Chapter Text
Your arms stick to the bar top. It’s sticky enough on its own. It smells like fruit cocktail and jaeger and all the other sickly sweet mixings that bar tops get coated in, with a lovely note of pissy beer over it all.
But it’s also sweltering, even with the door kicked out and the flies starting to buzz inside. There’s a sheen of sweat over all your bare skin, sticking your thighs uncomfortably to your wooden stool. Your jean shorts are too short, and the high waist is digging into your ribs.
You hate Dallas.
Stupid bartender cut you off two songs ago.
You hate this stupid bar, too.
You weren’t drunk. Not really. Just buzzed enough to tell him to shove a broken bottle up his ass when he snapped your bra strap from across the bar.
But he let you sit at the bar anyways. He was sweet like that. You feel pitiable, alone like this. Maybe he can tell. Maybe he hopes that if he lets you stay and no one else picks up the slack, you’ll let him take you home.
You’re not drunk enough for that. Thank God. And you can afford to be choosy. Thank genetics. Daddy always said you were a pretty girl. He told you to kill yourself before you weren't, but that was besides the point.
You look at the stained mirror backing the bar. Dark circles under your eyes. Your hair is a mess. Your eyeliner is from three days ago, a dark stain under your bottom eyelashes. You're young, but you don't want to guess how much longer you'll have left by dear old dad's measure. Not the way you're living. You wonder if it’s as clear to everyone else as it is to you that you’re at rock bottom.
You're not drunk, you're just reminiscing.
“Got a wife and kids in Baltimore jack—“
You snap over to the juke box, playing the same fucking song again for the fifth time. Some mulleted asshole with sweat and beer stains on his white t-shirt croons along poorly, drunkenly leaning against the wall beside it.
“I go for a drive and never come back—“
“Not a-fucking-gain,” you groan, head in your hands.
“What? Who’s got a problem with Summersteen?” He barks. The mellow rock continues without him.
You don’t turn. You’re not drunk, just a little on edge from the heat. You slide off your stool painfully and stumble. And okay, you’re drunker than you realize.
You point an accusing finger at the blurry man who stomps toward you.
“If I wanted to hear someone butcher Truce Summersteen songs, I’d toss quarters at the poor bastard with the chipped cup outside. At least he knows the god damn lyrics—“
You blink as he comes into focus.
Dammit.
He was cute, in a bring-me-home-and-disappoint-your-parents kind of way. Or if Burt Muscle had like, a really bad year. Square jaw. Scruffy chin. Bulbous nose, broken at least a few times. Beer gut. Big, broad shoulders. God. Is he wearing fucking football gear or something?
His lips stay parted like the mouth-breather he is. He looks you over too. Your loose tank top has a fallen strap, the hem hangs low over your chest. With your arms crossed, your tits look better than they are. His eyes fall to the bit of lace on your bra peeking out. It’s fine. That’s what it’s there for. Your sour face doesn’t matter if they can see what else you have to offer.
You swallow thickly, feeling sweat crawl down your neck.
“You played the same song five times in a row. Don’t you know the fuckin’ lyrics by now?” You mutter quietly, just enough to make him lean in and listen.
You feel his hot breath against your ear, trying to talk over the music. It smells like tequila and cheap cigarettes.
“You wanna teach it to me, Sweetheart?”
You huff with amusement. A Jersey dirtbag just like you, so far from home? What are the odds.
He stands over you.
You imagine your thighs around his big dopey ears for a second, but the idea of his stubble tearing up your already irritated inner thighs feels unappetizing.
“Nah. Learn it yourself.” You turn. His meaty hand grabs your arm.
“Can I buy ya a drink?”
“I don’t know.” You tilt your head. “Can you?” It’s a genuine question. You both glance at the bartender who curls his lip.
“Hermano! One for the lady, por favor!”
Surprisingly, the bartender nods. You both cling to the bar, like the railing of a ship tipping over.
“He’s Italian.” You mutter under your breath, watching the bartender mix you another vodka-soda.
“Huh?” He leans his elbow on the bar beside you, his other hand coming around your other side. He’s like a furnace. You are sweating out his beer through osmosis.
You nod to the flag hung behind the bartender and fan yourself with a damp coaster.
“It’s an Italian flag. The Mexican one has an eagle.”
“I know. I did time in Mexico.” He says it like he’s proud. Like you should care. Stupid cute smug grin.
“Small world!” You turn towards him.
“Gettin’ smaller.” He looks amused and he coils a strand of your hair around his finger, now leaning his arm on your shoulder. “You serious? You got locked up there?”
“No,” you say, deadpanned. He laughs. You feel it, tucked against his chest.
“You’re funny.”
“And you’re just an asshole.” You say as you sip your drink, faster than you should.
He shrugs one shoulder dismissively. “So, you from Jersey?” He asks, knocking back a shot of tequila with only a grimace. “You sound like my Ma.”
“Born and raised. You?”
“Born and raised. Small world. Why’d you ever leave Jersey?”
“To leave Jersey.”
He sucks his teeth. “Ain’t you got a family or somethin’?”
“What, are you gonna kidnap me?” He laughs again. His laugh is stupid, loud, makes you wanna laugh with him. Maybe just at him. You shrug. “Followin’ my old man out west.”
“New family?”
“New everything.”
“Lucky guy. It’s harder than it sounds, starting a new life.” He sighs bitterly, nodding as the bartender refills his shooter. “Some fuckers have all the luck.”
You hold your glass out to him. You've long since drained it of alcohol, but the ice remains. You suck on one melting cube in your cheek and crunch it between your teeth. “To the unlucky bastards, then.”
He tuts his tongue and takes the empty glass from your hand, replacing it with another shooter.
“That’s better. To the unlucky bastards.”
You hate tequila.
But you love free liquor.
“Salud.” You wince as it burns down your throat, shutting your eyes tightly for a moment before you open to see him watch you with his elbow on the bar top.
“Love seein’ a beautiful chick knockin’ back tequila like a champ.” He smirks.
“Love it from a distance. You’re in the splash zone.” You groan, setting back down the glass and snagging a lime from behind the bar to suck against your teeth.
“I don’t scare easy.”
You narrow your eyes. “You want me to yak on you?”
“If you would do me the honors.” He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t lose his easy smile.
You smirk briefly. “Freak.”
“I get that a lot.” The smile loosens. Just a bit. He swallows and you watch his adam’s apple bob. His voice gets surprisingly soft.
“Can I take you home?”
“You kiddin’ me?” You spit out the ruined lime slice. ”I thought you were a bum. What home you gonna take me to? Lovely spot under a bridge?"
“I got a motel room.” He adds defensively. “It’s somethin’.”
“Livin’ large.” You draw out the vowels condescendingly. As if you’re any better. “You ain’t worried I’ll rob you blind in the night, big shot?”
“Don’t got much. And if you can sneak it past me, I figure you deserve it.”
You look him over again.
You consider it, you really do. He could have been worse. You’ve had worse. Half the nights you spent on your way west were spent banging for room and board. Or at least picking guys drunk and rich enough to pay for the taxi home and pass out before they remembered to touch you.
You should be dead. A dozen times, you wished you were. Easily, you could have been. And no one would go looking for you.
You have a feeling he understands what that’s like. Poor bastard.
But tonight, you paid for a room. And for the love of God, clean(ish) beds to yourself were in short supply. The TV in your room was busted and the liquor store was closed. You came here for polite conversation.
“Sorry. Not tonight, buddy.” You avert your eyes. “But thanks for the drinks.”
He frowns and nods, not happy with the rejection clearly but respectful enough to accept it anyways.
“Well, I’m in town a couple more days. If you need somethin’, give me a call, okay sweetheart?”
He fishes out a business card from his front jean pocket. It’s wrinkled and damp with sweat.
The Loveshack the card says.
You pick up the card and turn it on both sides.
“Cute.”
“I’m in room eight.” He eyes the card nervously. “Or ask for Lee.”
“Lee.” You repeat. “Thanks, Lee.” You hold your hand out to shake and give him a fake name. He holds your hand and your eyes.
“I mean it. Give me a call.” He pleads.
You huff with mirth, sticking the card in your pocket. You haven’t heard a boy beg for a call like that since highschool.
“Alright, alright.” You slide off your barstool again, slightly more graceful than the first time.
“Goodnight, Lee.”
“Goodnight, sweetheart. Don’t let the bed bugs bite.”
“Stupid.” You smirk at eachother as you step back towards the exit. You know he’s waiting for you to turn so he can stare at your ass.
Truce Summersteen croons you out as you leave the bar. You hear Lee belting along.
“Everybody’s got a hungry heart. Everybody’s got a hungry heart.”