Five Night Stand: A Novel Read Free Page B

trying to see the keys themselves.
    “From out of town?”
    She nods.
    “Where?”
    She breathes an exaggerated sigh and looks up at him full on for the first time. “Hmm?”
    He falls into those eyes. “Um, I was just wondering where you’re from?”
    “Memphis.” She considers this boy, different from any of the boys she knew growing up. The boys back home have dirt under their nails and on their sunburned necks. They wear ball caps and apologize for spitting dip in front of her. This boy is fine; he’s fine like a girl with magazine hair, nose thin like a cuttlebone and a fat, silver ring on his thumb.
    “Tennessee?” It’s all he can think to say, lost for the moment in those eyes.
    “That’s the one.”
    “Is there another?”
    “You tell me.” She is put off by the distraction, yet can’t help but wonder what a man like that might offer her, what he might be like in bed. She knows the feel of the hands of a farmworker or mechanic, all rough and gritty with the faint smell of motor oil and Budweiser. She even knows how a musician moves in bed and over her body like a fret board. But what about this boy? He smells vaguely of cologne and has probably never known a day’s hard labor with hands as smooth as her ass, she imagines. Still, she considers him, conjures up images of them together. But he has a ring on his thumb and she just can’t see her way past that.

    After the final number finishes in a crash of the cymbal and Oliver takes numerous ovations, Agnes leaves the club floor with her head swimming in the music and scotch. She hasn’t spoken with Oliver Pleasant, though she wants to. She might have talked to him when he passed her on his way to the backstage door; he’d had to brush against her as the rest of the band had, sitting in the doorway the way she was. She’d steeled herself for it all night, thinking of what to say, plying her confidence with more and more alcohol. She wanted to say hello, tell him what the show had meant to her and maybe mention that she plays, too, taught by her daddy who’d shown her how to play Oliver’s songs with the love and tenderness they deserve. Or maybe she’d just reach out and touch his hand. Those massive, poetic hands, she thought, might even have some healing in them.
    But she didn’t get that chance. He’d left the stage by the front, and not the side where she sat, and was swallowed by the crowd. She considers stopping at the table where he finally ends his journey, if only to say thank you for such a fine performance. As she approaches on her way out, though, that hostess leans over the table to whisper something to him. Her cleavage spills out all over the white tablecloth and her skirt rides up enough so Agnes can see the garters of her thigh-high stockings. Agnes keeps walking.
    As she collects her coat and sole piece of luggage from the coatroom, the waiter catches up with her. He wipes his hands on a bar towel. “Hey, I didn’t see you leave. Have a good time?”
    “Yep, the music was perfect.”
    “Where are you going now?”
    “Manhattan. Is it far?”
    He looks confused for a second, cocking his head to the side. “Up the stairs and through that door. Where are you staying?”
    “The Algonquin, if they haven’t given my room away.”
    “Can I get you a cab?”
    “I’ll walk.”
    “Hey, um, do you want to get a drink? I just need to finish up, probably another half hour. You could wait in the bar or I could come by your hotel.”
    “I just had some drinks, lots of them. You should know—you charged me for every one. Besides, I don’t even know your name.”
    “Oh. Andrew. Andrew Sexton.”
    “Oh my, it’s right there in your name, isn’t it?” she says, affecting her best, and most insincere, Blanche DuBois charms. “I’m Agnes Cassady from Memphis, Tennessee, by way of New Orleans, Louisiana.” They shake hands, and she considers him again. Andrew, with the face of a statue and inflated confidence and