“She was never one of those whiny bitches,” Anthony said.

“She was always cheerful. And, like, enthusiastic, even if she had a bad day,” George said.

“Yeah,” Anthony said. “She was always happy to fuck me. Like she wanted to. Remember that anal scene? The lube spilled and her hands kept slipping.”

A couple of them laughed, apparently having forgotten their concerns about the identity of Danielle’s murderer. Maybe it was one of them.

“And plus,” Anthony said, “she seriously, genuinely loved to fuck. She loved to suck cock.”

“Yeah, dude,” George said. They high-fived.

“What a fucking waste,” Anthony said, shaking his head. He looked up, unfocused, and I saw he was wildly drunk. He threw his arms open, sloshing beer on the dirt. “Now who’s left?” he yelled. “Who’ve we got now? Just a bunch of fucking cunts!”

He stopped abruptly when his gaze registered Audrey. She trembled beside me like a hunting dog.

“You fuckcock,” she said, her voice hoarse and whispery, full of pain.

Quiet came on like a thing fallen from the sky, in which we could hear the classic rock station playing the Eagles, Audrey panting in anger, and our feet shuffling in the dirt, uncertain. Anthony raised his hands to ward her off.

“Audrey,” Brian said. “Audrey, calm down. We’re gonna miss her, is all. Right, guys? Nobody was close to her like you, we know that.”

“Yeah,” Anthony said. “None of us had to use a strap-on.” He grabbed his crotch and the rest of them giggled anxiously.

Brandon moved in with a quick blow to Anthony’s face. The thud of his fist echoed. Brandon hit him twice more before anyone had a chance to react. You could see the punches hurt; the last one knocked Anthony into the person behind him, a grizzled lady with a lot of cleavage showing. She said, “Careful, darlin’,” in a smoker’s rumble. Her man shoved Anthony and shouted. In an instant three of his buddies, big middle-aged bikers, were yelling and pushing into our circle. More people gathered at the periphery of their knot.

I couldn’t see much, only a globe of dust and shouting. Beer splashed on the dirt and turned to mud, covered in bootprints. The bartender and one of the regulars came over and separated the men, but the fight would’ve died down anyway. It was obvious none of them had the stamina. Audrey handed me her beer.

“Help me finish this,” she said. “Let’s get out of here.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

Audrey unlocked a red Honda Civic parked on the street. “You can throw that shit in the back,” she said. I shoved aside magazines, clothes, shoes, and CDs, and sat. She steered into traffic on Alabama.

“How can you stand those guys?” I said.

“I hate them.”

“I don’t blame you. Jesus. What assholes.”

“Danielle hated them, too. She was just really good at separating that from work. She was way better at it than me.”

“Oh, god,” I said, realizing. “You have to have sex with them, don’t you.”