Authors: Katie McCoy
“I
just don’t think this is working,” he said.
“I’m
sorry, what?” I asked, much louder than I had intended. The
clerk, who been looking down at his computer politely, raised his
eyebrows. I turned away from the desk, dragging my suitcase behind
me, and I ducked out of the way of the people milling in the lobby.
Somehow I ended up behind an enormous potted plant.
“I
just don’t think we should be together anymore,”
he said. “I really need someone who can be supportive of my
musical career.”
“I am
supportive,” I said. “I just can’t
be there tonight.”
He sighed again and
I wanted to punch him through the phone.
“It’s
just not working,” he said, and I immediately went from mild
annoyance to full-on anger.
“No,” I
said between gritted teeth. “You know what’s
not working. You. You haven’t had a
job since you moved in three months ago. Who is going to pay your
rent, Nick? Who is going to pay for gas so you can get to your
rehearsals and gigs? Who is going to buy you the peanut butter you
can’t find even though it’s
on the same fucking shelf every fucking time?”
His struggling
artist thing had been appealing when we first met. Before landing my
job at the paper, I had been freelance writing and working nights at
the coffee shop he frequented. He played with his band, but also
worked at the hardware store, which I had found really attractive.
Nothing like a guy who can hang a shelf for you. And that’s
what he would do. At first. He repaired everything in my shoddy
apartment when he had his own place; it was only after he moved in,
after I got a desk at the Register, that he quit the hardware store
to focus on his music full time.
“Your
negativity is really impacting my work,” he said.
“Fine,”
I said, my head now aching. I didn’t
have the time or the energy to argue with him. “But you better
be out of the apartment when I get back.”
“About that,”
he said. “You’re being
evicted.”
“What?!”
Half the lobby turned in the direction of my shriek. I yanked my
suitcase closer to me and crouched closer to the plant. “Evicted?”
I asked, lowering my voice.
“Yeah.”
I could hear the snap of a lighter and then the deep inhale that
indicated he was smoking. Of course. Of course he was high right now.
That was another thing that had changed when he moved in. Guess it
had been easier to ignore how often he was high when I only saw him
after shows.
“Nick!”
I snarled. “Why am I being evicted?”
“Some guy came
by and said you hadn’t paid rent in
like, three months.”
“What? That’s
impossible. I give you the rent check every month…”
Fuck. Of course. I had given Nick one responsibility in our
relationship—to walk the rent to the landlord’s
apartment by the first of the month—and he had apparently
failed to do that. I had wondered why my bank account had seemed
unusually robust. The checks were probably sitting next to the door
or, knowing Nick, covered in bong water on the coffee table
somewhere. He had never really understood the purpose of the coasters
I owned.
“He said you
have to be out by the 15
th
of next month.”
I rubbed my temple.
It was the 20
th
. The last game before the MLB draft was in
just over a week. Maybe I could call my landlord and explain, but
then I remembered that he had told me about the noise complaints from
the other neighbors, as well as the lingering scent of pot that
hovered around our apartment. No doubt he was eager for me to be out.
“Fine,”
I said, realizing I would probably have to move back in with my mom
for a while. The pain in my temple bloomed into a full-on headache.
“Just make sure you’re out of
there when I get back.”
“It’s
cool,” he said. “Anne Marie is letting me stay with her.”
“Of course.”
Anne Marie was the only girl in their five-person band. She played
the tambourine and was sleeping her way through the group. I couldn’t
blame her, though. She was terribly attractive and not very musically
talented. Use what you got, right? Guess she saw potential in Nick.
Just like I had. “Use protection,” I
said and hung up.
I took a deep breath
through my nose, trying to calm myself. This was just a minor
setback. I was here to do a job and that’s
what I was going to do. Nothing else mattered right now. I could do
this. I was smart and capable and resourceful. Squaring my shoulders,
I grabbed the handle of my suitcase and pulled it towards the welcome
desk. But it got stuck around the potted plant, so I gave it a firm
yank, which freed it, not only from the plant, but also from my
grasp. I could only watch as my duct-taped suitcase flew through the
air, hit the smooth, perfect floor, and promptly exploded in the
middle of the busy lobby.
***
“Thank you so
much,” I said to the very kind bellboy that had helped sweep my
scattered clothes into my busted suitcase and get both it and me out
of the lobby and up to my room in an incredibly short amount of time.
I dug into my pockets for a tip, grateful to find a five-dollar bill
even though it was a wadded up sweaty mess.
“I’m
sorry,” I said, wishing I could explain how I had ended up in
this situation, but that was a long story, starting with the poor
decisions made in my adolescent and teen years, and this poor kid was
already politely nodding his way out the door. The minute the door
closed, I kicked my suitcase. Whatever delicate balance the bellboy
had managed in order to get it into the room was immediately
disrupted as the top popped open and my clothes spilled out onto the
floor.
“I guess I’ll
unpack, then,” I said, scowling at my completely broken piece
of luggage. The only one that I owned. Guess I would be buying a new
one no matter what. Unless I wanted to carry my clothes back to
Houston in a garbage bag. I shivered. It had happened before and
while it wasn’t the most embarrassing
part of my childhood, it was pretty high up there.
I hung my clothes
onto the hangers provided by the hotel, even folded up my panties and
shirts and put them in the drawer. Then, when it was empty, I kicked
my suitcase across the room like it was a stupid, awful, broken
soccer ball. I just wanted it somewhere that I wouldn’t
be able to look at it. It went under the bed. I hoped to forget about
it.
The tiny glass
bottles in the minibar clinked as I jerked the door open. I needed a
drink. I needed one bad. Somehow in the insanity of the bag and my
unmentionables spilling onto the floor of the lobby of a very fancy
hotel, I had forgotten, briefly, that my boyfriend of six months had
broken up with me and I was getting evicted from my apartment.
“That
shithead,” I muttered to myself, staring at the tiny bottles of
booze. The price list lay on top of the fridge, but I didn’t
want to look. Not yet. I knew I couldn’t
afford them, but I didn’t want to
know how much I couldn’t afford them.
Surely there was a bar nearby that had cheap beer on tap, or maybe a
bottle of tequila they were looking to unload.
I pushed back my
hair, which had gone frizzy from sweat and frustration, and closed
the fridge door. I was going to be following Nathan Ryder for the
next week. I couldn’t be mooning over
Nick or thinking about how I was going to get my clothes home or
worrying about finding a new place.
Suddenly
the bar shook, the glass bottles inside clinking against each other
as something jolted the wall. Then jolted it again. And again. It
took a moment for me to realize that the pounding sound was being
made by a headboard making contact with the wall. In a few moments,
it became abundantly clear that whoever was in the next room, was
having a good time. A really good time.
I
knew I should probably step away from the wall, or at least turn on
the TV or some music and give these people their privacy, but
instead, I found myself leaning closer, straining to hear what was
happening. My palms were sweating, my mouth was dry. And as it turned
out, I didn’t need to make any extra effort to hear the actions
going on in the next room. My neighbors were more than happy to make
it very, very easy to hear what was happening.
The
rhythmic thudding of the headboard against the wall was soon followed
by low, clearly female moans, building rapidly in succession. Someone
was treating her very, very well. My pulse sped up in my throat and I
felt my nipples tighten. It had been a long, long time since I had
felt anything that would encourage me to make those same sounds and
it took hearing it to realize how desperately I wanted it. Heat
pooled in my chest and slid down lower, lower until my sadly
neglected lady parts were tingling with anticipation.
“Oh! Oh! Oh!” came the voice on the other side of the
wall. I imagined what was happening, her beneath him, his hips
slamming against hers, his hands grabbing her breasts, her hips,
pulled her legs up, opening her wide. Or maybe she was on top, her
hips moving the bed. It could be anything, but I imagined that he was
on top, deep inside of her. He was kissing her, I could hear it, her
moans muffled against his neck. Or maybe his shoulder. Her fingers
were probably clutching his shoulders as he thrust against her, the
entire bed shaking with the effort.
I
realized my own hands were clenched as I listened to a stranger come
in the next room.
“Fuck
yes!” she screamed, and I could practically hear her shudder
her release. I let out a shaky breath, waiting for the headboard
banging to stop, but it didn’t. Nope, whoever this guy was he
wasn’t finished. And whoever she was, well, I couldn’t
help wishing I was in her place. Lucky girl. The pounding continued,
but this time it was slower, more controlled. Clearly this guy had
lasting power. They were taking their time now, and I could hear the
woman’s voice murmuring something low, followed by the husky
laugh of her partner. It didn’t take long for the rhythm to
build up speed again, her moans making the walls (and my nerves)
vibrate. I was hot, so fucking hot, but goose bumps had sprung up
across my skin. I was afraid I might explode just from listening to
them.
“Come
on, baby,” I heard the guy, his voice deep and sexy. “I
want to feel you come.” The sound of the headboard hitting,
mixed with her frantic gasps, made everything in my body tense as if
I was the one about to reach an orgasm. And when she came for the
second time, she let out a moan that made me shudder. But it was his
gasp, a deep guttural release that made my lady parts explode with
need. My vibrator was good, but it wasn’t that good. And I
wasn’t even going to think about how unsatisfied Nick had left
me on more than one occasion, after passing out on top of me in a
pot-induced stupor. But the couple next door had woken something
inside of me. I had thought I could go without that, without
headboard banging, multiple orgasmic sex, but I had just been
deluding myself.
As
they lay in their room, their bed quiet, their voices mixing
together, in between laughter and kissing, I placed my hand on the
wall, half turned on, half totally pissed that it had been three long
months since I had experienced anything half as good as what they
seemed to be sharing. Everything below my waist trembled. I was
jealous. So totally jealous and I hated that feeling. I hated the
sensation of being left wanting, but that’s what I felt.
Because right now all I wanted was what they had. At the moment all I
wanted was to get some too. And hey, if he wanted to cuddle
afterwards, that would be fine. But unfortunately that wasn’t
what I was here for. I didn’t have the time. The mind-bending
sex would have to wait.
I
took a deep breath, and then bent down, opened the fridge and stuck
as much as my head as I could fit in there. The cold gave me the
shock I needed and I sucked in the freezing air, waking up my system,
shaking off the hot desire that had coursed through me. Focus,
Sophie, focus, I thought and stood up, my lips cold. Hot, intense sex
could wait, couldn’t it? I had survived this long, I could
survive a little longer. I had work that I needed to do. I pressed
them together, trying to remind myself why I was here.
The paper had told
me that Nathan was weary of journalists. That even though this
meeting and interview had been arranged and he had agreed to it,
there was a chance that he was going to be cagey and uncomfortable
with the situation. I had to make him comfortable. That I could do.
I approached the
mirror and gave myself a once-over. I looked exactly how I felt,
sweaty and exhausted. Somehow my hair was both limp and fuzzy, my
face splotchy. My clothes were wrinkled and displayed multiple wet
spots, most especially underneath my armpits. I pulled them off and I
stared at myself in the mirror, hands on hips, wearing nothing but
black lace and a scowl.
“OK, Hall,”
I said, blowing brown hair out of my equally brown eyes. “Here’s
the score. Bases are loaded. The game is tied. You’re
tired. But you can do this. You can fucking do this. You’ve
got a hell of a swing and the ball is an easy lob. This guy is hot
and interesting and you can write a piece that will make every panty
in the country drop and also make his mama proud. This is your pitch,
babe. This is what will get you into the big leagues.”
I pulled my
favorite, yeah-I’m-fucking-hot dress
from the hanger. Black. Stretchy. Impossible to breathe in. Wrestled
my hair into a bun and swiped some dangerously red lipstick across my
lips. I smiled at myself in the mirror. I looked good.
“I think it’s
time for a few practice swings.”
***
The bar was crowded.
Only a short walk from my hotel, off of 6
th
Street, it
gave me a chance to take in a little of Austin. The city was
beautiful, and I passed several people walking their dogs or running,
now that the sun had gone down and the heat was beginning to fade. I
saw a huge variety of folks, as was expected in a town whose motto
was “Keep Austin Weird.” Lots
of hippies and hipsters milling around. All who smiled at me when I
walked by, as if they knew me. The whole place seemed friendly and
welcoming. It helped ease some of the tension of the day.