Read Online Robin and Ruby by K. M. Soehnlein - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: K. M. Soehnlein
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stands up and blocks the TV.
“No more news. It’s Saturday night. We should get out of the house. Do you feel like driving?”
“I got a parking spot right out front.”
“Well, I have an idea. This club. It’s called Revival.”
“What kind of music?”
“New wave mostly.”
George curls his nose. “I can’t dance to that. And what if your ID doesn’t get you in?”
“If it doesn’t work out, we don’t have to stay.”
He doesn’t tell George until they’re well on their way why he wants to go there. “Aw, man,” George says, and slaps his hand on the steering wheel.
“Sorry,” Robin says. “I need to do this. I’ll make it up to you.”
George falls silent, but he doesn’t turn the car around.
He drives a two-tone Cadillac Seville, gray with a black roof, a late seventies model with a short, slanted trunk. His parents passed it on to him when he moved to Philadelphia, and it’s already been broken into twice this summer. The hood ornament and the hubcaps have all been stolen, and the passenger side window no longer rolls down. George pulls up to a fire hydrant across the street from the club, hazards flashing. Robin checks out the crowd lined up behind a velvet rope stretched between two classical columns. Everyone’s in some kind of black and white getup, with jagged, asymmetrical haircuts, and heavy black boots. Ruby and Calvin would blend right in. “Are we really in Philadelphia?” Robin asks.
“Those folks are so pale, we could be in Boston.”
“That’s just face powder,” Robin says.
“I wasn’t talking about their makeup.”
“There are black people in line,” Robin says.
“And they’ll be waiting out there all night. All four of ’em.”
“Or they’ll be let in first to make the club more interesting.”
“I hope they brought more than one form of ID.”
Maybe this was a bad idea. Robin can usually talk his way into a gay bar, but a trendy place like this? His fake ID might not pass inspection; he hates that at twenty, it’s legal for him to drink in New York, but not in Pennsylvania. The fact that George didn’t bother to dress up won’t help get them past the doorman. He’s wearing aqua blue medical scrubs and a T-shirt that reads EMBARGO SOUTH AFRICA , NOT NICARAGUA , like an undergrad going to breakfast in the dining hall.
“Tell you what,” Robin says. “I’ll do a lap through the parking lot. If I see Peter’s car, we’ll stay. If not, let’s just go to the package store, and we’ll drown our sorrows at home.”
“Even if you find him, you’re just going to piss him off.”
“No, he’ll talk to me. Peter’s a talker.”
“A bullshitter is what he is.”
“Wait here for me, OK?”
Robin gets out of the car and makes his way past the parking lot attendant, who eyes him silently. Robin was right to wear black shoes, black trousers, and a white T-shirt with the sleeves ripped off, the most “new wave” stuff he owns. The sign says parking is four dollars; Peter wouldn’t have paid that much. Robin walks to the far side of the lot, to an alley where cars are parked tightly together. He takes a few steps along the sidewalk, and then he spots Peter’s Honda at the curb.
Indecision takes hold: Maybe instead of going into the club, he could leave a note. A note on the windshield, so he knows you’re serious about wanting to see him tomorrow, so he doesn’t wake up and think he can blow you off.
A movement inside the Honda catches his eye. There’s someone in the driver’s seat. And maybe someone on the passenger’s side as well.
Robin slides stealthily alongside the parked cars, craning his neck for a clear view through the hatch. In the streetlight filtering into the car, he can definitely make out Peter. The other person sits facing Peter, in profile. A younger guy: glowing skin, light-colored hair, sharp cheekbone. The upturned collar of a polo shirt frames the back of his neck. Peter seems to be talking to him. Why does
“No more news. It’s Saturday night. We should get out of the house. Do you feel like driving?”
“I got a parking spot right out front.”
“Well, I have an idea. This club. It’s called Revival.”
“What kind of music?”
“New wave mostly.”
George curls his nose. “I can’t dance to that. And what if your ID doesn’t get you in?”
“If it doesn’t work out, we don’t have to stay.”
He doesn’t tell George until they’re well on their way why he wants to go there. “Aw, man,” George says, and slaps his hand on the steering wheel.
“Sorry,” Robin says. “I need to do this. I’ll make it up to you.”
George falls silent, but he doesn’t turn the car around.
He drives a two-tone Cadillac Seville, gray with a black roof, a late seventies model with a short, slanted trunk. His parents passed it on to him when he moved to Philadelphia, and it’s already been broken into twice this summer. The hood ornament and the hubcaps have all been stolen, and the passenger side window no longer rolls down. George pulls up to a fire hydrant across the street from the club, hazards flashing. Robin checks out the crowd lined up behind a velvet rope stretched between two classical columns. Everyone’s in some kind of black and white getup, with jagged, asymmetrical haircuts, and heavy black boots. Ruby and Calvin would blend right in. “Are we really in Philadelphia?” Robin asks.
“Those folks are so pale, we could be in Boston.”
“That’s just face powder,” Robin says.
“I wasn’t talking about their makeup.”
“There are black people in line,” Robin says.
“And they’ll be waiting out there all night. All four of ’em.”
“Or they’ll be let in first to make the club more interesting.”
“I hope they brought more than one form of ID.”
Maybe this was a bad idea. Robin can usually talk his way into a gay bar, but a trendy place like this? His fake ID might not pass inspection; he hates that at twenty, it’s legal for him to drink in New York, but not in Pennsylvania. The fact that George didn’t bother to dress up won’t help get them past the doorman. He’s wearing aqua blue medical scrubs and a T-shirt that reads EMBARGO SOUTH AFRICA , NOT NICARAGUA , like an undergrad going to breakfast in the dining hall.
“Tell you what,” Robin says. “I’ll do a lap through the parking lot. If I see Peter’s car, we’ll stay. If not, let’s just go to the package store, and we’ll drown our sorrows at home.”
“Even if you find him, you’re just going to piss him off.”
“No, he’ll talk to me. Peter’s a talker.”
“A bullshitter is what he is.”
“Wait here for me, OK?”
Robin gets out of the car and makes his way past the parking lot attendant, who eyes him silently. Robin was right to wear black shoes, black trousers, and a white T-shirt with the sleeves ripped off, the most “new wave” stuff he owns. The sign says parking is four dollars; Peter wouldn’t have paid that much. Robin walks to the far side of the lot, to an alley where cars are parked tightly together. He takes a few steps along the sidewalk, and then he spots Peter’s Honda at the curb.
Indecision takes hold: Maybe instead of going into the club, he could leave a note. A note on the windshield, so he knows you’re serious about wanting to see him tomorrow, so he doesn’t wake up and think he can blow you off.
A movement inside the Honda catches his eye. There’s someone in the driver’s seat. And maybe someone on the passenger’s side as well.
Robin slides stealthily alongside the parked cars, craning his neck for a clear view through the hatch. In the streetlight filtering into the car, he can definitely make out Peter. The other person sits facing Peter, in profile. A younger guy: glowing skin, light-colored hair, sharp cheekbone. The upturned collar of a polo shirt frames the back of his neck. Peter seems to be talking to him. Why does
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