For A Good Time, Call... Read Online Free PDF Page A

night after was spent trying to maintain that kind of high
without crashing or overdoing it and ending up vomiting a few hundred
bucks into the toilet.
    I
was good. And all I wanted to do was dance, get lost in the music,
get lost in the generalized heated energy. Get lost in the throbbing
sex of a room full of people trying to get laid. Because that was as
close to sex as I got.
    This
guy was going to kill my buzz.
    “You
know you want to. You've been flirting with me all night.”
    He
wasn't wrong. I flirt. I schmooze. I get wrapped up in the
nothingness of my company. Since it means nothing to me, it couldn't
mean much to them. Such is my drunk logic. Sober me knows not to poke
a sleeping bear. And that was exactly what a horny guy at a club was.
    “Sorry,”
I said, pulling away from the hand that was trying to stroke my neck.
“I'm not interested.” I walked quickly toward the dance
floor, getting myself lost in the crowd. He could find someone else.
Drunker. Looser. More willing to do a different kind of shame walk
home than I was.
    I
pushed into the center of the crowd, turning myself in slow circles,
my hips moving suggestively around, my arms up in the air. Lost. God,
how good it was to get lost. I left the floor for the occasional
refill, only to get right back on. Until I felt the sweat trickle
down my neck. Until my feet starting to hurt beyond the numbing
effects of alcohol. Until the place started clearing out. Suggesting
three AM. That's when the more decent people decided to head back
home alone of with someone else. Decided they had had enough
debauchery and liver punishment for one night.
    I
moved back to the bar, nodding at the bartender who poured me two
shots and then handed me my tab which I paid, but sat and waited with
my shots until I needed them. Until the fog started to clear. Then I
threw one back. The DJ started packing his stuff up and the radio
turned on, classic rock replacing the brain-throbbing house garbage.
I watched as the bartender cleaned glasses and capped the bottles. I
heard the last few souls exit and one of the bouncers came in and
took a seat next to a waiting two fingers of whiskey.
    He
was a huge man. Six and a half feet of muscle and fat that could
break through a crowd like a human battering ram. He had dark brown
skin and a huge diamond earring in one of his lobes, but the kindest
eyes I had ever seen.
    “Drunk
Girl,” he said, nodding his head at me.
    “What's
up, Guy?”
    “You're
gonna need a transplant at this rate. Switch to pot or pills, girl.”
    “I
did the pot thing a few years ago,” I admitted. Oh, the lovely
oblivion. Unfortunately, booze worked better. “And I'm not a
pills kinda girl.”
    He
nodded, holding his whiskey out and I clinked my shot to his glass
and threw back the gin, enjoying the quick burn. “Need me to
walk you home? It's late,” he added unnecessarily.
    “Is
it starting to get light yet?” I asked, feeling like the night
had gone way too fast to be sunrise already.
    “Another
fifteen and you'll see the sun pop over the buildings,” he
said, knowing the deal. I was at this bar twice a week, every week.
We had had this conversation at least fifty times before.
    “Okay,”
I said, feeling more tired than I usually did. I hopped up off my
stool. “I think I am heading out then,” I said, walking
past him and placing a hand on his shoulder. A rare show of physical
contact for me. But he was always good to me. “Thanks for the
offer, Guy, but I got it tonight. I'm only a block away.”
    “Be
careful,” he said, nodding. “Nothing but unsavory people
out this late.”
    “Not
half as unsavory as me,” I promised, making my way to the door.
    I
pushed into the night, throwing my head back to look at the
still-dark sky, enjoying the cool air on my overheated skin. I took a
deep breath, the air smelling of stale cigarette smoke, pot, and
vomit. A familiar, almost comforting combination. In a disgusting
way. I turned and started my