Last Call by Ellebeth
Story Notes:
A little bit of flash fiction to get me back on the horse...
Last Call by Ellebeth

All around us, couples in leather and boots circled the scuffed wooden floor in quick, graceful, complicated steps. “Tequila Sunrise” flowed mournfully forth from the PA. Brian was singing along in my ear, cheek against my chaotic hair, thumb circling the small of my back.

Take another shot of courage, wonder why the right words never come. You just get numb.

Much like my knees, said a dim little voice in the back of my racing mind. If tonight was the last time I ever saw him, I would always have this to tuck away in my heart. I closed my eyes and tried to memorize it all, the feel of his body against mine, the sound of his voice, his intoxicating smell.

A manufactured record scratch interrupted the music and my reverie. A gruff voice bellowing; “Laaaaaaaaast caaaaaaaaaalllllllll!” I glanced over my shoulder to see the hipster bartender standing on top of the bar with a megaphone.

Brian and I both froze in place as the crowd virtually stampeded past us. Another solitary guitar twanged forth from the speakers, and Garth Brooks drawled, “Blame it all on my roots, I showed up in boots…

Ugh. No amount of carefully cultivated irony could get me through this song. I glanced around until I made eye contact with Nick, standing about 20 feet away, next to the tall blonde woman who had shown up with A.J.’s fiancée tonight. He inclined his head toward the door, mouthing, “Let’s go.”

Only then did I realize my fingers were still entwined with Brian’s. It felt intimate and natural in a way I didn’t want to contemplate for long. The whiskey had pretty much left my system through my pores -- the mini-bar whiskey, the shot Brian had bought me when we’d gotten here, my subsequent whiskey and Diet Coke -- so that was no excuse. At the end of the day, though, I had only a few hours left with him. I didn’t drop his hand, but I didn’t look him in the eye, either, as I pulled him toward the door.

Outside, Howie was hailing a cab. He answered our groans of disgust with a dismissive wave of his hand.

“Sorry I’m not sorry,” he said. “I’m an old man. If I cash out now, I might be able to tell my wife good night.”

Rochelle didn’t look up from her phone, but made a judgmental noise. “Should have done that earlier, Sweet D.”

Howie pointed at each of the guys in term. “Single,” he said to Brian, who suddenly dropped my hand as if it burned him. “Single. Fiancée is standing right next to you. I win.” He gestured to the cab that had just pulled up. “My chariot awaits, y’all.”

My hand felt lonely, and Howie was the first person who had given a name to the reason why, who had spotted the elephant in the room. I didn’t know whether to hug him or slap him.

Instead, I said, “Fine. See you never.”

Howie paused, midway through the open door, and doubled back to hug me tightly around the waist. “See ya ‘round, Miz Michaels. Thanks for a good week.”

“Thank you for making my job easier.” I patted his back. “And my life harder,” I muttered in his ear.

“You love it. That’s pretty obvious.” He winked at me, and then the cab door was closed and he was gone.

Bob the bodyguard cleared his throat. I didn’t realize he’d followed us out, but there he was, looming above me in black, his orange hair blending in with the lights. “Anyone else want to make my job easier and go home?” No one answered, and he grunted and looked around warily.

“OK, driver should be back in a minute.” Rochelle curled her lip. “Well, that sucked. I thought Nashville was all 3:00 bars.”

“I know one,” Lindie said suddenly. Nick’s head swiveled around so fast you would have thought he was the little girl in The Exorcist.

“Oh, yeeeeaaaaah.” Recognition dawned in A.J.’s eyes. “You lived here.”

Lindie nodded and pulled out her own phone. “We’ll figure it out in the car. But,” and she winked up at Nick, “I’ll save the day.”

I saw A.J. and Rochelle exchange a knowing look. It seemed fairly obvious the blonde twins would be humping later. Which, when you thought of it that way, was unsettling.

“You all right, chief?” I asked Brian, who was staring at the lights across the street, arms crossed, eyes a million miles away.

He snapped back to the present and regarded me with that funny little smile. “I’m good,” he said, in a voice that seemed meant only for me. “Let’s keep it moving.”

I wasn’t sure he was referring to the bar crawl. I wasn’t sure I cared.

Back in the stretch Hummer, Lindie fairly crawled toward the partition and barked out an address. We pulled away from the crowds and lights and music.

“I texted my sister,” she announced to the rest of us. “She sent us to the Dark Alley.”

“A dark alley?” the rest of us repeated. She didn’t say anything, just grinned.

On the stereo, David Guetta strove to find the words to describe that girl without being disrespectful. Lindie settled in next to Nick, and they made eyes at each other. Rochelle and A.J. were chortling at something on his phone. Brian was about an ass’ width away from me, elbows on his knees. I felt like I should say something to him, but when he glanced at me, the look in his eyes took the words out of my mouth. I pressed my lips together, but couldn’t totally suppress a smile.

We stopped on a noisy block, lined with record stores and dive bars. I almost ran off to one of them, my feet turning away by instinct, but Rochelle linked her arm with mine and pulled me after Lindie, down a dark but well-kept alley.

“Hey, I’m glad you came out,” she said warmly. “And I’m not the only one.” She glanced back, and I didn’t need to ask who she was referring to.

It took a moment for my eyes to adjust after the bouncer waved us in. I couldn’t tell the bass apart from my heartbeat. The darkness was cut only by pink and blue and green lights, like something from a wedding DJ booth, bouncing with the beat off walls that seemed alarmingly close together. The dance floor was packed, writhing. The song was -- I struggled for a moment to identify it, then almost laughed. It was that goddamn “Relax, don’t do it” song from the ‘80s. I could never remember who sang it, but I was sure they’d never had another hit.

Rochelle didn’t let go of me, but pulled me toward the floor. Lindie had her other hand. I didn’t even see the guys as the crowd parted just long enough to let us in. There was no personal space. There was nothing but the music, the ridiculous music, which seemed to grab my hips and my arms and move me like a puppet, against my will. It was some beat, I had to admit.

I saw Bob against the wall, bobbing his head quite whitely. And then there was a hand on the small of my back, and I turned around, and the smell of whiskey filled my nose as Brian proffered a shot. He was holding one, too. We clinked glasses. I didn’t offer a toast; I could barely hear myself think. But as we both drank, his eyes never left mine. We’d toasted to friendship before; his eyes were toasting something else.

Relax, don’t do it, when you want to come…

The whiskey burned its way straight down to my stomach, and I was left holding the shotglass. I helplessly handed it back to Brian, and he stuck them both in his pocket. The edge of the glass -- at least, what little reason still dwelling in me made me hope that was all it was -- pressed into me as he dropped his hands to my hips and pulled me closer. Now we were both puppets of this ridiculous song and its persistent beat. I ran one hand up his arm, enjoying how the muscles tensed at my touch, and raked my sweaty hair off my face with the other hand.

He smirked down at me, and Lord help me, it was a sexy little smile. I am going to sleep with you, his eyes said frankly when I finally tore my own eyes away from his mouth.

How horrible would it be, really?

When you want to come… I shimmied my hips against his. I didn’t give a damn anymore if that hard edge pressing into me was a shotglass. I didn’t give a damn if we were friends. I might never see him again, and I didn’t give a damn. I didn’t give a damn about any of it. Stupid song. Stupid whiskey, I realized. That one had gone straight to my head.

My breathing quickened with the pounding bass. One of his hands moved lower on my hip. If he pulled me any closer, it would be on my ass. My eyes landed on his mouth again. I was sorry I hadn’t let him kiss me in that decrepit old church in God’s country yesterday, yesterday, thousands of years ago. But maybe here…

A ridiculous, high-pitched guitar wormed its way into the beat, and I recognized it immediately as INXS. Out of the corner of my eye, someone pumped a fist. I turned my head to see Nick fist-pumping like a Jersey Shore character, his other hand low on Lindie’s belly.

Somehow, that broke the spell. Lindie was from their world. Her best friend was going to be A.J.’s wife. It was entirely feasible she and Nick would see each other again after tonight. For all I knew, they were already fwubbies. They were the ones getting laid tonight.

Not me.

Live, baby, live, now that the day is over… I intended to, but this was a little ridiculous. I winked at Brian, but I twirled away from him, pumping my fist in the air as all around us, people partied hard, fists in the air, hips jerking. I had no idea how many people in this room had been alive when this playlist made its debut. I saw a lot of skinny jeans, a lot of horn-rimmed glasses. What a strange place. I wondered if Lindie’s sister was a hipster, or a reader of mine. These were all welcome distractions.

It was still hard to hear myself think. The music seemed to blot everything out. I closed my eyes and moved. I couldn’t imagine leaving this moment. New York had all of this in spades, but I never did any of it. There were men everywhere, too, and yet I never did any of that, either. There was a man in this room who wanted me, who’d made that clear -- and I could not have him. Did it make him more appealing? I couldn’t quite decide.

A hand brushed against my back, and I toward into it instinctively, eyes still closed. When I opened them, a bearded guy grinned down at me, at least six feet tall, holding a beer and wearing a faded Pac-Man shirt. I felt the smile drop off my face instantly. I sidled away, my eyes landing on a door.

The ladies’ room was tiny, walls black, stalls peeling. The lights were small but harsh. In the mirror, eyes ringed by smudged makeup stared anxiously back at me. I rubbed the streaks of eyeliner away from my cheeks, fished my Chapstick out of my bra and reapplied it. Suddenly, unbidden, came the mental image of Brian walking into this bathroom, pinning me to the wall with his solid body, and kissing every molecule of the strawberry flavor from my lips. The alcohol made the thought more vivid, and I had to steady myself against the sink with both hands.

I waited in the bathroom until I was sure my legs would support me again. A couple of women came and went, flushing toilets, washing hands, touching up lipstick, eyeing me like a leper. Out on the dance floor, the men were gradually clearing the dance floor, hanging out by the fringes. I avoided my bearded suitor and made my way back to Rochelle and Lindie. I stuck out next to them like a sore thumb, with their black dresses and neon-colored boots and model good looks and dance moves and sheer height, but they expanded their lip-synching duet to a circle that included me, and all three of us moved together as Eddie Money crooned overhead: With all the power you’re releasing, it isn’t safe to walk these city streets alone. It was easily 2 in the morning, and we were dancing our asses off to bad music, and we owned Nashville. I’d be back on Staten Island in 12 hours.

I glanced over my shoulder at our guys as my lips formed the words. All three of them were positively leering at us. Bob still looked wary, but at least he had a beer in his hand now. Nice to see the big guy loosen up.

Anticipation is runnin’ through me, let’s find the keys and turn this engine on…

Twelve hours until this was all a thousand miles away. I couldn’t stop myself. I stared a hole in Brian until he made eye contact. He winked at me. There was nothing friendly in it.

Rochelle smacked our elbows and turned us toward the guys as the chorus approached. As if by instinct, we all screamed the chorus at them, off-key, pointing fingers: “Take me home tonight! I don’t wanna let you go till you see the light!”

The girls next to me looked bemused, but I saw them only out of the corner of my eye. We were alive, and it was good, and this night felt as though it would never end, even as I could see the bridge in flames behind me.




Brian put his head down on the table. “I’m getting too old for this shit,” he mumbled.

“Don’t put your eyes too close to the table,” Lindie advised. “It’ll burn your eyeballs off.”

The driver didn’t say anything, but grinned at us. The late-night hot chicken joint had been his idea. I had had this stuff exactly once, on my one work trip to Nashville, and I didn’t think any of us would be able to sleep after we ate our fill. But the lard was probably really good for soaking up all our poor decisions, even if the two guys at the table with documented heart problems would probably get a new butthole ripped for it.

“I’m lookin’ forward to seein’ you hungover, Rok.” Nick grinned and slurped down half his glass of water in one sip. “Cosmic retribution and alla that.”

“It’s not the booze. It’s the…” Brian looked up, and I followed his eyes to the silver clock above the grill. It was just a hair before 3:30. “Time. Christ.”

“Nobody’s young enough for this shit anymore.” I slouched in my chair and rubbed my hand over my face, likely destroying what was left of my eye makeup. “That’s why nobody else is here.”

It was no lie. The only other sounds in the joint were a Hank Williams record, echoing off the jaunty pastel tile, and the clinking of dishes and sizzle of fat in the kitchen.

Lindie grinned. “The drinkin’ class is down at Hermitage Café. Y’all would get your clothes ripped off if you went in there. This is closer to the hotel anyway.”

A.J. and Rochelle were uncharacteristically quiet. Rochelle had her head on his shoulder and seemed to be having trouble keeping her eyes open. I wondered if she’d foreseen this when she’d decided, hey, you know what, I think I’ll fly to Nashville and drag my fiancé out on the town.

I had an overwhelming urge to lay my head on Brian’s shoulder. He was right next to me, as tightly squeezed into the circular booth as we all were. I was so distracted by his proximity that I wouldn’t have been able to carry on a conversation if anyone had felt like having one.

On my other side, Nick cleared his throat and nudged me with an elbow, connecting directly with my spleen. I winced, but he didn’t seem to notice. “This how you expected your trip to end, Miz Michaels?” he said, grinning down at me.

“Now, Nick, how can you ask me that?” I parried. I smiled back up at him and laid my head on his shoulder, lightly, just for a moment. I hoped Lindie wouldn’t go full Miss Piggy on me. “This isn’t even how you boys expected this night to go.”

He chuckled. “True ‘nuff. So what was your favorite thing this week?”

I studied the table, pretending to think. I sure wasn’t going to look at Brian. My face grew warm, and I was sure it would give me away as a damn liar no matter what I said. How could I tell the truth? These guys wouldn’t give a shit one way or the other, likely as it was that I’d never see them again after they came to New York for their photo shoot and shows, but saying it out loud would make it real in a way it could never be. I took a long drink of water to stall.

“Is it a cop-out to say my little serenade today?” I finally said, after swallowing.

“Awww. Well, ain’t that sweet.” Brian pulled an arm free from the sardine can that was our seating arrangement. I was sure he was trying to put it around me, but his elbow caught me in the forehead. The thunk echoed inside my skull. His eyes widened. “Oh, crap! That was not my intention.”

“Damn, you guys.” I rubbed my forehead. “You got a permit for those guns?”

Poor choice of words. All three of the Backstreet Boys at the table elbowed some room free to flex their biceps, pulling a series of beefcake poses.

“You’re at the gun show, Miz Michaels,” A.J. informed me, kissing one bicep. “They don’t make permits for these guns. We live on the edge.”

A new voice cleared its throat. I looked up to see a heavyset blonde woman holding a tray on each arm, regarding us frostily.

“If you all ain’t here to eat, I’ll gladly give this stuff to the cooks,” she said dryly.

A.J. folded his hands neatly in front of him and beamed at the waitress. “Apologies. Dole ‘em out.”

The woman muttered under her breath as she set plates of bright red fried chicken in front of each of us. I could feel the heat coming off my chicken, which I’d ordered medium -- I actually wanted to sleep a few hours -- and dug into my greens first instead.

“God, thank you for this food, and may my cardiologist have mercy on my soul,” Brian said. He and Nick reached in front of me to bump fists, and both bit into their chicken with relish.

Rochelle winced. “God fucking almighty! It’s like rubbing a ghost pepper in my eye!”

“I warned you,” Lindie said through a mouthful of chicken. She swallowed, and her voice jumped an octave. “‘Oh, I’m Ro, and I want people to think I’m hard, so I got the extra-hot.’”

Rochelle glared at her. “Real funny, Lin. And what did you get?”

Lindie grinned. “The extra-hot. I am hard.”

“You ain’t the only one,” Nick muttered, a little too loudly to be muffled by his mouthful of food. I couldn’t resist stomping on his foot, and I thought I heard him choke. “Goddammit, Meg!”

“You see what I gotta deal with?” Bob said to the driver, who nodded wearily. I was sure he’d driven around bigger stars and bigger assclowns than the denizens of this table.

Brian chortled a little and held his fist out to me for a bump. I knocked my knuckles against his and finally took a bite of the chicken. It burned at least as much as the whiskey, but damn, it was good, all cayenne pepper and grease. I popped a pickle slice into my mouth and kept going.

“Dude,” A.J. said through a mouthful of food. He swallowed. “We’re never gonna sleep tonight. What with all this fat and spicy shit.”

Nick grinned. “All-nighter?”

The waitress cleared her throat loudly from behind the counter. We all looked at her, and she jabbed a finger at the clock above the grill. “When 4:00 comes, you don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here.”

A.J. cleared his throat as well, more theatrically. “I know who I want to take me home,” he sang. Brian and Nick joined in, and we suddenly had a genuine Backstreet Boys cover of Semisonic going on. “I know who I want to take me home. I know who I want to take me home, take me hooooooome.

The driver finished his chicken and sighed. “If it ain’t me, then can y’all pay me so I can go home?”

My face was warm, and it wasn’t entirely the heat of the chicken. I looked down at my chicken bones, the remains of my midnight snack, in the remains of the week. I knew my answer to that question, and I knew he knew it, too.



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