“You guys rocked it tonight,” he says. “Carl says you’re looking for the opening slot at our Ag Field Day gig.”
“Yeah,” I say. “We are.”
“It’s yours,” he says, and then we stand there together, watching as Red Five dedicates the next song to Philadelphia and then launches into “Trash City.”
Chapter Four
I wake up hungover on Saturday and I blame Travis. Why? Because instead of the long wind-down we always have after a night like that, where we talk and analyze and strategize until we’re sober, last night he just dropped me off and he didn’t even remind me to drink water and take three Advil. And I didn’t remember myself because I was too busy drunk-fuming over the fact that Millie weaseled a ride home with us and he decided to drop me off before her. Yes, I know I should be a big girl and realize that’s for the best, but I’m not. I’m just not that big.
What’s worse is that I wake up hungover and I’m still thinking about Travis. I’m thinking again about last weekend, specifically when we were doing it and he asked, “Emmy, are you close?”
“I don’t know if I can come again,” I admitted. I could have faked it—I’ve done it before and so have you, don’t lie—but with him it just didn’t feel right. He felt incredible, don’t get me wrong. It’s not like I wasn’t loving every second of having him inside of me, but Jesus, Maria y José, I’d come two times already. Before that night, I was lucky to come once with a guy, and I’d never come twice in one night. I couldn’t come a third time, could I?
“Sure you can,” Travis whispered in my ear. “Come on, give me one more.”
That almost made me come right there, but when I edged closer and didn’t, he took my hand and sucked on my finger, swirled his tongue around it, and then put my hand down between us.
“Touch yourself, Emmy,” he said.
I almost came just from his words. I’d never tried touching myself during sex before, but I did while he was fucking me with these strong, steady strokes, and in just a few flicks I was there like a closed fist, coming hard, bucking under him, and crying his name over and over, but the sound was lost in the noise of him as he came with a low growl and there it was, the Travis face, flush and wild. I memorized that face so I could call that visual up anytime, and now here I am, once again, fixated on it. I fixate on that image several times a day since it happened. Okay, not several times a day. All day. All day, all night, some part of me is thinking about it. About Travis. About how he kissed me when it was all over, like even though we were exhausted and as spent as we’ve ever been, he wanted more. He acted like having me made him want me more. I think about how when it was over he held my hand, his thumb stroking the back of it and that was the last thing I remembered before falling asleep. I think about the note he left on my dresser, next to the box of forty-fives that he picked up and put away for me—in alphabetical order—that said Call me when you get up. I’ll treat you to victory brunch at Neubies.
And I think about how I have probably fucked everything up and I don’t know how to fix it. I don’t even know what fixing it means. I just know that I can’t stop thinking about Travis, and the fact that right now, Millie could be curled up naked in his lap. And I just have to know.
I become obsessed with this image of him with her, so I pick up the phone and call him. He answers it after a couple of rings, so he’s home. That’s good. I tell him I’m thinking about going out to Sam Ash. Does he want to go?
“No thanks,” he says. “I don’t need anything at Sam Ash.”
I ask him if he’s planning to go out to see Drunk Snake tonight (a Whitesnake tribute band that covers all their songs as polkas, pretty brilliant, actually) at Olde Queens. He tells me it’s Rock and Roll Bowling tonight with Billy Broadband. Did I forget? Well, yeah, I guess I did.