“You still here?” Spence says as he accepts Ashley’s hug that lasts too long and cheek kiss that feels too soft. “I thought you married some comedian and hit the road.”
“Are you kidding?” Ashley blurts, her voice sounding like she’s choking. “I wouldn’t bang a comedian, let alone marry one.”
“You expect me to believe you’ve never slept with a comic?”
“Ah, shit. I can’t promise anything I didn’t do when I was drunk.”
“I rest my case.”
“But I wouldn’t marry a goddamned comic,” she says. “Give me credit that I’d at least marry for money. And no comic I know has any.”
“Ah,” Spence says, “now I know why it never worked between us.”
“Not for lack of you trying,” Ashley says and winks. Spence can’t help but notice one too many buttons are unbuttoned on her blouse.
“I think your memory is fuzzy,” he says.
“I think I’m already drunk,” Ashley says and lets out a long laugh. She’s wearing a tight skirt that is probably too tight for a woman with a butt her size. Somehow, she makes it work. There is something slutty and sexy about her at the same time.
“How we looking for tonight?” Spence asks, peeking his head into the showroom around the corner. The room seats about two hundred and is usually packed in nice and tight.
“Almost full,” Ashley says, still standing a bit closer than people normally do when they talk to others. “Not fucking bad for a Thursday, right?”
“Not bad at all,” Spence says, thinking about his nearly empty Friday night show in Peoria. Occasionally he winds up in towns where the comedy clubs are almost full every single week. He never knows why some clubs are always packed while some are always empty. He can’t imagine opening up his own comedy club, even though every comic secretly dreams about it. He’s too afraid of being one of the many that fail and not one of the few that succeeds.
“I’m glad you’re here,” Ashley says. “I finally broke down and did it.”
“Did what?” Spence asks.
“I got your name tattooed on my ass.”
“Get the hell outta here.”
“It’s true, goddamnit.” She practically hacks up a pack of smokes when she speaks. “I did it.”
“I don’t believe you.”
Without missing the opportunity, Ashley turns around, raises her skirt, and shows Spence her bare behind. At first, he doesn’t notice the tattoo, but only how nice her butt is for one its size. He also can’t help but notice the very tiny, red thong underwear that matches her blouse. When his eyes move slightly left, he sees the tattoo in question. Printed in black letters, right across the cheek, are two words: YOUR NAME.
“Clever.” Spence chuckles and rolls his eyes at the same time.
“Thought you might like it,” Ashley says, slowly tugging the skirt back down over her large hips.
“Getting a lot of mileage out of that joke, are you?”
“You have no idea.”
“I have a feeling that you got the ink just as an excuse to show people your ass.”
“You complaining, asshole?” She mock-slaps him on the face. It’s a polite touching and might as well be followed with her tongue down his throat. She has always laid it on thick, but Spence is beginning to wonder if they both could use a cold shower.
“Not at all.” He smiles and steps toward the showroom. “I’m gonna hang backstage until showtime. You guys still serve food here?”
“Yeah, and you still get a meal on the house every night,” Ashley says. Spence lets out an inner sigh of relief. He hasn’t eaten all day. Ashley reaches underneath the counter and pulls out a menu, which she hands him. “There’s some slut here to see you, too.”
“What?” Spence asks. For a split-second he figures out the mileage in his head and wonders how far away he is from Toronto. Would Sam be crazy enough to surprise him? The thought leaves his head almost as quickly as it entered. He knows it’s just wishful thinking.
“What do you mean ‘what’?” Ashley scoffs. “One of your whores actually came back to see you again. All by herself. Said she knows you.”
Spence feels a weird tingling on the back of his neck. When women show up by themselves at his show, it can either be golden or terrifying. Sometimes it’s just a fan who has seen his show before and wants to see it again. But sometimes it’s women he slept with years ago and never called, waiting for their chance to enact revenge. He’s had his share of women throwing themselves at him, and he’s had his share of drinks thrown at him, too. The odds aren’t in his favor, and it makes him uneasy.
“Can I sneak into the back without seeing her?” he asks. “I don’t like talking to people before the show.”
“You wanna sneak out the back door when you’re done, too?” Ashley says. “Or should I go see if she’s holding a paternity suit?”
“Hilarious.”
“That’s what you get for using your dick like a divining rod, you hound.”
“Some would call me a hopeless romantic,” Spence says.
“I call you a whore,” Ashley says and points him through the kitchen. He walks all the way around the back of the club, behind the waitresses’ area, and quickly backstage into the green room. Throwing himself down on the old, dirty sofa, he thumbs through the menu and tries not to think about how many times Ashley has had sex right where he’s sitting.
When he’s onstage, all he can see is the stage lights shining in his eyes. There is no audience—just a void into which he speaks and from which laughter comes back at him. He feels as if he is floating in space, surrounded by nothing but darkness on all sides and the sun beating down onto his face. There is no one here but him, and so he speaks into the void and waits for the laughter to return. There is no audience to imagine naked. There is no interaction that he needs. He simply puts out the act as he always has and, just as he hopes they will, the voices from within the void laugh back.
“That’s why I only date Asian women,” he says and awaits the thunderous laughter he knows will return. When it does, he hears it as a “screw you” to the Electric Pony in Oklahoma. The next wave of laughter is a “screw you” directly at Frank in Peoria, and the one after that is a sledgehammer taken to the roof of Frank’s new Corvette. Everyone in Peoria was wrong, and everyone in Syracuse is right. He’s a star. And this is right where he belongs.
Offstage an hour later, the ego has subsided a bit, even if the swagger still remains. He stands in the lobby, shaking hands with customers as they walk out the door. They beam as they walk past him, smiling and telling him how hilarious he was. They loved the show, and they gush all over him as he stands there and soaks it in.
“My sides hurt from laughter,” an old man says and pats him on the shoulder.
“Oh, my God, that was so funny,” a girl young enough to be his daughter says.
“Why aren’t you famous yet?” more than one person wants to know, leading him to wonder the exact same thing.
Spence spies Ashley giving him the once-over from around the corner, and he knows that he can do anything he wants with her if he only pursues it. Part of him wants to, being so caught up in the rush of having just killed it onstage. The other part of him just wants to get back to the hotel and call Sam.
He has shaken almost one hundred hands of the two hundred people who were at the show, it seems, when a drink magically appears in front of him. Held by a very small, very feminine hand, the tall glass of Scotch is exactly what he was craving.
“Thanks, Ashley,” he says, still nodding at the last handful of audience members making their way out the door.
“Who?” a voice says that stops him in his tracks and makes him almost drop the drink now in his hand. Standing in front of him is a very young, very attractive redhead. No older than twenty-five or so, she’s holding a drink above the cleavage popping out of a very revealing dress. Spence wonders if she and Ashley are somehow related.
“I’m sorry,” he
says. “I thought you were someone else.”
“You don’t remember me, do you?” The redhead smiles, and Spence realizes this is the woman Ashley was talking about when he first got to the club.
“Of course I do,” he lies. “I wouldn’t forget. Trust me.”
“I would hope not.” She raises her eyebrows and laughs. Spence starts to wonder if he slept with her, but he has no memory of it, which is odd. He forgets names and faces all the time, but remembers women he sleeps with. Regardless, he leans over and gives her a big hug, as if they’ve been friends for years.
“Marcy,” she says, and Spence nods as if that sounds familiar. It does not.
“Yeah, I remember,” he lies again. “Good to see you again. You come out just to see my show?”
“Of course,” she says, “wouldn’t have missed it.”
“That makes one of us,” he says, at which Marcy laughs and smiles. At least she didn’t hit him with the paternity suit Ashley mentioned. It’s flattering when you’re thirty-seven and a woman more than ten years younger than you are finds you attractive. Spence immediately feels his guard drop and every ounce of charm he has in him begs for attention.
“You gonna let me buy you a drink?” Marcy says and bounces back and forth from one foot to the other. The flirting is not remotely subtle, which Spence likes even more. He’s suddenly reminded of Toledo and his night with Jamie. Never in one year has he had so many women attempting to put booze into him and maybe get him into bed. Not since he was married, anyway.
“Didn’t you just do that?” he says, pointing to the glass of Scotch she already handed him.
“Not here,” she says, “somewhere else. You know, we’ll have some tequila shots and some laughs.”
“I don’t know about that. I’m allergic to tequila.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, I break out in handcuffs.”
Marcy laughs big, tossing her hair over her shoulder as she does. Spence smiles, completely oblivious to how cheesy it looks. In the background, he sees Ashley make an exaggerated face and pretend to choke herself in disgust. Spence gives her his best “kiss my ass” look over Marcy’s shoulder. Ashley mimics a blow job with her hand and rolls her eyes.
“Come on,” Marcy says, “you didn’t let me take advantage of you last time. Let me at least try it now.”
So I didn’t have sex with you? Spence thinks. How did I mess that up?
“I don’t know,” he says. “I’m getting kinda old to be hanging around with young girls.”
“Maybe I like my men old,” Marcy says, which almost makes Spence blush until he realizes that the compliment involves her calling him old. “You’re not married anymore, right?”
“No, not anymore.” Spence starts to realize why he never slept with her in the first place. He thinks of Sam and starts to say he has a girlfriend. Just as he opens his mouth, he stops himself and takes a sip of his Scotch instead.
“Then it sounds like you owe me for breaking my heart last time,” Marcy says. “You led me on only to leave me hot and bothered. I’m not going to let that happen again.”
“Sounds like you should bang her,” Ashley calls from twenty feet away. Instantly, Spence feels his face turn pink. Marcy’s eyes go wide, and she stifles a laugh without bothering to look back at Ashley.
“Thank you very much,” Spence says to Ashley before turning back to Marcy. “I’m sorry about that. She’s kind of bitter about having to walk around with two enormous balls.”
Marcy laughs again. “No problem. But you could just have those drinks with me. I won’t bite.”
“You talked me into it,” Spence says. “Just anywhere but here, okay?”
“Anywhere you want,” Marcy says. “I’ll get my coat and be right back.”
She bounces off around the corner, and Spence promises himself he will only have one drink with her and nothing more. No sex. Not even a kiss. If he’s going to make anything work with Sam, the first thing he has to do is not sleep with the hot, young girl with the stupidly nice body. He promises himself nothing will happen, even as he tries to remember whether or not he has any condoms in his suitcase.
“She looks like a Barbie doll,” Ashley says from behind him and scares him half out of his wits. “A fire crotch. You gonna nail that?”
“Cripes,” Spence says. “What is it with you? I’m just gonna have a drink with her. Calm down.”
“A drink, sure.”
“I’m serious.”
“You’d let that piece of ass go just like that? Why aren’t you in that car right now getting a hummer?”
“Not interested.”
“She’s smoking.”
“She’s a pretty girl, yes. But I’m not trying to sleep with her,” Spence says, not sure who he’s trying to convince, Ashley or himself.
“You don’t have to try,” Ashley says. “She’s making the move for you.”
“I’m behaving tonight, thanks.”
“I’ll still do you,” Ashley says, standing suddenly closer.
“Rain check?” Spence asks, stepping a few feet backward and reaching for his cell phone to text Sam. Thinking of her makes him feel like behaving. He ignores Ashley’s cleavage and reminds himself that Shania Twain is Canadian.
Ashley shrugs and starts to walk back into her office. Spence looks around the club now that the lights are all out and can’t help but notice how nice it is. He likes working here, and has for years, but he never really stopped to notice how much money has been invested in the place. The furniture is leather and shiny. The carpet is always clean. There is expensive neon all over the place.
One thousand dollars, Spence thinks, remembering how much pay he’s picking up from Rodney for this gig.
“Hey, Ash,” he calls before Ashley can get into her office. “What am I making this week, anyway?”
“Two grand,” she says. “Same as always.”
Fuck you, Rodney.
“Meet me in the middle,” Marcy says as she lines up the shot glasses on the bar and picks up one on the end. Spence doesn’t bother to count how many glasses are there or how many he puts down as he picks them up and quickly shoots them back. The taste of Jägermeister hits his tongue and immediately causes him to wince. He moves slow enough that he doesn’t have to drink many. The taste is awful, and he’d just as soon have stopped at one.
Marcy drinks like a champ. For every shot Spence has had, Marcy has had one, too. All the while, she’s been sipping on a cocktail in her hand. She can’t weigh enough to not be completely smashed, but she seems to not even be slurring.
“Come on, lightweight,” she says to Spence. “You gotta be quicker than that.”
“You’re lucky I’m still standing,” Spence says. Truthfully, he’s not doing too badly, all things considered. He’s been pretty good at pacing himself up until now. In between drinks, he’s managed to put down a few glasses of water whenever Marcy has gone to the bathroom.
“I don’t want you getting too drunk on me,” she says. “You’re no good to me if you pass out.”
“My ex-wife would disagree with that statement.”
Marcy laughs and rolls her tongue over her cocktail straw. Spence feels the buzz from the liquor hitting him full-on and knows he probably won’t be able to resist her much longer if he keeps drinking like this. In the background, “Paradise by the Dashboard Light” is playing on the jukebox. Meat Loaf is not Canadian.
“So how long has it been since I saw you?” Spence says, his liquid courage making him more confident about the fact he still doesn’t remember Marcy at all.
“About five years,” she says and motions to the bartender to bring more shots. “I was an undergrad then. You don’t remember, do you?”
“Sure I do,” he lies. “Just not when exactly. After a while, it’s hard to keep track of when I’ve been somewhere.”
“And who you sleep with?”
“But we didn’t sleep together.”
“No,” she says a
nd sips her drink, “no, we did not. Not once I found out you were married, anyway.”
“Yeah, that put a damper on my sex life back then.”
“Didn’t stop you from trying, though.”
“Can you blame me?”
“For being an asshole?” Marcy says, and her face looks serious for a second. “Sure I can.”
“Damn,” Spence says and feels the pinch of sobriety hitting him a bit. “Harsh.”
Marcy looks at him for a split-second and then winks. Her tongue rolls back over her straw, and she takes a long sip while smiling at him as seductively as she possibly can.
“I’ve always been attracted to assholes, if you must know,” she says and winks again. Spence lets out a small sigh of relief that he hopes she doesn’t notice. A second later, another set of shot glasses appears on the table in front of them.
“No way,” Spence says. “I can’t do any more.”
“Just one,” Marcy says. “And then we can get out of here.”
Spence sighs and looks at his watch. If he leaves right now, he can go to bed, sleep off most of the hangover that is sure to come, and still wake up without feeling too guilty. If he stays, he knows that it will only lead to him in bed with Marcy and feeling like an utter cad in the morning.
This girl is so hot, your chick in Canada would want you to do her. Spence hears Jamie’s voice ringing in his head.
“One more shot,” Spence says, “and that’s final.”
“Ooh, you got it, sir,” Marcy says and salutes him as she picks up her own shot glass. Spence downs the Jägermeister and slaps the shot glass back down on the table with a flip of his wrist. The sound it makes against the table is a defiant “quitting time” signal. The buzz in his head is just right, but feels as if it could lead to puking in a hotel toilet all night if he’s not too careful.
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