Free Hair of the Bitch - A Twisted Suspense Thriller by Jeff Menapace Page A

won’t it? )
    “The fuck are you talking about?”
    “ What? ”
    I turned. Two urinals down, a big dude, bigger than me, was taking a piss and glaring my way.
    “Sorry, man,” I slurred. “Was thinking out loud.”
    He didn’t respond. Just zipped up, washed his hands, and muttered something like “drunk fuck” before leaving.
     
    * * *
     
    I returned from the bathroom to find Paul alone at the table. The girls were gone.
    “Where’s Stacy?” I asked, although it probably came out more like, “Werztacy?”
    “She left,” he said. “They all left.”
    “ What? Why?”
    “You tell me.” His reply was blunt, his face accusatory but calm.
    “I don’t know.” I could feel my face getting hot with shame.
    “You don’t remember what you said?”
    My face was on fire now. Ears burning. Hot flashes. Fewer words are so debilitating to the insecure drunk than: Do you remember what you did?
    I started rambling like a guilty fool. “I wasn’t being crude. She was hitting on me too. Was it her friend? She was a bitch. Fuck her. I didn’t do anything.”
    Paul said: “What’s all this shit about getting off on torturing people?”
    I couldn’t stop my mouth from falling open. I felt the blood leaving my face. “What are you talking about?” I managed.
    “Karen said you asked her if she got off to people being tortured.”
    I swallowed. My Adam’s apple felt huge, like a real apple. “I did?”
    “Yeah,” he said, eyes studying me. “It freaked her out. It freaked them all out. Why’d you ask her that, man?”
    I tried to smile. “I don’t know; I was probably just fucking around, man. You know me.”
    “Yeah, I do. But that’s a pretty fucked-up thing to say—even for you.What aren’t you telling me?”
    “Nothing, brother, I swear. I just…I fucked up I guess. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to ruin your chances with Stacy.”
    “Forget her, man. I can meet a Stacy anytime. What I’m worried about is you. You’ve been off all night.”
    I reached down and squeezed the wound on my calf until I could no longer stand it. I played it off as though I was fixing my sock.
    “I’m fine, man,” I said, standing upright, swaying. “Really, I am. I swear. I have no idea why I said that shit.”
    Paul got up from the table, studied me some more. He didn’t look entirely convinced.
    I grabbed his shoulder, squeezed it, tried another smile. “Look, I’m hammered, okay? I just…I just need to go home, that’s all.”
    “I’ll drive you,” he said. “You can leave your car here and get it later.”
    This seemed like a great plan—until I remembered work.
    “I can’t do that; I’ve got work tomorrow.”
    “Worry about that tomorrow,” he said, allowing himself a little smirk for throwing my earlier words back in my face.
    I shoved him and told him to fuck off. He laughed and it was like music. I let out a long sigh.
    “So your boss never called you tonight?” he asked as we headed for the exit.
    “No,” I said. “Guess she’ll call tomorrow.”
     

16
    What the hell is that? The Bee Gees? Why do I hear the Bee Gees? Okay…the fog is clearing, and…I’m in bed. My bed. Hung-over. The Bee Gees are playing on my clock radio. Please make it stop. I loved Saturday Night Fever and all, but fuck me, please make it stop.
    A good slap on the snooze takes care of things. Back to sleep.
    Sonny and Cher?Slap.
    John Denver?What fucking station did I leave this on? Slap.
    Huh? An actual alarm now? No more music? How did that happen? Slap. Slap. Slap. Slap! Slap! Slap!! Slap!!! What the fuck? Why won’t it shut—? ohhhh….shit.. .
    I flicked open my cell, tried to sound sick. “Hello?”
    “Calvin? It’s Margaret. Your client’s here. Where are you ?”
    “Oh geez, Margaret, I’m so sorry. I’ve been up sick all night. I must have slept right through my alarm.”
    Sounded good, but what if someone at work saw me out last night? Did I see anyone from work at the bar? Think. No—I’m