Page 14 of Bar Down, Baby

“I couldn’t have done that,” I say. “I don’t think I actually learned how to put a fitted sheet on a bed until I was married.”

She laughs and shakes her head. “Adulting isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.”

“Sure isn’t.”

“Alright, your turn.” She nudges me.

We play the same game for much longer than I ever expected. Through two more rounds, I learned that she grew up about forty-five minutes west of Las Vegas. She didn’t finish high school, but she made her own way in Reno for five years. She took ballet classes at the YMCA with her childhood best friend, Bee, a legitimate dancer on the Vegas strip, whose full name she refuses to tell me. When she hit sixteen, she ‘grew boobs,’ a confession that makes her whole face turn the color of a cherry. And Megan has never actually been to the Las Vegas Strip.

“How is that possible?” I ask, drunk enough to know it’s time for water and coffee, which the waitress brings us.

Our table is empty as our friends have all migrated back to the hotel, leaving us to close the place down. She stirs flavored creamer into her coffee and takes a long sip. I make a mental note of the three mocha-flavored creamers she uses.

“Okay, this is gonna sound weird… or not… everything sorta sounds weird right now.” She giggles and I feel like I’ve become attuned to that sound. It’s like freaking music. “There are a lot of girls where I’m from who end up going to the Strip to ‘make it,’ and they just end up slinging drinks, wearing next to nothing.”

I nod, trying to follow her logic as I sip my black coffee.

“I just never wanted to go to the Strip until I made it. I mean, I was never going to be a dancer. I’m not that good. The Y was only ever gonna get me so far. It would’ve been easy to get a job at one of the casinos. But a girl like me? The way I look, with my skill set? There’s really only one job.”

I frown at the way she talks about herself.

“I only want to go when I can really do it up. Stay at the Bellagio with a view of those fountains, see a show, eat at a nice restaurant, not just some random buffet with all-you-can-eat shrimp cocktail. You know?” Her eyes glitter in the dim light and I nod, as if making a vow.

“We should do it,” I say.

She laughs. This time it’s loud and uninhibited. “Awesome,” she says, finishing her coffee.

I pay the bill and we walk back to the hotel, arms close enough that our fingers occasionally brush. But we don’t move apart. When we reach the hotel, there’s still a crowd hovering around the bar, and I take a deep breath.

“People know you in there, huh?” She grins, but there’s something sad in her eyes.

“Yeah,” I say, pinching the bridge of my nose.

“Come on,” she says. “It’s the spoils, right? Your competition recognizing your success and all?”

“I’d rather spend the night with you,” I say. The words are out of my mouth before I realize how they sound. But once they’re out there, once I meet her vicious blue eyes and watch her candy apple red lips part on an ‘oh,’ I know that she feels exactly the same.

I feel a hand clamp on my arm.

“Carroll!” It’s a guy I used to coach when I was in upstate New York who is on staff at Puget Sound.

I shake his hand and shake him off. Megan stands there for a moment, awkwardly, but when it becomes clear the guy wants to buy me a drink, she mumbles a soft good night. He’s too drunk to notice she was there at all and it pisses me off. How could anyonenotnotice her? I nudge him off, promising to call him before I leave and run for the elevators.

Across the lobby, Megan is standing in an elevator car alone, her arms wrapped around her tiny waist, shoulders hunched. The doors start to close, and I run, not caring who sees me. The gold doors move as if in slow motion, like they’re metaphorical doors closing on something so much bigger than a stupid elevator car. I reach the elevator as they clink closed with a hollow finality. I slam my hand against the button over and over again. But nothing happens.

“Damn it,” I say, pinching the bridge of my nose. I can’t believe I blew my chance before it even started. I reach for my phone to text Freddy. He’ll know where her room is. But then I stop. There are a few lines I’m not willing to cross with my coaches and asking one about the room number of his friend at the hotel we’re all staying at seems like a pretty rigid one.

“Fuck,” I hiss, stabbing my knuckles against the button again.

A bell dings overhead and the doors open. Megan stands inside, palms pressed to her cheeks, eyes wide. She looks up at me as a little smile ghosts across her lips, and it’s like I can breathe again. She blinks and takes a little breath. The doors start to slide together again.

Hell no. I extend my arm and stalk inside.

She’s already selected the fifth floor. Same as me. I push my palm against the close-door button before anyone else can interrupt us. I need this woman alone more than I need my next breath.

The air in the elevator is heated as it starts its ascent, and I don’t think it has anything to do with the ventilation. I’m hyperaware of her body, her slight curves, her softness. Every time her chest rises, it’s as if I can feel it. The elevator dings as it reaches the second floor, but it doesn’t stop.

My hand is near hers, so close I can feel the electricity coming off it. I reach out my pinkie finger and it brushes her knuckle. She gasps. It’s so quiet. If anyone else had been in the elevator, I don’t think I would have heard it. But she’s feeling this, just as much as I am.

---