“Here’s my friend Rob now. Wait till he gets a look at you two; he’ll wish he cashed in his chips half an hour ago.”
The two men could have been brothers: Rob was a little taller than the first man, but with the same large stomach taut against his T-shirt. He wore a black visor and his frequent player’s card was attached to his belt with a neon lanyard. He nodded at us, not asking our names.
He surveyed the empty glasses and water-ringed napkins spread in front of us. “Looks like I’ve got some catching up to do.” I wondered if we weren’t worth a handshake, if he onlywanted to touch us the way men felt permitted to touch girls in bars: at the smalls of their backs when pushing through a crowd, a squeeze on the arm for emphasis.
“Why don’t you sit on the other side of Lily? She’s bored by herself,” Clara said. I kicked the leg of her stool.
“Don’t mind if I do.” I wasn’t so sure he was right about catching up. Up close he smelled like rum.
“What’s a girl like you drinking? Let me guess, vodka soda? That’s what women drink to keep their weight down and still have a good time. My guess from the looks of you is that you like to do both.” He ordered one for me, and a mai tai for himself. I was already too far gone: The lights of the slot machines beyond the bar started to blur.
I thought about standing up, walking away, jostling him with my shoulder as I did so he would go toppling to the floor. Making my way out the front door, hailing a cab. Going home, where my mother would be asleep in front of the TV. But then I thought, in my drunken, imprecise way, about Matthew. Telling that story to Clara had dredged up the old desire to impress him, the man to whom stories were the highest form of currency—mostly because he already had everything else. What would it feel like to lean into this moment? To let these men use us. To see what Clara was talking about. Maybe there was only one way to really know.
“Thanks for this,” I said when the fresh drinks came. This time, I angled my chest toward him, like Clara did, and let my fingers brush the top of his arm.Why not?I thought. Maybe recklessness wasn’t reserved only for men.
“Aren’tyoufriendly,” he said, looking at my lips, then at my chest. I was still fighting the urge to wriggle away. His shirt needed washing and I could smell acrid smoke, the tang of body odor. I could also feel Clara’s eyes on me, even as she giggled. I wanted her to watch.
“So where are you from?” I asked. It was a misstep, I realized as soon as I said it. These men came here to feel big: They didn’t want to think about whatever was waiting for them back home. The sagging gutters, the faded paint, the bills, the soul-deadening jobs.
“Avondale, Pennsylvania.”
“I hope you’re having a fun trip.” I tried to make my voice breathy. “Did you do well at the tables? What’s your favorite game to play?”
“I like poker mostly. Blackjack here and there.”
“I’m no good at any of those. Maybe you could teach me a thing or two.”
“Probably could. It’s harder than it looks.”
I touched his leg. “Oh yeah?”
“Yes, indeed.” He swallowed, looked at me as though trying to measure something.
“Hey, so uh, we’ve got a room upstairs.” Rob leaned over me to Clara. “Isn’t that right, Luke?” I stared down at Luke’s forearm, braced on the bar for balance. Even his arm was flushed. “Plenty more to drink. Not quite so crowded. Keep the good times going.” His pores were giant and there was sweat gathering at his temples, glistening under the bristle of his hair.
“You like coke?” Rob whispered to me, his breath hot on my ear. “We’ve got enough to share.” I nodded, even though it was a lie. I had never liked it very much, the way it made my heart buzz, the too-sweet drip of it down my throat. “I’m assuming you’ll also share some of your winnings, Mr. Big Shot.” I could do it: be this stupid, this bold. That’s what they wanted, all of them. Matthew ranting on about how stories matter more than money, more than success. Ramona nodding in agreement, that you become the story you tell.
“I see.” He didn’t sound surprised. I suppose I had wanted him to.
“What are you waiting for?” Clara was watching me again. I wanted her to feel the force of what she had provoked. I was young. I had a body that was firm and soft in the right proportions. I had good skin and long hair. Why couldn’t I use these fleeting gifts to a particular end? Besides, Matthew had and without my permission. Now, at least, I was the one making the choice, offering myself up. I would get all of the benefits of whatever exchange we worked out.
Fuck off, I texted Matthew, as I climbed down from my barstool. But I was still thinking about what words I would use to tell him about this experience. The look of awe and disgust and finally respect coming into his face. And it would answer Clara’s prophecy: I would hit rock bottom. I would fall again before I could rise. The bad fate would buy the good. I pictured all of my misery reversing suddenly and absolutely, like the tipping of a seesaw.
The men lay bills on the bar and led us back through the floor, toward the eastern tower.
Clara edged closer. “Are you sure about this?” she whispered.
“What? You do it. It’s like you said, no big deal. Under control.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“So what did you mean?”
In front of us the men were talking, too—probably about money. Who could pay for us. How much we would cost them. Whether they should drop us and head to a strip joint instead. What was my value, to the dollar? I had wondered this, too, after Matthew’s show, when I read that it had sold out. A piece of me had been in the offing then, too. I suddenly had so many questions for Clara. Would the money always feel paltry, the amount too low? What did she do if someone didn’t want to pay? Did she ever sleep with anyone simply because she wanted to? Or was she ruined for anything like genuine lust?
“It’s harder than that. It takes a piece of you away. And you don’t need to do anything with these guys. You should go. Before we get into the elevator with them.”
“I’m not leaving you alone.”
