Макс Коллинз - Spree

“How can you see?” she asked him.

He glanced up from his work at her, and immediately back at it; he was inking a penciled bug-eyed monster who was clutching a half-naked female space person in one clawed hand.

“Too busy to get up and turn on the light,” he said, stroking his upper lip, where his mustache had been, squinting at the page as he laid graceful strokes of ink on his penciled drawings.

She turned on the Tiffany-shaded hanging lamp over the pool table.

He smiled, without looking at her, and said, “Thanks.”

She went behind the bar and got herself a Coors Light from among his orange juice cans in the little refrigerator. She was wearing Calvin Kleins, very tight, and a yellow Giorgio T-shirt, and no bra. She looked like a million dollars and goddamn well knew she did. And this little twerp paid her about as much attention as if she were Ma Kettle.

She swigged the beer, mannishly, and crossed her arms on the considerable rack of her breasts. “Am I so tough to look at?” she asked.

He winced; whether it was from confusion or the distraction of being interrupted, she couldn’t tell.

He said, “You’re a knockout. And you know it.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

He sighed; smiled at her politely. “You’re a dish, okay? Now, I don’t mean to be rude, but if I don’t have this book done by Monday, I’m going to miss deadline. And since I’m paid on publication, my paycheck would in that case be a month late, and I can’t afford that. Excuse me.”

And he turned back to his work.

She swigged the beer again. “How long are you going to be staying?”

“What?”

“How long are you going to be staying?”

He got up from the drawing board and went to the sink behind the bar and ran the water and cleaned his brush. He said, “Do you mean, when am I going to be leaving?”

“Maybe I do.”

“Soon,” he said, passing by. He smiled tightly, politely, and sat at the drawing board and dipped the brush in a little black bottle of black ink. He began laying smooth strokes down, bringing the monster and the girl to life.

“You’ve been here two weeks,” she said.

“It’ll be two weeks tomorrow.”

She swigged her beer. “So what’s the story?”

Without looking at her, he said, “The story is I’m behind deadline. I don’t have time to go out and find a place to live right now. I have checked around some, with no luck. Monday, I’ll start making some serious rounds.”

“You’re going to live here in the Quad Cities?”

His eyes stayed on his work. “Just temporarily. I’d kind of like to move out to California, but I just can’t take the time to drive out there, with no place lined up to stay. I have a monthly comic book to produce.”

From behind them, a voice said, “As long as you’re in the Cities, you’ll stay here.”

Nolan.

He was wearing a white shirt, sleeves rolled up, first two buttons open, black-tinged-white hair curling up from his chest; and gray slacks, which fit him snugly. He walked by her without a word. He had such a nice ass. He went over and looked at what Jon was drawing.

“You get paid for that?” he asked.

“Not enough,” Jon said.

Nolan shrugged, then said to Jon, but looking sharply at Sherry, “Don’t waste your money on some hotel room or apartment. Till you’re ready to move on, you’ll stay here.”

“Nolan, I’m a big boy. I can take care of myself...”

“You’re practically a midget. You’ll stay here.”

Jon was shaking his head, smiling but frustrated. “I appreciate you bailing me out like this, Nolan, but fish and company stink in two days. It’s been almost two weeks, and I’m starting to reek.”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Nolan said, and went upstairs.

Sherry felt her eyes welling with tears, but it was anger as much as hurt. She swigged the beer; slid open one glass door and stood and looked at the brown plastic covering the pool. She was very cold but she didn’t give a shit. Her nipples dotted the i’s of her yellow Giorgio’s T-shirt. She didn’t care.

“A little cold for a dip, isn’t it?” a voice behind her said.

Jon.

“Go away,” she said.

“Look. I’m sorry.”

“What do you have to be sorry about?”

“You have a right to be mad. I just moved in like I owned the place. You have a relationship going with Nolan. I’m messing that up. I’m sorry.”

“Nobody has a relationship with that man. It’s like having a relationship with a chair.”

Jon touched her arm; she looked at him. He was smiling.

“He’s a fucker,” he said, matter-of-factly. “But he’s our fucker.”

That made her smile, and she allowed Jon to take her by the arm back into the rec room, where she realized, suddenly, she was shivering.

“I’ll be out of here, early next week,” he said. “Soon as I find a place.”

“You don’t have to,” she said. “I’m just feeling bitchy. I get a little irritated, before my period. For three weeks, before.”

He grinned at that, glanced at her chest, glanced away.

Then she understood.

He sat at the drawing board and began to work. “I am moving,” he said. “Soon. That’s been my plan, that’s been my intention. Nolan can’t make me stay.”

She put a hand on his arm. “You’re attracted to me,” she said, rather breathlessly, like she’d just figured out the meaning of life.

He glanced at her, quickly, rolling his eyes. “No kidding.”

“I... I thought you hated me.”

“You could make a man out of Boy George.”

She pulled a barstool over and sat and smiled at him. “I get it, now. You’re afraid of me.”

He sighed. “I’m uncomfortable around you.”

“I make you feel uneasy. And a little guilty.”

“Quit it.”

She was grinning. She liked this. “Because you look at me and certain thoughts go through your mind. We’re about the same age, aren’t we?”

“Give or take a century.”

“And I’m Nolan’s woman.”

“That’s a little arch, isn’t it? Is that how you think of yourself?”

“Sure,” she said. “I love the guy. And you do, too.”

Jon looked at her and made a disgusted face.

“I understand why you’ve been avoiding me,” she said. She slid off the stool, leaving the now-empty can of beer on the bar. “Out of respect.”

“Respect?”

“I’m Nolan’s property.”

“Oh, please...”

“And the one thing in this world neither one of you would steal... is something from each other.”

He looked away from the drawing board; looked at her hard, with a slow, barely-there smile.

“No wonder he likes you,” Jon said. “You’re smart.”

“I got nice tits, too.”

“Yes, and I’d thank you to quit driving me crazy with them. I got work to do.”

She went over to him and held out her hand.

“Friends?” she said.

“Why not?” he said, and shook her hand.

But the handshake lingered, and they both felt the danger. And in a look they told each other that they would still keep their distance.

Now, pulling the blue 300 ZX into the drive, the smudged three-quarter moon painting the landscape ivory, Sherry was confused. Talking to Jon had done no good; she didn’t dislike him, now — but she’d traded her negative feelings for feeling attracted to him. Now she had another man in the house to distract and attract her, complicating the situation even more. She had work to do; she had to concentrate. She had a man to marry. A man she was currently pissed off at, by the way. Yes, she was good and pissed at Nolan — for standing up for Jon yesterday, and quietly putting her in her place.