then there was the big shot, but I puked, so that makes four!”
“You’re not supposed to mix large quantities of different kinds of alcohol,” I say. “It’ll make you sick.”
“I didn’t drink a lot,” she says. I’m having a bit of trouble believing her. “I had four drinks.”
“Four drinks,” I say. “Sounds like you’d better ease up on that party lifestyle, you crazy animal, you.”
I don’t even get buzzed until shot number six.
After finally persuading her to put her hands under the faucet, I squeeze a generous amount of dish soap into her hand and start rubbing her hands together, hoping she’ll get the idea. Her mind is on different things entirely, though.
“It seems like I can’t attract a decent man,” she tells me. “That is, when I can attract anyone at all.”
“I’m sure that’s not true,” I tell her. “You’re a beautiful woman. You can’t hold your liquor worth a damn, but that’s not a crime.”
“You’re so nice,” she says, and I’m starting to get worried.
That’s got to be the first nice thing she’s somewhat willingly said to me.
“I do what I can,” I say, and give up on trying the fantasy of getting her to wash her own hands, cleaning them one at a time, myself.
“I’m not a virgin, you know,” she says.
“That’s really none of my business,” I tell her.
“No, I’ve seen the way you act around me. You think I’m some prude who never does anything crazy.”
On the word crazy, both of her hands go up in the air. Maybe the dish soap will help clean up the bits of peanut butter.
“I think you’re a very nice person who’s having a rough day,” I tell her, and help her get her hands under the water. “Maybe you should dial back the drinking, though.”
“Oh, you don’t know,” she says. “I know you stick your dick out and women just come running, but it’s harder for me.”
And now I’m trying not to laugh.
I finish helping her rinse her hands and I shut off the water. The plan was to give her a towel, but she’s decided to use her pants instead.
Close enough.
“Maybe we should get you to bed,” I tell her.
“I’m not tired.”
“Yeah, but I think you should lie down before you fall down. You seriously only had four drinks?”
“Hey, man, four drinks is a lot for me,” she says.
“Oh, I get that.”
“Maybe help me over to the couch?”
“I think that’s a good idea,” I tell her. “I’ll put on a movie for you.”
“You know, Dane,” she starts.
“Do we have any gum in the house?”
“I almost had sex today.”
“That’s wonderful, Leila,” I tell her, and help guide her to the couch.
“No,” she laughs. “It’s really not. This guy was so stupid.”
“Yeah, we’ve established that men are stupid. You’re going to want to sit down now.”
She doesn’t sit so much as she falls onto the couch.
“I
was ready, though,” she says. “I wouldn’t say I was really turned on, but I was ready to just get in there and get it over with so I could get back in the game.”
“Sometimes that’s what you need to move on,” I say absently. “So, are you good? Do you want me to put on a movie or something?”
“Dane?”
Deep breath. “Yeah?”
“Do you think I have a big butt?”
“No,” I answer mechanically. I really don’t know why women ask that question anymore. Everyone knows that there’s only one correct answer.
“Oh, come on, you didn’t even look at it,” she says, rolling onto her side.
For a woman trying to show me her ass, this isn’t the most attractive scene.
“Be honest,” she says. “I need to know.”
I chuckle.
“It’s fine,” I tell her. “So, do you want a thriller? Comedy?”
I turn and walk toward the bookcase where she keeps her movies.
“A foreign film?” I ask as I try to decipher the various French, Italian, and Swedish titles. “Do you actually speak these languages?” I ask.
“Ja,” she says, “sì, oui.”
“That’s pretty impressive.”
“You never answered my question,” she said.
“What question’s that?” I ask, turning around.
Her knees are on the couch and her upper body is resting against the back. Her pants are pulled down around her knees. She’s wearing underwear, but the way she’s trying to fix it to get the best result isn’t doing much to hide her skin.
“Yeah, I think we should get you to bed,” I tell her, shocked. “This isn’t you right now, Leila.”
“Just tell me if I have a nice butt or a dispropriarportionalately…” she sighs. “Is it too big for my body?” she asks, giving up on the word.
I breathe in and out.
“Fine,” I tell her. “You have a very attractive posterior.”
“Yeah, like I believe it when you say it like that,” she says, laughing through her nose. “That’s not how you talk.”
Drunk or not, she’s hilarious right now, and I can’t help but laugh with her.
“I don’t know,” I tell her. “What do you want me to say? You’re my roommate and—”
