The following is an excerpt from chapter 11 of my rock ‘n’ roll novella, The Girl From Last Night:

Her blonde hair was straight and shiny.  In the darkness she had no flaws, nothing to complain about, nothing to hold against her.  She was the image, the outline, and Sam Smith could fill in the gaps however he chose. I like this, he thought.  This is what I’m talking about. 

Her thin body moved in a controlled, seductive manner.  She smiled, the lights making her face red, then purple, then blue.  This is her thing, Sam Smith thought.  Out there on the dance floor is where she feels at home.  The boys were looking at her. 

“That crazy is wasted,” Jon Wilson said.  He had a beer in his hand.   “Go on over, Sam.  She’s looking right at you.”

“She doesn’t look off,” Sam Smith told him, “She’s having fun.”

She’s a bar rat, Jon Wilson thought.  “Sam, don’t kid yourself.”  They were talking above the music.  “Just go to the drunk crazy and have it out.  I’ll find something around here and be out soon.”

Sam Smith knew the dance floor was not his place.  “I’ll wait for her to come over.”

Jon Wilson shook his head.  “Sam, you have so much to learn.”

“Let’s have another.” 

As they were ordering, the dancing girl came up.  Jon Wilson took a step back, letting Sam Smith take the front line.  Go on ahead, Sam, he thought, take her down. 

She didn’t walk up to the boys.  Rather, she danced her way over.  Sam Smith waited in that moment, the girl coming towards him, his vision funneling down to only her.  God dammit, he thought.  I’d really rather not dance.  A part of him wished she would stay off in the distance. 

When she arrived, she said nothing.  She had a smile painted on.  No introduction, no nod, no pleasantries.  Jon Wilson watched.  Go on, Sam. Be brave, little one.  Then Jon Wilson laughed at himself and his thoughts, and took a long drink from the beer bottle.

Sam Smith had not yet moved his hips.  He was hoping she’d stop and hold out her hand and say, hello.  They aren’t like that anymore, he thought.  They’re not here to make acquaintances.  They’re here to dance with their friends or to fuck someone.  They aren’t here for anything in between. 

She was there, directly in front of Sam Smith now, still moving her hips and staring into his face.  He reached out his hand, placing it on her hip.  She stepped forward, a hand on his shoulder.  There was a big dance floor, but they were now dancing by the bar, amongst the crowd that stood waiting to be served.  Jon Wilson was between them and the bar, feeling crowded and pinned.  He turned his back and faced the bar.  The bartender came over.

“Gimme a lager and a shot of whiskey with cherry juice.”

The girl next to him turned.  “Cherry juice?  What’s the matter, you shave your balls this morning?”

Jon Wilson crinkled his eyes and squinted at the girl.  She was by herself.  To Jon Wilson’s dismay, she was quite attractive.  A shame, he thought, I would have much rather called her a cunt and been done with it.

“Yea, this afternoon, actually.  Would you like to see them?”

“Hold them in your hand as you drink that drink,” the girl said. “This way you remind yourself you’re a man.”

Jon Wilson thought, I might bury this bitch in the desert tonight.  No, maybe I’ll bury myself in her instead.  Jon Wilson turned up his beer and thought to himself, making the moment dramatic in his head.  He took down the whiskey with the cherry juice.  Yeah, I’ll plow this chick tonight, he thought.  He turned back to her.

“I see, you’d rather a man who puffs out his chest than one who lives the way he likes,” Jon Wilson said, smiling.  Then he casually said to the girl, “Why don’t you stamp a number on your forehead, order a Miller Lite, and go tug someone off on the dance floor?”

The words sounded harsh out of his mouth, but he knew it was the game she wanted to play.

“Poor baby, you’re not having fun anymore?  Don’t worry, he’ll be back after the song ends.  How was your drink?  Can I get you a Midori Sour now?”

The girl was not wearing a dancing dress, just jeans and a dark blue top.  She had brown hair that was well past her shoulders.  Jon Wilson was enjoying her sarcasm now that the initial onslaught was over.  He looked at her breasts and then up at her face.  She wore makeup on her cheeks.

“What are you drinking?”

She twirled the glass in her hand.  “Vodka soda.”

“I can see that stamp on your forehead now,” Jon Wilson said over the music, his thumb and index finger placed in the shape of an L on his forehead.  “You’d fit right in around here.”

“Don’t tell me about my town.”

“Sweetie, let me tell you something about your town. I’ve been in a different town every night for the past week.  And guess what?  I found you in Cincy, I found you Memphis, and I certainly found and had you in Fort Worth.”

“Well, aren’t you having a swell trip?”

 “Doesn’t it feel strange to know I’ve already met and had you three times?” Jon Wilson laughed as he said it.  It made the girl smile, too.

“Aren’t you going to try to make it four?”

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