CHAPTER EIGHT
By the time I shake off my admirer — a girl whose name really does seem to be Barbie; she showed me her ID as we came off stage to prove she’s legal — it’s almost midnight. Barbie wasn’t easy to ditch. When I went backstage, she followed, oblivious to all my hints. And the minute we were behind the curtain, her booze breath was entirely too close, and her hands were all over me. I shoved her away for a while, not exactly wanting her but somehow disinterested for a change. She wasn’t easily dissuaded. Figuring there was strength and protection in numbers, I ran back to the front and sat with Danny near the stage. Barbie sat beside me, with three other girls. They formed a little harem. I guess because Danny kept joking, they kept doing it. I won’t pretend it didn’t turn me on. But I just didn’t want anything to do with girls like them tonight, and that made the whole experience annoying.
Now it’s nearly twelve, and the place is winding down. I caught some of Chloe’s performance, at least what I could with all the boobs in my face. She was brilliant. I tried to get her attention like always, but she just slinked away. Chloe knows how it is; I get mobbed and don’t like to be rude enough to brush them off. But that doesn’t make her like it, or see me as noble.
Only after I slip away do I feel comfortable looking for her. For the girl I saw as my set began. Abigail, waitress from the Nosh Pit. And, apparently, seeing as she eventually donned one of Terry’s aprons, waitress at the Overlook as well.
Why have I never seen her here? Is it honestly possible that I haven’t noticed? I doubt it; I had a definite reaction to her today that I don’t think would escape me. I don’t even know how to place it, but there’s a lightness and innocence about her that reminds me of Grace. And yes, I know how that sounds, even to my own ears. But souls know souls, and I’ve always listened to my compass. It’s not just about attraction; it’s about chemistry and connection. Charlie and I had it too. When Firecracker Confession was at its height, I swear the three of us could talk to one another without ever using a word.
I know it’s stupid. I get it. But as the club empties into the wee hours, I find myself hoping that Abigail’s shift hasn’t ended.
I kind of doubt it has. It wouldn’t make sense to have a cocktail waitress on at the start of the show then let her go home at the busiest time. We’re only officially open until 1, and it’s quiet after midnight because the show ends and the places down the strip have Ladies’ Night prices. While it’s conceivable Danny might have scheduled her to leave early and skip wind-down and cleanup, he wouldn’t let her leave before midnight.
I walk the club, looking into back rooms, even peeking out into the rear parking lot. I’m somehow lightheaded, feeling a pressing need to find her. I’m not sure why, but when I saw her a few hours ago, that sense of connection — maybe even of unfinished business — resurfaced. She looked right at me, and I felt the reflection in her eyes.
Like with Grace and Charlie: speaking without words.
But now she’s gone. I was sure she’d wait. I’ve been peeking at her all night, sometimes seeing her looking back at me, but her mood has definitely soured. She must have had a terrible night. Bad tippers. Rude customers. Maybe some drunk guy tried to feel her up; I don’t know. She was pleasant enough this afternoon, but now it’s a nighttime crowd. People here are usually well behaved, but there’s a rotten apple in every bunch.
Finally, as I’m about ready to give up, I cross by the bar and see her sitting on a crate, stocking bottles under the counter.
“Fancy seeing you here,” I say, trying on a smile.
She looks back. I’m sure she’ll give me that big smile again. Instead, she returns to her work. “Oh. Hi.”
“So you work here too?”
She gives me another glance. It’s brief. Yes, she’s had a terrible shift.
“Looks that way.”
“For how long?”
“I don’t know. Few months.”
“I’ve never seen you before.”
“I noticed.”
I’m not sure what that means. I walk closer and hop up on the bar, so that she’s stocking almost below me.
“Did you like my set?”
“I didn’t catch most of it.” A flick of her eyes. “Working, you know.”
“Oh.”
“You sure got a standing ovation, though.”
I think back. There was polite applause, but I’d hardly characterize it as an ovation. I shrug.
“Can you not sit there?”
I look down. She’s making a show of trying to stock a bottle below my legs. I’m not really in the way, so it’s as if she’s trying to exaggerate the difficulty, the way people in infomercials make ordinary tasks seem so hard.
“Sorry.” I hop down but keep my back to the bar. “Is that better?”
“You’re kind of still in the way.”
My tongue slips into my cheek, unsure what’s wrong. The way her hair hangs as she’s concentrating reminds me of Grace for some reason. She doesn’t look like her or anything, but there’s a specific memory coming to me. Abigail is looking away, her hair forming a curtain. I have no idea what I’m remembering because it’s a slim similarity if there’s any at all. But I feel it just the same. Instead of making me feel comfortable and making Abigail feel familiar, it makes me uneasy. Maybe I am in the way. Maybe I shouldn’t be here.
“How was your shift?”
“Shitty.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. Bad tippers?”
“Among other things.”
I’m getting nowhere. Which could be good, or bad. I’m drawn to her for a reason I can’t finger, but she’s also making something turn rotten inside me. I see that sheaf of hair.
I think of Grace. I try to decide what I’m thinking. If she’d respond, I might soon find out a lot more about her. But unlike what usually happens when I’m doing this kind of thing, I’m not only uninterested in sex; I actively don’t want her to be interested, either. So why am I bothering? I should walk away. Call it a wash. She must not always be as bubbly and fun as she was this afternoon.
Maybe this is who she really is, and she was just working her tip. That’s how people are with fame. I’m F-list even in Inferno Falls if I’m anything, but people assume you’re rich if a few people know your name.
That must be it. She was working for a living. She’s not into me like I thought she was.
That causes indignation to rise inside me. I don’t have to put up with this. I just shook off a gaggle of admirers. If I want company for the night, I can easily get it. I don’t have to work. I don’t want to convince anyone. If she’s not into me, then screw her.
But I can tell that’s not quite right. For one, I do care. I do kind of want to put up with this, whatever it is. And as I’ve already decided, it’s not about sex. I pick up girls all the time, but that’s not what I’m trying to do now.
“Will you be working at the Nosh Pit tomorrow?”
She looks up at me again. I give her the same big smile I give girls onstage, but I swear Abigail actually rolls her eyes when she sees it.
“Yes.”
“Maybe I’ll stop by. You can pick another meal for me.”
“That’s your call.”
She’s finished her stocking, now sitting on the crate, facing away, shifting bottles below the bar for no reason at all.
I move away from the bar and say, “See you later.”
She doesn’t even reply.
And I’m thinking, Fuck this.
I’m thinking, I don’t need to take this kind of crap.
I hear giggling across the bar. There are three hot girls watching me, but they snap their heads around the minute I glance in their direction.
I take four beers from the cooler, making sure Abigail sees me do it. I don’t get another look at her face, but her wall of red hair moves just a little, indicating somewhere she wants to look but won’t let herself.
Then I walk over to the group of girls, bottles clinking in my hand.