Page 5 of Rock Me

***

It actually takes me ten minutes to walk there. Walk barely three blocks. The sidewalks are packed with people and the streets are jammed with cars, filling the night with sounds of honking horns.

I turn the corner and even Gators has a line curling around the block. It’s a good thing we’re regulars. Or not. I could use an excuse just to go home.

“Noémie! Over here!” I hear Paige call my name and she’s leaning against the wall of the entrance, dressed like she’s on her way to a gig as a go-go dancer. I wave to her and she runs over to me.

“Hey, girl! I’m so glad you came.”

“ONE drink. And then HOME. I mean it,” I warn her, and she just giggles and lays her head on my shoulder, squeezing my arm. I feel myself thaw a little, feeling bad for being such a grouch. We’ve been roommates for three years now and I probably wouldn’t still be living in L.A. if it wasn’t for her. I didn’t know when I answered the ad for a roommate that I’d be ending up living practically rent-free with a spoiled socialite who needed a friend. A spoiled socialite and her gigantic shoe closet. And trust fund.

“Fine, fine! Come on!” She pushes us through the entrance, giving Paul the doorman a wink and giggle as he waves us through.

“Why is it so busy tonight?” I ask her as we elbow our way to the bar.

“You’re serious?”

“Wha? Is the Queen in town or something?”

“No! The Grammys were on tonight.”

Oh god. I totally forgot. And good thing too; if I’d remembered there wouldn’t be a chance in hell I’d be out. Grammy night is stay off the streets of downtown L.A. night. Between the celebrities and the celebrity spotting tourists and the paps, it’s pretty much an introvert’s (read: me) nightmare. It’s nights like these I wonder what I’m even doing living here.

Paige waves at James the bartender for our drinks and he gives her a grin that tells me they’ve done more than just talk on the few nights he’s driven her home in the last few weeks. I don’t know how she does it, charming everyone who comes within reach of her 10,000-watt smile, but who am I to question it? It worked on me after all.

“Hey, Noémie,” James says, tilting his chin to me as a greeting, “The usual?”

I nod and give him a small wave before spinning around and leaning my back against the bar rail, looking out into the crowd. It’s pretty much bumper-to-bumper human traffic in here. Or as I like to tell Paige fake bum-to-bum traffic. The ratio of silicon to human flesh is higher than in your average city. Which is when Paige usually demands an apology, pointing to her own chest. I recognize almost no one, which is unusual, considering Paige drags me here at least once a week. I don’t mind, I have no interest in talking to anyone tonight. The louder it is and the more it discourages small talk, the faster I can fulfil my one drink quota, the faster I can go home.

As soon as I think about how peaceful it is, despite the thousands of writhing bodies and thumping music, I feel a hot, sweaty body press up against my arm.

“Noémie, babe. Nice to see you here tonight,” it shouts into my ear, and it’s hot and uncomfortably close. Or it could just be the owner is the reason the skin is crawling up my back and neck. I try to shrink away, but it just follows me.

“Hi. Chris,” is all I reply, turning my body completely away from him. He doesn’t seem to get the message and just keeps leaning forward, like he’s trying to permanently bind his chest with mine.

“You look goooooooooood today, babe. So sexy,” he drawls, his eyes like a centipede slinking over my body. I try to suppress a shudder, but then decide, why should I?

He mistakes my disgust for some other kind of sign and grins, flashing his too perfect teeth. Teeth that don’t look like they grew from natural substance.

“Did you see me on TV tonight? I was hosting for MeemoTV at the Grammys,” he says, naming one of the cable talk shows I’ve never spent more than two seconds watching while flicking through channels. “Well, some of the pre-red carpet stuff.”

“Nope. Didn’t see it. Working.”

“That’s too bad, I could’ve taken you as my date.”

“Yeah, too bad.”

I see Paige over his shoulder and she’s grinning and pointing to him then raising her thumb up. She’s got to be kidding, right? I wouldn’t set this guy up with my worst nightmare. I take another step back and bump into someone, who shoves me, making me fall toward the human centipede. He gives me a wink and slings an arm over my shoulder, his rum drenched breath washing over me.

“I don’t have a date for the rest of the night,” he says, and my legs clamp together so fast, I almost topple over again.

“Busy tonight. Sorry,” I say, pushing away from him to face the bar, where James is standing, looking like he’s enjoying my discomfort.

“Here,” he says sliding a double of Glenfiddich across the bar to me.

“Bout time,” I glare at him, picking up the glass and giving it a swirl, letting the deep, caramel scent waft up. It burns my nostrils, in that way where the heat creeps up on you. I cradle the glass in my hand for a moment, wanting to savor the moment with my glass of liquid gold. They’re few and far between these days. On my $11 an hour job, I can’t really afford to be indulging my premium liquor cravings. Thank God for Paige and her bank account I tell myself, before I take my first sip.

I close my eyes as the liqueur slides down my throat like amber lava, smooth but destroying everything in its path. I’m instantly taken away from the deafening din of the bar and the grabby, rambling creep next to me and suddenly I’m home, sitting at my grandfather’s feet as he describes to me the minutiae of scotch distillation, and I swill the glass, learning to discern the notes of honey and almond and orange peel. Bliss.