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Steve pushed his way through the crowd； still carrying his half…finished beer； smelling clove smoke and the dusty musk of thrill…shop clothes； searching for the streamered beacon of Ghost's hat。 He saw black berets； bright dyed hair； pale scalp showing through buzz cuts。 Ghost was nowhere to be found。 〃Fuck it；〃 Steve muttered finally； heading for the men's room。 He couldn't carry the joint around all night。 He guessed he would just have to smoke the whole thing himself。 Life was rough。
He locked the door behind him and dug in his pocket for matches。 FINISH HIGH SCHOOL FOR 50！ the matchbook cover exhorted him。 His first drag filled his lungs with bitter； delicious smoke。
By the time half the joint was gone； Steve had decided he was in dire need of a tattoo。 It would be a grinning skull with black bat wings veined bloodred； and it would have a rose clenched in its teeth； and in the center of the petals the name ANN would be etched in flaming letters。 He would show it to the bitch next time he ran into her。 Then she would know how he really felt about her； and she would die of guilt。
Maybe there was time to drive to Fayetteville tonight。 That was where the tattoo parlors were。 Steve stashed the joint in his pocket and started out of the restroom。 He raised his beer to his mouth and scanned the crowd； looking for Ghost； meaning to get their equipment loaded up and start for Fayetteville。 Instead he saw a girl standing at the bar talking to Terry； a girl with long gold…red hair beneath her vintage 1940s mourning hat； with a tough； pretty face。 A girl who shaped her words with her hands； whose hands were paint…stained and delicately ugly。 Between the forefinger and mid…die finger of her right hand； a Camel cigarette burned。
On the third finger of that same hand Steve saw the dull gleam of a ring。 He couldn't make out the design； but he knew what it was。 A pair of hearts； wrought in silver and turquoise； interlocked。 He had given her that ring； and she still wore it。
Ann had e to see him play tonight。
Steve started to duck back into the men's room in case she turned around。 But then she lifted her arm in a gesture he remembered well； lifting her heavy hank of hair off the back of her neck for a moment。 The lapel of her black suit jacket folded back。 Beneath it she wore a lace tank top； also black。 Steve saw the sideswell of her breast； and above that the dark auburn tuft of her armpit hair。
That had surprised him when he'd first started going out with her； back in their senior year of high school when she was still just Ann Bransby…Smith； the cute redhead in his psychology class。 He had never before gotten laid with a girl who had armpit hair。 It was sort of weird； but it seemed somehow to go with the black turtleneck sweaters she wore and the beret she pulled down over her ears sometimes。
〃Artsy chicks who paint aren't allowed to shave their pits；〃 she'd told him that night。 Steve had only looked up at her…she was haft…straddling him on the couch； her jeans still zipped up but her shirt off and her hair hanging in her face。 He wasn't sure whether she was kidding； and he didn't especially care； since his hand had slipped inside the filmy cup of her bra and her nipple was as hard as a piece of candy beneath his fingers。 A few minutes later he discovered that she perfumed the hair under her arms； and from that moment on； those tufts had not disturbed him in the slightest。
Until now。 That fleeting sight filled him with such a miserable surge of desire and loneliness that he almost spit out his mouthful of beer。 He thought about how fucked up the past month had seemed without her。 Playing wasn't fun anymore； she got into all the songs somehow。 Even drinking wasn't fun often as not he got hung up in a jag of serf…pity； cursing her name； crying in his beer； hurling things she had given him against the walls of his room。 He was sick of working at the Whirling Disc； sick of reading； sick of his dreams。 Only spending time with Ghost seemed to help； but even Ghost couldn't be there all the rime； though Ghost often came padding into Steve's room and sat in the dark with him when Steve couldn't sleep at two in the morning。 Ghost did that； but he couldn't do everything。 He couldn't be Ann； with her smell of paint and tea…rose perfume and Camel smoke； with her weling body。
Steve circled around the bar and approached Ann from behind （From behind； the demon in his mind said wickedly； yeah； I remember that one pretty good； but there were lots of other positions too； and he told it to shut up）。 She was saying something to Terry； who nodded sagely and glanced past her at Steve。 Terry raised one quizzical eyebrow。 Steve shrugged and reached out to touch Ann's shoulder。
At the same moment； R。J。 raised his head and regarded them all with bleary good humor。 〃Hey； Ann！〃 he exclaimed。 〃Hey； Steve！ You guys getting back together or what？〃
Ann's back stiffened。 Her head whipped around； and a red…gold strand lashed across Steve's face。 Her eyes met Steve's and seemed to crack a little。 Out of that fault line spilled all the nights； all their nights。 The wild sweat…slicked ones when nothing short of devouring each other would satiate their hunger。 The quiet beery nights on the front porch of the house； sitting with Ghost； who always knew when to stay up talking past midnight and when to go to bed early。 The nights lying across Steve's bed in the half…darkness of the moonlit window； before the Penthouse centerfold went up； watching life go by and not needing to chase it because they were together and that was enough。
Those nights； and the psychobloody ones when they said things that could not be taken back； when they didn't care what they said。 〃I just can't pete with alcohol； can I？〃 she had asked one bitter night； and he had responded； 〃Fuck no…you're not that good。〃
But that was nothing。
That was nothing pared to the night； the one he couldn't bear to remember； the one he couldn't help remembering in every gory detail。
When he had thrown Ann on the bed and unzipped his pants； he had ceased to be Steve Finn。 Maybe that was a cop…out； but that was how it had felt。 His sense of selfness had deserted him。 The feeling of Ann's body beneath him； bucking and struggling against him； was remote as a figure on a movie screen。 In fact； the whole thing was like a movie； watching a badly faked snuff film might have given him the same sense of mild； free…floating disgust。
The shame and horror at what he had done hadn't hit him until； driving home； he had looked at his hand on the steering wheel and seen the mark of Ann's teeth。 Tiny beads of blood were welling up from the imprint； which circled the base of his thumb。 What had he done to make her bite him that hard？
Get home； his mind had chanted。 Get home； to Ghost。 Just get there and you'll be okay。 He had。 They hadn't talked much； but Ghost had sat up with him until he could sleep。
The next few weeks had dragged by。 He missed her； he ached for her； he hated her； he pictured her making wild sweet love with her schoolteacher boyfriend。 He called her house and hung up twice。 Then one time her father answered； and he worked up his