It’s then the bar opens and patrons stream in.
That’s when the shit show begins.
Chapter12
Men Are A Nightmare
GOLDIE
I'm busy organizing the liqueurs when a suffocatingly sweet aroma suddenly envelops me. It's so cloying that I have to stop myself from coughing. As I straighten up, a tall man with disheveled blonde hair comes into focus, an ornate, antique perfume bottle in his hand.
"I thought you might like this," he says, leaning in too close for comfort, his voice dripping with an unsettling sweetness. He spritzes the air around us generously, coating me in the scent. "It's called ‘Goldie’s Elixir’. Made it just for you.”
While part of me is touched by his effort, the reality of being trapped in a cloud of this invasive scent overwhelms any trace of flattery. I'm trapped in this invasive aroma; it's on my clothes, in my hair. It feels violating. His gesture feels grotesquely intimate, yet he's a stranger. Still, I offer him a weak smile, my mouth dry, trying to hide my discomfort.
A few female patrons, witnessing the bizarre exchange, whisper amongst themselves. A hot rush of embarrassment paints my cheeks.
Their glances my way are a mix of pity and disdain. One with a snide tone loud enough for me to hear remarks, “Some people will do anything for attention."
Cinder swoops in. "Hey, this bar has its own signature scent. It's called ‘Respecting Personal Boundaries’." Her deadpan expression turns to a threatening glower. “You should try it.”
His face flushes, as she chases him off. I take a moment to catch my breath—i.e. cough my lungs out.
The bearded man sitting at the bar witnessing the whole show, quietly nurses his same drink. Our eyes meet occasionally, and he always offers a small smile. My gut begins to churn nervously when he slides a small velvet box across the counter.
Opening it, I'm met with the unsettling sight of a braided lock of hair, light and dark. "A token," he murmurs, his gaze intense. "Our hair intertwined. Forever."
Pure horror snakes through me with slithery scales that wrap around my neck.
Two women at the bar watch, and I clearly hear one say, “What do you think she let him do to her to get that kind of devotion?”
“Probably use the back door,” the other one laughs meanly.
My mouth goes dry, but I force a polite smile for the bearded man. "Where… did you get this?" I manage to ask through clenched teeth, though I'm already dreading the answer.
"I cut off a piece when you weren’t looking," he replies with a sparkle in his eye. As if he’s the most clever boy on the school yard.
Every instinct screams to run away. Keeping my voice steady, I excuse myself. Within minutes, Rap directs the bouncers to quietly escort the man out of the bar.
Midway through the night, the atmosphere shifts dramatically. The lights dip, casting long shadows across the room, drawing an anticipatory hush over the crowd. As the familiar chords of an 80s ballad play, a sudden tightness grips my chest, a premonition of something profoundly embarrassing.
A man in a glaringly bright, glittering suit appears on stage. His eyes are locked on me. The obnoxious gleam of a boombox held high over his head signals the start of what can only be described as a spectacle. My pulse quickens, dread rising like bile in my throat, as he begins his serenade.
My stomach drops, twisting into tight knots. His voice, off-key and overly passionate, belts out ridiculous verses, with forced rhymes all centered around my name. With each new line, blood rushes to my face, the searing heat of unwanted attention singeing my skin. The laughter and whispers around me sound amplifies, a cacophony of judgment.
But what's worse are the women at the bar. Their voices, dripping with contempt, cut through the awkward giggles and chatter. “Slut, slut, slut!” they chant, their eyes gleaming with cruel satisfaction. My heart feels like it's being squeezed, each chant a vise tightening around it.
I'm paralyzed, trapped in this spotlight of mockery and judgment. The weight of all those eyes on me feels like chains, heavy and restricting. An icy sweat breaks on the nape of my neck, my palms clammy, and I have to suppress the urge to run, to hide, to escape this nightmare.
Then, as if this spectacle wasn't harrowing enough, our emcee, Geanie, makes his dramatic move. With the spotlight following his every move, he tries to wrestle the mic away, leading to a chaotic, slapstick battle. It's a whirlwind of flying glitter, swiping hands, and exaggerated tumbles, each moment only increasing my profound mortification.
The situation crescendos into utter chaos until the bouncers finally step in. But the damage is done. I'm left raw and exposed, the weight of the night pressing down on me, the echoes of laughter and jeers ringing in my ears.
But then something far worse happens. The face making its way through the crowd has my nerves on edge, like teeth on tinfoil. It’s my ex-boyfriend, Lawrence.
High cheekbones and androgynous good looks. His blond hair is slicked back with gel, and the sleeves are rolled up on his light pink button-down shirt. His slacks probably cost more than an entire month’s rent at the apartment Cinder and I shared. Daddy’s money. He’s not particularly tall, but he has a compact frame from working out.
“Hey, baby girl,” he croons, hands in his pockets.
