"So why are you really here?" Shakespeare says. He's got her in his bedroom, which seems to take up an entire floor. She's still not sure how he managed this. He's lying back in the bed, which is canopied in deep blue curtains.
"I'm not really here," Des says. She's on the floor, leaning against a desk, wearing a cowboy hat. He told her she should really be drinking whiskey with that getup, and now she is. Each sip is like a smack to the face, and, following the metaphor, her cheeks are getting red and warm.
"That's a shame. Somebody looks damned good in my hat. In fact, I think my wife's got some boots in the closet over there that might complete the ensemble." He nasalizes the vowel.
"Whoa, there, Billy. Hold your horses."
He laughs his big laugh, big enough to fill the room. She grins. He makes her feel tiny. He could pluck her up and slip her into his pocket.
A dull rhythm starts to bang out from somewhere. Des thinks of a washer and dryer, then figures it must be the dance floor, then realizes it's someone fucking in a nearby room. Maybe Sarah. A woman begins to scream, in phase with the thumping.
Her hands go slippery with sweat. Shakespeare pops up without a word, closes the door, and kneels down to fiddle with a sound system. Some ridiculously old country song comes on and it's just the two of them again.
"Thank you," she whispers.
"Pleasure," he says and picks her hat off.
"Hey!" He's adjusting it on himself in the mirror. His chin has a pronounced cleft, capping his thick jaw. This is basic flirting, some rhythm of the species. Cavemen were teasing cavewomen when they wanted sex. And cavewoman played along and squealed, "Hey!" This is essentially the moment where she says yes or no.
"Answer my question," he says. He sits down on the floor next to her, lays out his long legs. "Come on," he says, running a hand along her.
"What was the question?"
"What are you really doin' here?"
"I told you."
"You did. And I didn't and don't believe you. Hence,
really
."
"I just want money." She shrugs.
He snorts and smiles. Yanks open a drawer, pops out a checkbook and a pen. Des watches him write a forty thousand dollar check.
"Jimenez," she says.
"Mhmm," he says, slashing his signature across. "Well, here you are, dahlin'. Now, if you're tellin' the truth, I imagine this should be plenty to pay off whatever credit card debt you've gotten yourself, or buy as many shoes as you want, or whatever it is women suck money out of men for. And seeing as you're so uncomfortable here, I don't imagine I'll see you again. But..."
He gets close now. The smell of cigarettes and Scotch settle around them.
"If I'm right, and I fancy I am, and it ain't about the money at all, then even if I give you this check, I'll run into you at another party before long."
Des's heart's reacting, but she's being good-natured about it, does everything she's supposed to do—what her body's telling her to. She sinks an incisor into her lower lip and grins. "I suppose you'll just have to give me the check if you want to find out."
Shakespeare tousles her hair. "You're a little cunt, you know that." She laughs and punches his chest.
