All the Ugly and Wonderful Things(33)

A second later she was crying in a stranger’s kitchen.

She turned to leave, but bumped into someone in the doorway. Whoever he was caught her by the arms and said, “Hey, are you okay?”

“I just want to go home. I want to go home,” she said.

Abruptly, “Bungalow Bill” cut out and was replaced by the opening bars of “Another One Bites the Dust” at full volume, for the tenth time that night.

She plunged into the party, tears pouring down her face. If Stacy was there, Lisa couldn’t see her or her zebra-patterned off-the-shoulder blouse. It seemed like everyone had the same tall, frosted hair. Lisa turned a slow circle, scanning the room, until Mr. Quinn touched her elbow and said, “I’ll take you home.”

He held her arm all the way across the gravel drive. Two hours before, the tall strappy sandals had just been silly. Now that Lisa was drunk, high, and crying again, they were dangerous. The car he took her to was boxed in on all sides by other cars. She squeezed the bridge of her nose hard to cut off more tears.

“Damn it. I just want to go home,” she whispered.

“I guess we’re on the bike then.”

He led her out of the maze of cars to a metal garage, where half a dozen motorcycles were parked. Lisa hesitated. She’d ridden on the back of her brother’s cheap little Honda a few times, but this was something else entirely.

“Here.” Mr. Quinn pulled a leather jacket off the back of the bike and held it out for her. “If you really wanna go home, this is it.”

“I do.” She let him help her into the jacket and zip it up to her neck. It was an unexpectedly intimate act from a near stranger, and it hinted at what it might be like putting on a bearskin coat. Heavy, warm, and permeated by a wild, musky smell.

The cold was brutal, but exhilarating, too. She clasped her hands around his waist and curled her fingers against the warmth of his belly, which was only protected from the cold by a thin layer of cotton.

“Where am I taking you?” he said over his shoulder.

“I’m on Grove and Sixth in Powell.”

After that, they rode in silence. Maybe that was typical on a motorcycle, but it unnerved Lisa. She had forgotten about his impenetrable silence. He and his daughter both. Silence and worse was waiting for her at home.

“Can we stop and get a drink or something?” she said, raising her voice to be sure he could hear.

“You haven’t had enough?”

“No, I’m sorry, Mr. Quinn. Just take me home.”

“You know, I’m not really Liam Quinn.”

Lisa stared at the white line whizzing by. Was it a joke?

“Who are you if you’re not Liam Quinn?” she shouted into the rushing wind.

“I’m Jesse Joe Kellen. I work for Liam.”

“Wait. What? What does that mean?”

“I do some work for him. I’m not him. You saw him there. He’s the blond guy. Looks like a movie star. Wears them pointy-toed cowboy boots.”

The hand-kisser who’d offered Lisa a line of meth to snort.

“Do you still want another drink? Last one, this side of Powell.” He slowed the bike as a roadside tavern came into view.

“Yes,” Lisa said. There was probably never going to be enough liquor, but she was willing to try.

The bar was the party once removed. The same people, the same music. As they walked in, the bouncer at the door said, “Hey, Junior. I don’t want no trouble tonight.”

“Just here for a drink,” Mr. Quinn said. Not Mr. Quinn. Lisa didn’t know what to call him.

They sat at the bar and drank old-fashioneds that were long on whiskey and short on sugar. She didn’t care as long as they kept her drunk.

“So, Junior? Jesse Joe?”

“You can call me Kellen.”

“Okay, Kellen. Why would you pretend to be Mr. Quinn?” At least it was something to take her mind off John.

“Somebody has to. Not like Liam or Val is gonna go talk to Wavy’s teacher.”

“But why you?”

It was apparently a much larger question than Lisa realized, because he had to empty his drink and order another one before he could answer.

“Because Wavy’s my responsibility. I take care of her. We take care of each other.”

“Even though you’re not related to her?”

He laughed and drained his drink. “We’re friends is all.”

Lisa looked at him more closely, squinting against the pall of smoke that hung in the bar.

“How old are you?”

“I just turned twenty-four,” he said.

She stared at him, feeling stupid. He wasn’t old enough to be Wavy’s father. He was younger than Lisa. How had she mistaken him for an adult?

They drank another round without talking. He gestured for the bartender to keep them coming.

“What got you so upset tonight?” he said when the next drink came.

“John Lennon was killed on Monday. They shot him out in front of his apartment.” Lisa thought she might finally be drunk enough, because for the first time in days, thinking about it didn’t make her want to bawl her head off.

“Who’s that?”

“John Lennon? The Beatles?”

“Oh. Did you know him?”

“No, but—well, sort of. As a fan. I…”