I were sneaking around together, he found us in their greenhouse. Luckily, we’d just tugged most of our clothes back on, otherwise that would have been a sight for the old man. He figured I was just some worker on his grounds trying to mess with his daughter. He cursed and yelled and told me to leave and never come back.
I bumped into him again after Harlow and I had split up, at the bank. I’d just come from closing on my bar and was dressed in my only suit. He struck up a conversation with me as we waited in the long line, not remembering how he’d thrown me out of his palace a year before. I wanted to tell him who I was. Remind him how he told me I was a good-for-nothing son-of-a-bitch, and that I’d never lay a hand on his daughter. I wanted to tell him about all of the zeros in my bank account, and that if I wanted to, I could be dick deep in his daughter right now. But I didn’t. I just talked a good talk and politely walked away when it was my turn at the counter.
I don’t know if that makes me a coward, or a better man.
He came into Tricks once, and I poured him a bourbon after bourbon and listened to him talk about his wife, Harlow’s mom, who had passed away years before, and how he was wasting time on this younger gal now even though he didn’t love her. That sometimes, things just make sense, so you do them.
That’s sort of why I’ve hung with Rochelle so long. She isn’t the love of my life, never will be. I think she even knows and accepts that. But we make sense. We both come from tough childhoods on the road, fathers that are shady assholes, and siblings we’d be fine never speaking to again. She is sexy as hell, pretty damn hilarious when she wants to be, and doesn’t expect a fairytale.
Talking to Mr. Mills that night was the first time I’d realized that other people had the same feeling about love as I did, and it shocked the shit out of me that I could actually share the old asshole’s point-of-view.
I park my bike in the gravel parking lot of Stroker’s pool hall and help Harlow down.
“I thought we were going to talk? It’s not exactly quiet in there,” she says, following me to the door. She looks disappointed.
“It’s crowded, yeah. Trust me, it’s better that way.” Because if we’re alone, we both know damn well what’ll happen.
The place is a dump. There’s wood paneled walls, old red carpet, and the only lights are the dim, blue neon ones overhanging each of the twelve pool tables in a row. At the end is an old, scratched dance floors where has-been beauties and drunken losers drape themselves over each other and sway. It’s no place I want to bring Harlow, no place she deserves, but it’s out of the way and there’s no chance Rochelle or any of her friends will see us here.
Harlow makes her way to a booth in the corner while I grab us two draft beers.
“I was surprised to see you at the house,” she says, then takes a long drink of the skunk beer. “Not a bad surprise, just, you know...what do you want to talk about?”
She’s fumbles over her words, nervously. The music turns on in the place, louder than normal. Ear-splitting, whiny-ass country music.
“I wanted to talk to you about what I’ve been doing since the last time we saw each other,” I say.
“What?” she says, pointing to her ear. “It’s so loud in here!”
“I said, since I last saw you—”
“I can’t hear you!” she yells and leans in even closer.
“Never mind.” I’m getting frustrated. I glance around the sad room. “Do you want to dance?” I yell across the table.
She pulls her head back in surprise. “You don’t dance, Gunner. Like, ever.”
“You do, though. I can talk to you easier if you’re...close.” And I guess if I have to, I’ll hold onto those sweet hips and get to feel her move against me one more time before I lay the situation with Rochelle on the table and send Harlow running for good.
Harlow nods and springs up from the bench.
The way she moves is and always has been grace in motion. I’m not poetic about much, but Harlow’s body was made for music. It makes me have a little