Hot Little Hands by Abigail Ulman Read Free Book Online Page A

the drink,” I say, sipping it. He doesn’t answer me. “What’s going on?”
    “Nothing,” he says. “Who’s that guy?”
    “Some kid. College kid.”
    “And you feel perfectly okay about flirting with him while I’m over there making you a beverage?”
    “I would feel okay about that, if that’s what I was doing.”
    “There are plenty of other coffee shops in San Francisco you can go to.”
    “Why don’t you work in one of them, then?”
    “Are you kidding? This is my workplace. And you’re ruining it for me, emotionally. Would you mind leaving now? I have stuff to do.”
    “Fine,” I say.
    “Fine.”
    —
    Halfway down the block, I run into Andrew. He’s got his skateboard under his arm and he’s talking on his phone. “Wait one second,” he says to the person he’s speaking to. He holds his phone facedown on his chest and asks me, “So when are we gonna go on a date?”
    “We’re not,” I tell him. “You’re my roommate.”
    “Does that mean Sophie’s off-limits, too?”
    When I get to Amnesia, Lars is sitting on the edge of the stage, bent over with his face in his hands. “Dude,” I say, sitting next to him. “What a shitty week.” It’s only then that I notice his ear is all scraped up and bloody. When he looks at me, I see he has a black eye, and a big gash at his hairline. There’s a hole in his T-shirt the size of a pancake.
    “Bike accident,” he says.
    “Whoa,” I say.
    “Beer,” he says.
    “Got it.”
    The bartender is a tall redhead guy with a face that’s more sideburns than skin, and a mustache that would make Dalí swoon. He nods when I order, and pulls me a pint.
    “Seven bucks,” he says, placing it in front of me.
    “I’m in the band,” I say.
    “I know. Seven bucks.”
    “Don’t we get drink tickets?”
    “Last time you were in here, you made out with my girlfriend. That’ll be seven bucks.”
    “Fine.” I get out the money and put it on the bar. “I’m not tipping, though.” He shrugs and takes the bills. I pick up the drink and say, “Why are you being so weird about it? It’s girl-on-girl. Aren’t guys supposed to be into that?”
    “This isn’t fucking Los Angeles,” he says.
    I go back to the stage and give the glass to Lars, who takes a couple of sips and then chugs the rest down. He leans his head on my shoulder. “I was turning left, man, and this guy in a taxi slammed straight into me.”
    “Did he have right-of-way?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Did you have lights on?”
    “No.”
    “That bastard.”
    “I think I may have chipped a molar.”
    “I’m pregnant.”
    “Man.” He sits up and glares at me. “You’re always one-upping me.”
    The bar is almost empty, but an hour after we’ve sound-checked, there are about twenty people there; at least four of them have come to see us. Lars has graduated to a bottle of Knob Creek I bought at the corner store across the street. He takes a slug as we climb onto the stage, then passes it to me. I take it with my non-tambourine hand and hold it up at the bartender in a gesture of cheers. He sticks up his middle finger.
    “Hey, thanks for coming out tonight. We’re Betty Cooper’s Revenge,” says Lars, who has, I now realize, developed a bit of a lisp from the accident. “I fell off my bicycle today and Claire is pregnant. Now you’re all caught up. Let’s play some tunes.”
    He starts in with the opening chords of “Mood Ring.”
    “If any of you record this and put it online,” I say into my microphone, “I will track you down and—add you to our email list.” Then I put the bottle to my lips and drink.
    “Mmm, baby loves bourbon,” Lars says, smirking at me.
    “He’s a lousy lay, ladies,” I say. “Believe me, I tried him out. And that was before the concussion. One. Two. A-one two—” I hit the tambourine hard against my palm and shake it.
    “Honey baby, you’re a tall drink of water,”
Lars sings.
“I’m kind of regretting that restraining order.”
His