up at him. Her body, smelling of sweat and the odors
circulating in the room, pressed against his, not, he suspected, purely by
accident.
Squinting up at
him, as if she thought she should recognize him, she asked, “Aren't you
somebody?”
“Not
really.” He tried in vain to disengage
the arm she had wound around his neck, holding the glass as far away from her
as possible.
“Ooh, but
you're British. And cute.” Her hand went up into his hair, and her eyes,
crossing slightly with the effort, focused on his face. “Want to dance?”
“Not just
now. Maybe later.” Still attempting to free himself, Stani
smiled down at her. “Why don't you sit
this one out?”
“You are
somebody. You're too cute to be
nobody.” She seemed to be developing a
fascination with his hair, her fingers winding deeper into the curls. Obviously, she was not a girl to be easily
discouraged. He knew the routine all too
well. First she would hang on him, touch
him and coo over him, or she would just proceed directly to blatantly groping
him, as if there were no need for preliminaries. She was stoned; he could smell it on her. She had nothing more in mind than taking him
to bed, or the floor, or any other available horizontal surface, for a few
minutes of mindless copulation. And he
was expected to be aroused by her overly accessible charms and perform to her
satisfaction on command.
“Here, love,
you're spilling my drink. Why don't you
go find yourself another partner?” This
time he managed to pull her hand free of his hair, not without losing a few
strands, and backed a half step away from her.
“Oh, but I want
to dance with you. I just love men with
red hair. And you're so cute. Come on, dance with me.” She was about to get a hold on him again,
this time sliding both arms around his waist, when a hand came to rest on her
shoulder.
Turning to look
up at the man behind her, she giggled. “Oh, hi Benny. This is. . .what
was your name again?”
But Benny
didn't seem interested. “Come on. I want something to eat.” Completely ignoring Stani, and the fact that
the girl was otherwise engaged, he turned toward the buffet.
“Sorry. Maybe later?” Obeying some unspoken command, she started to follow, looking back over
her shoulder with a grin. “You really
are so cute! Call me!”
Brushing
droplets of whisky from his coat, Stani made his way to the empty space along
the wall. Wary of another such attack,
he pressed his back in a defensive position against a window frame, where he
could feel the cold air blowing across his face. He spotted the girl, now hanging on Benny's
arm, popping food into her mouth directly from the buffet table. An involuntary shudder ran through him. No wonder everyone here was drunk. Watching this crowd while sober was enough to
turn one's stomach.
He searched the
room for Betsy, finally locating her swaying in the arms of a man he recognized
after a moment as Mark Stevenson. He
flinched at the realization that this was the man she'd come all this way to
meet. She’d been right when she said
he'd been in trouble. Although he rarely
paid attention to such things, even Stani knew of Mark's recent arrest for
cocaine possession. The son of a New
York state senator, and the grandson of a state Supreme Court justice, his
notorious conduct made for the ugliest kind of headlines. Despite the attempted intervention by his
family, this offense, added to the long list already on his record, had very
nearly earned him jail time. Stani
wondered why Betsy was so anxious to date this man. He was bad news, not the sort of publicity
she needed. Still, she looked happy,
gazing up into Mark's face. Maybe she'd
actually fallen in love with him.
From what
little he knew of falling in love, Stani was convinced that logic rarely
entered into the process. People seemed
to attach themselves to
circulating in the room, pressed against his, not, he suspected, purely by
accident.
Squinting up at
him, as if she thought she should recognize him, she asked, “Aren't you
somebody?”
“Not
really.” He tried in vain to disengage
the arm she had wound around his neck, holding the glass as far away from her
as possible.
“Ooh, but
you're British. And cute.” Her hand went up into his hair, and her eyes,
crossing slightly with the effort, focused on his face. “Want to dance?”
“Not just
now. Maybe later.” Still attempting to free himself, Stani
smiled down at her. “Why don't you sit
this one out?”
“You are
somebody. You're too cute to be
nobody.” She seemed to be developing a
fascination with his hair, her fingers winding deeper into the curls. Obviously, she was not a girl to be easily
discouraged. He knew the routine all too
well. First she would hang on him, touch
him and coo over him, or she would just proceed directly to blatantly groping
him, as if there were no need for preliminaries. She was stoned; he could smell it on her. She had nothing more in mind than taking him
to bed, or the floor, or any other available horizontal surface, for a few
minutes of mindless copulation. And he
was expected to be aroused by her overly accessible charms and perform to her
satisfaction on command.
“Here, love,
you're spilling my drink. Why don't you
go find yourself another partner?” This
time he managed to pull her hand free of his hair, not without losing a few
strands, and backed a half step away from her.
“Oh, but I want
to dance with you. I just love men with
red hair. And you're so cute. Come on, dance with me.” She was about to get a hold on him again,
this time sliding both arms around his waist, when a hand came to rest on her
shoulder.
Turning to look
up at the man behind her, she giggled. “Oh, hi Benny. This is. . .what
was your name again?”
But Benny
didn't seem interested. “Come on. I want something to eat.” Completely ignoring Stani, and the fact that
the girl was otherwise engaged, he turned toward the buffet.
“Sorry. Maybe later?” Obeying some unspoken command, she started to follow, looking back over
her shoulder with a grin. “You really
are so cute! Call me!”
Brushing
droplets of whisky from his coat, Stani made his way to the empty space along
the wall. Wary of another such attack,
he pressed his back in a defensive position against a window frame, where he
could feel the cold air blowing across his face. He spotted the girl, now hanging on Benny's
arm, popping food into her mouth directly from the buffet table. An involuntary shudder ran through him. No wonder everyone here was drunk. Watching this crowd while sober was enough to
turn one's stomach.
He searched the
room for Betsy, finally locating her swaying in the arms of a man he recognized
after a moment as Mark Stevenson. He
flinched at the realization that this was the man she'd come all this way to
meet. She’d been right when she said
he'd been in trouble. Although he rarely
paid attention to such things, even Stani knew of Mark's recent arrest for
cocaine possession. The son of a New
York state senator, and the grandson of a state Supreme Court justice, his
notorious conduct made for the ugliest kind of headlines. Despite the attempted intervention by his
family, this offense, added to the long list already on his record, had very
nearly earned him jail time. Stani
wondered why Betsy was so anxious to date this man. He was bad news, not the sort of publicity
she needed. Still, she looked happy,
gazing up into Mark's face. Maybe she'd
actually fallen in love with him.
From what
little he knew of falling in love, Stani was convinced that logic rarely
entered into the process. People seemed
to attach themselves to
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