“Let’s stay, Chrissie,” he breathes into my ear.

He is using that voice he uses. The velvet seduction. The voice he uses to get me to do what he wants me to do. For some reason, he doesn’t want me going on the dysfunctional outing tonight.

I tip my head back. “No, Alan, you are not using me as an excuse to bail on them. I don’t want them thinking I’m some uptight bitch who ruins everyone’s fun.”

He sets me back on my feet. He is studying me again and his eyes are black and totally unrevealing. “Fuck what they think, Chrissie. I think we should stay behind.”

He stares at me. God, he can be so frustrating at times. If he has something to say, why doesn’t he just say it?

He opens my door and I drop into my seat. I can see that he doesn’t want to go, but I climb into my seat and we are going.

The car is strangely quiet as we drive. After the loudness of the house, it is very eerie. Alan doesn’t turn on music, and even the Rowans aren’t bickering.

The roads are narrow, lined with trees, and without street lamps. Without the mountains and the ocean, I can never tell what direction I’m going. Are we going north, south, east or west? I stare out the window into the smothering darkness. I don’t know. I can’t feel the direction. It is an unexpectedly disturbing thing.

The rest of the dysfunctional are at the bar by the time we get there, their pretty line of fancy cars tucked into a lot full of less spectacular vehicles. As we pull into a gravel parking space, I look around for something to give an indication as to what amusement this place could hold for them. It is rustic and tucked in a thicket of trees, and I have a feeling we’re more likely to find NRA members than the rocker set here.

But this is Alan’s choice. Alan’s favorite place at the lake. I wonder what he likes here.

Linda is pushing at the back of my seat, and I climb out of the car before Alan can open my door. She springs out of the car and agitatedly begins to adjust her clothing.

Linda shakes in head in irritation. “I hate that backseat.”

Len gives his wife a roguish grin. “You didn’t last week, love.”

“Oh, shut up, Len.”

I laugh as the Rowans move ahead of us. Their bickering is part of them. I have a strange feeling they are going to be the only normal, the only constant tonight.

Alan gives me a small smile as he pulls back the heavy wood doors, and I step into a dim, smoky tomb and feel a rush of dread. The bar is packed, pulsing and loud. But this is not a trendy nightspot for the fashionable off on holiday from the city. This is a redneck bar full of locals.

The attention of the entire establishment is trained on us. The guys root out a space in the far end of the bar, away from the stage but near the dancing. They are dragging two tables and putting the chairs together for us.

Linda snakes her arm around my waist and guides me deeper into the room. “Don’t worry, Chrissie. They know us here and the UK has a peace treaty with the Beverly Hillbillies. But if the room explodes, run. Our job is to stay clear and bail them out in the morning.”

I laugh as Linda sinks into her chair and gestures for the waitress. Alan waits for me to sit and I scoot over in between him and Linda.

“What do you want to drink?” Linda asks.

“What are you drinking?”

“Tequila shooters with a beer chaser.”

I look up at the girl. “I’ll have the same.”

Alan is watching me and somehow staying engaged in the rapid laughter and chatter around the table. The waitress returns with her heavily burdened tray.

Linda does a little cheers! motion with her shooter at me. “Pound it, Chrissie.”

I copy her move. I bite my lemon, down the shot and then take a fast gulp of beer. Everyone laughs. Alan is watching me quizzically.

“Two more,” Linda shouts in that confident way at the retreating waitress. She smiles at me. “We need to go shopping when we are back in New York. We’re out on the road in two weeks, Chrissie, and you’ll need to get everything.”

Out on the road. Alan is going back on tour in two weeks. I hate that Linda assumes, in her all-knowing way, that I’ll be leaving with them.

When the band breaks, the guys move to the stage. They all talk and there is a familiarity that tells me they know each other and that they’ve dropped in to play live to get the edge here before.

The waitress returns, and in a moment I have another shooter.

“Drink now, Chrissie.”

I do it simultaneously with Linda and this time the tequila doesn’t burn. I’m glad it’s rushing into my stomach and soon my veins.

I lean into Linda. “I want to dance.”

She takes a deep gulp of her beer. “The UK should be playing soon. We’ll need to go find some redneck toys.”

Redneck toys? I laugh. Linda has my hand and she is tugging me from my seat. I feel slightly wobbly as I stand. God, how could two shots of tequila make me feel this way?

At the edge of the dance floor I stare.

Linda laughs. “Don’t worry, Chrissie. The redneck toys will come to us. You look fucking hot tonight.”

Blackpoll starts to play, and we are on the packed floor dancing with two college-type guys who look as out of place here as I do. There is something boyish and pleasantly good natured about my partner. For some reason, he makes me think of Neil and that crazy night at Peppers, and Jesse Harris in the kitchen.

He can’t be more than twenty.

Linda’s college dude has that bad-boy air about him, the kind of look Rene calls “axe-murderer,” but next to Linda he looks harmless and overwhelmed. Linda doesn’t dance as if she’s married, and her young admirer is very into it and very overt in the use of his body.

I look up at my sweet-fresh-faced guy. “You come here often?”

He laughs. “No. We drove down from Cornell for the weekend. I saw you come in with the band. Which one is yours?”

I can tell by how he says it that he knows who they are. But of course, he would. This is a college age guy.

“Alan Manzone.”

He looks impressed.

“For tonight,” I add.

Shit, why did I say that? It makes me sound a little too slutty, a little too available, and to my disappointment, a little childishly petty. He’s all smiles, since I just suggested an opening that doesn’t exist. There is no opening with me for this guy. I should never have let him think it.

“Are you OK?”

I shake my head.

“Do you want some air?”

I look around the bar for Linda. She is across the dance floor, beneath the stage, and her penetrating laugh eclipses the loudness of the music.

I take my college guy’s hand and pull him with me out the front door. The cold air hits me like a blast and I feel numb, out of my body, even though every part of me is anxiously churning.

I turn, leaning against the front rail, to find my Cornell boy watching me.

“Are you OK?”

“Stop asking me that,” I snap, not at all reasonably. Shit, I don’t want to freak out right here and I don’t know what’s going on inside of me.

He is still, unsure, studying my face in that way guys do when they think there is something wrong with a girl.

“I didn’t mean to piss you off,” he says cautiously.

“I’m not pissed off at you.”

I lean into him and join my mouth with his. I don’t know why I do it. Maybe I just want to know how it will feel to kiss someone other than Alan. His mouth moves on mine, deepening the kiss, a pleasant seduction, and I can feel that he is into this. I feel nothing.

I should stop this… the front door swings open, hitting the wall like an explosion. I hear it before I see and understand: Alan rips the boy from my arms and hits him. The guy crumples to the ground like a collapsing house of cards and, in horror, I realize this is my fault.

I try to check and see if he’s OK, but Alan harshly grabs my arm. He drags me through the parking lot to the far side where it is dark and our car is parked.