She set the bottle down with a thump. “Well, pay the man and let’s get out of here, Mr. Jolt Hackson.”
The bartender waved away the bill Holt held out. “Her friends took care of their bill and paid for her last drink. They made me promise to call a taxi for her. She’s pretty wasted.”
“Shit-faced is more like it,” Holt said.
Sharlene laughed and stumbled when she slid off the bar.
Holt hooked an arm around her waist and slipped his fingers through her belt loops. He led her outside where the hot night air rushed to meet them as if someone had opened a giant bake oven in the parking lot.
“Hot, ain’t it? That’s my pink VW Bug over there. Just put me in it and follow me to my hotel, cowboy.” She tried to drag him in that direction.
“You are not driving anywhere, not even out of this lot, Sharlene.”
“I been to Iraq. I could take you in a fight. I’m that good. Don’t let my size fool you,” she said.
Holt grinned. “Where’s your hotel key? I’ll take you there, and you can get a taxi to come get your car in the morning.”
She fumbled in the back pocket of her jeans and brought out a paper envelope to the Super 8 with the room number written on the outside. “If you look that way…” She squinted to the south and tilted her head to one side. “Nope, guess it’s that way…” She turned too quickly and fell into his arms. “There’s that sorry sucker. Do you reckon they moved the sign while me and my friends were in the bar?”
Holt laughed. “Surprising how those things happen when you’ve had too much to drink.”
“I’m not that drunk. I was worse than this when I came home from Iraq. They all came to New York to welcome me home. Did I tell you that I was in Iraq two years? They killed Jonah. Sand was everywhere. Blowing in my eyes and sneaking down my bra. It was everywhere. It was hot like this, only hotter. Take me to my hotel. It’s cool there,” she said.
He put her in the cab of his pickup truck and drove to the Super 8. She was snoring when he parked.
“Hey, wake up, Sharlene; you are home,” he said.
She didn’t move.
“Damn!” he swore as he opened the door and rounded the back end of the truck. He opened the door, and she fell out into his arms but didn’t open her eyes. He carried her like a bride through the front door, across the lobby, and down the hall to the right to her room. It took some maneuvering to get the key out of his shirt pocket without dropping her, but he managed.
He laid her on the bed, removed her boots and denim miniskirt, pulled the comforter up from the side of the bed, and started to cover her when her eyes popped open. “Shhh, if you make a noise they’ll see us. You have to be very quiet. They’re up there but you might not hear them yet. I hate this place. I want to go home where it’s green and there ain’t burned-up trucks and bombed-out buildings.”
“What do you hear, Sharlene?”
“The helicopter blades. They buzz like flies lighting on cow patties. Shhh, they’ll be here soon and we haven’t finished the job. If we don’t do it, the men will be in trouble.”
He sat down on the other side of the bed. She grabbed his arm, looked him right in the eyes, and pulled at his arm. “Get down or they’ll see you. Don’t make a noise. I can’t get you out of here if you talk. Just lie here beside me until they are gone.”
“I’ll be quiet.” He stretched out beside her.
Her eyes snapped shut and she snuggled up to his side. He decided to wait until she was snoring again before he left. As drunk as she was, she might see aliens the next time her eyes opened, and if the hotel owner had her committed, he wouldn’t have a job come Monday morning.
So she’d been in Iraq, had she? Were those the demons that made her get drunk? He thought of his sister and the night she died because of a drunk driver. He fell asleep with his sister on his mind and a strange woman in his arms.
* * *
A sliver of sunshine poured into the room in a long uneven line through a split in the draperies. Sharlene grabbed a pillow and crammed it over her head. She hadn’t had such a hellish hangover since she got home from Iraq. They’d had a party to celebrate her homecoming and they’d really tied one on that night. The next morning her head had been only slightly smaller than a galvanized milk bucket. Her head had throbbed with every beat of her heart and she’d sworn she’d never get drunk again. But there she was in a hotel room with the same damn symptoms.
She needed a glass of tomato juice spiked with an egg and lemon and three or four aspirin. Somehow she didn’t think raw eggs and tomato juice would be on the free continental breakfast bar in the hotel dining room. She peeked out from under the pillow at the clock. The numbers were blurry but it was nine o’clock. Two hours until checkout. That gave her plenty of time for a shower. Maybe warm water would stop her head from pounding like a son of a bitch.
She and her friends had hit four…or was it five bars? She didn’t remember dancing on any tabletops or getting into fights. She checked her knuckles and they were free of bloody scabs. No bruises on her arms or legs. She wiggled but didn’t feel like she’d been kicked or beaten. Either she didn’t start a fight or she won. She frowned and in the fog of the hangover from hell she remembered arguing with a man. Then the helicopters were overhead and she told him that Jonah was dead.
Then they all left and the man brought her to the hotel. She sat up so quickly that her head spun around like she was riding a Tilt-A-Whirl at Six Flags. She was hot and sweaty, barefoot, and her skirt was missing. She was still wearing panties, a T-shirt, and a bra, so evidently the man had put her to bed and left.
The newspaper reporter in her instantly asked for what, when, who, and how. She drew her brow down and remembered the what. She’d been drunk and passed out in his truck. The when involved after all the bars closed. The rest was a blur.
She moaned as she sat up on the edge of the bed and the night came back in foggy detail. Four of her girlfriends who’d served with her in Iraq had come to Weatherford for a reunion weekend. One from Panama City, Florida; one from Chambersburg, Pennsylvania; another from Nashville; and the fourth from Savannah, Georgia. Sharlene could only get away for Sunday so they’d flown into Dallas and saved the best until she arrived. One beer led to another and that led to a pitcher of margaritas and then the tequila shots. She vaguely remembered a tequila sunrise or two in the mix. Her stomach lurched when she stood up, and the room did a couple of lopsided twirls.
She leaned on the dresser until everything was standing upright and her stomach settled down. If she waited for her head to stop pounding, she’d be there until hell froze over or three days past eternity—whichever came first.
She held her head with both hands as she stumbled toward the bathroom. Hangovers had been invented in hell for fools who drank too much. Or maybe the angels developed them. A good hangover would keep more people out of hell than a silver-tongued preacher man ever could.