Chapter 7 #2
“You don’t know?”
“I talk to someone. I buy her a drink.”
“Pretty basic, but okay, we can work with that. Is that how you picked me up?”
He won’t make eye contact, and he’s practically talking to the floor when he says, “Maybe you picked me up.”
“Oh no. You’re the top, remember?”
He does look at me then, and it’s not a happy look.
“Lay it on me, Sammy. Give me a dose of that Yarmark charm.”
“But I never—” Sam is talking to the floor again, and a beat passes before he says, “You’re a guy.”
I almost laugh, but something tells me that might push him over the edge. “Yeah, well, that’s kind of an integral part of the plan. But fine. Pick whoever you want; I just want to see what I’m working with.”
And before he can answer, I grab my drink and move away from the bar.
I luck into a two-top that a het couple is abandoning, and I drop into a seat that gives me a perfect line of sight on the bar.
Sam is still where I left him, staring at his empty beer, looking more or less like a kicked puppy.
He even glances over his shoulder at me.
God, his eyes really are big. And there’s this part of me that thinks I should get up, call it off, and forget this whole thing.
But I need to pull this off—with the donors, if not with anybody else. And if he freezes up…
Sam steps away from the bar, and a couple of Sigma Sigma bros slide into the spot we’ve abandoned.
He walks the length of the room, taking people in, considering his options.
Nothing about him screams cop, mostly because he still has such a baby face, but the signs are there if you know what to look for.
The way he carries himself. There are other guys who’ve got good shoulders and defined arms like Sam—not that you can see a whole lot under the sweatshirt he’s wearing—but they move like college kids, and Sam moves like—well, like a man who knows how to handle himself.
Except, right then, he’s also moving like a guy who has no fucking idea what to do.
He’s making his way back along the bar now, still trying to find his victim.
I mean, target. Spots open along the bar, but people press into the gaps immediately, and Sam’s look is changing from confusion to frustration.
Finally, a guy gets up from one of the stools and heads for the door, and Sam slithers into his spot—barely beating out a little ’roider who definitely doesn’t like that Sam got there first. It’s a good spot, between two dark-haired women—the one on the left has longer hair, the one on the right wears hers short.
They’re about the right age for Sammy, and they both have that college-girl look that’s somehow put-together and a little overdone at the same time.
And then Sam just sits there.
I wish I had another drink, because this is turning into a show.
The woman on his left—the one with the long hair—is deep in a conversation with the man on the other side of her.
The woman on his right—short hair—is texting.
Sam is watching her, obviously waiting for her to put the phone down or glance up.
Maybe even hoping she’ll initiate the conversation.
I’m starting to suspect Sammy might be one of the guys who wants a woman to club him over the head and drag him back to her cave—maybe that’s why he hasn’t had a date in the time I’ve known him.
In this case, he’s going to be disappointed because that girl is firmly committed to her phone.
Finally, Sam must come to the same conclusion.
He looks around for the bartender, but she’s busy lining up shots for a group of guys.
I can see the beginning of panic in his face.
Then it changes into something I’ve seen before—something between surrender and resolve.
He had that exact same look on his face when he told me, less than an hour ago, he’d help me with what was now starting to feel like the stupidest plan in the world.
Like he couldn’t fight it any longer, but now that he was committed, he was committed.
He turns toward the short-haired woman and opens his mouth.
And the man on the other side of the woman leans over and says something to her.
Sammy sinks back onto his stool.
Okay, now things are getting painful. I push myself up out of my seat.
But Sammy whips around. The long-haired woman on the other side is free now; the man she was talking to is gone.
And Sammy says something to her. I can see her face in profile as she turns toward him.
She smiles. A really big smile. In fact, it’s a huge smile.
Way too big for some stranger you don’t know.
Even if he is a little hottie, and you can tell just by looking at him that he’s a sweetheart.
I mean, what the fuck was she smiling about?
And then her smile wavers. Dissolves. And she bursts into tears, leaning forward to wrap her arms around Sam’s neck.
That weird, dark flash of irritation is gone, and now I’m grinning as I get out of my seat. The look on that poor boy’s face. He’s trying to keep her upright. She’s trying to collapse on top of him. He’s looking around for help. She’s dragging both of them off their stools.
By the time I reach them, she’s beyond sobbing.
She’s blubbering, trying to tell Sam something that is completely unintelligible.
I get her around the waist and haul her back onto her stool, and Sam takes the opportunity to break free of her embrace.
When she tries to get up, I settle her back onto her seat again.
“There you are,” I say to Sam. “We were looking for you. Come on, we’ve got a table over here.”
Sam stares at me. I stare back until he flushes and mumbles, “Oh. Yeah. Excuse me.” And then I want to die inside because he adds, “Ma’am.”
The woman, though, shoves me away. “I knew you didn’t want to talk to me!” The scream is intelligible, even through a fresh wave of tears. “Nobody wants to talk to me! You’d want to talk to me if I was rich and pretty though!”
I’m starting to get an idea why the other guy left in such a hurry. “That’s usually how it works,” I tell her, and then I grab Sam’s shoulder and steer him back toward the two-top.
I do glance back, though, and by the time we’re halfway to our table, she’s leaning drunkenly against a fortysomething business type who looks like his little chode is going to pop through his pants.
All is well. Order restored to the singles’ scene.
Sam won’t look at me when I press him into one of the miraculously still-open seats. I flag a waitress, order a couple more beers, and wait.
He does all that self-improvement and bullshit, though, so he’s probably got fucking amazing willpower, and he’s still avoiding my gaze.
“So,” I say, “we learned two things tonight.”
Nothing.
“You are absolutely terrible at that.” I grin. “And you like brunettes.”
It is the dirtiest of looks when he finally pulls his eyes toward me. But then the waitress comes back, and he takes his beer and looks away again.
The music changes to, of all things, Elton John. “Goodbye, Yellow Brick Road.” One of the little college gay bros probably thinks it’s hilarious and retro.
“Come on,” I say. “It wasn’t that bad.”
Sam finally sips his beer.
“You happened to hit a pocket of crazy,” I say. “That happens to everybody. One time, I was at this club in Springfield, and this guy latched on to me for some reason. Saw me across the room and wouldn’t leave me alone after that. Even followed me to my car because he said we had a connection.”
“Let me guess,” Sam says. “You still fucked him.”
I burst out laughing. “Holy shit. Was that bitchy Sam?”
To judge by his face, he can’t decide if he’s mad or embarrassed or considering the possibility that maybe, just maybe, he can laugh about this. He’s trying not to smile as he tips his glass back. When he lowers it, he says, “Did you?”
“Oh, totally. Crazy fucks are insanely good. Do you want to hook up with that girl? I bet she’s wild.”
That gets me the serious scowl again. “This is all a joke to you.”
“Calm down. It’s not like I was trying to embarrass you; I thought—I don’t know. I figured you had that whole country boy poon hound thing going on.”
He rolls his eyes.
“Don’t give me that,” I say. “You know what I mean.”
He sets his glass on the table and turns it. A quarter turn. Clockwise. “I tried that,” he finally says. “I didn’t like being that kind of person.”
“And you were shit at it.”
There’s this seesaw of anger and amusement. A shrug and a grin win out, all the starch and stiffness forgotten for a moment, and I get a glimpse of who Sammy Yarmark is when he’s in his undershorts. Figuratively speaking, although that image wouldn’t be hard on the eyes.
“Fortunately,” I tell him, “you’re off the market for the foreseeable future.
But some pointers, just in case: be confident, be playful.
I know you didn’t really get a chance, but you looked like you were wound so tight you were going to haul that poor girl into an interview room and try to sweat some answers out of her. ”
He gives the glass another quarter turn. “I didn’t know what to say.”
“Well, you want to find something you feel comfortable saying.”
Sam pauses, and there’s something in the way he’s watching me that’s like a poke—like he’s trying to rile me up. “Hey you, let’s smash.”