The bass hit me before I even stepped inside clubLate Night. The place was already shoulder-to-shoulder, bodies pressed tight, perfume clashing with sweat, hookah smoke thick enough to hang in the air.
I was here to live, whatever that meant, not for trouble. I just wanted a drink, a laugh, maybe a song or two to shake off the weight of the last few weeks. But trouble had a way of finding me, no matter how low I kept my head.
“Sis, loosen up!” Tessa yelled over the music and pulled me straight toward the bar, already on a mission. The bartender leaned in, and Tessa didn’t miss a beat. “Two Casamigos shots and two margaritas. Heavy on the lime.”
I groaned. “Tessa.”
“Nope. No excuses.” She tapped her long nails on the bar like a gavel. “You’re off for two whole days. You’re single. You’re fine. We’re drinking.”
The shots landed in front of us, salt on the rim, limes on the side.
“To letting loose,” Tessa said, raising hers. I smirked.
“I’m loose.”
We clinked and knocked them back. Tequila burned its way down but left that good warmth behind, the kind that makes your shoulders drop. By the time our margaritas showed up, I was already lighter.
Two drinks in, the dance floor swallowed us whole. DJ Yahdy Sensei ran through trap, Afrobeats, then slid into old-school R&B, and the crowd moved like one big wave. Tessa and I wound our way through, hips swaying, hands in the air, voices loud as we sang along.
For the first time in weeks, I laughed without thinking, body shaking off tension I didn’t even know I’d been holding. And still—underneath all the bass and lights—I felt it. That quiet pull. Like eyes were on me, but it wasn’t the usual feeling. This feeling felt creepy. I looked to my left, and the man was staring, not pretending either.
I’d noticed him earlier, leaning against the bar when we first walked in. Then again, when we moved to the dance floor. He cut through the crowd a little too close every time. Same face, same smirk, same energy I knew too well.
I tried to ignore it, told myself I was imagining the way his gaze stuck to me all night. But the longer we danced, the more it felt as if he was waiting to bait me, waiting for a crack to slide through.
Tessa leaned in close. “One more round?”
“I don’t know, Tess. It’s getting packed in here.”
One thing we knew to recognize was a fire hazard.
“It’s still early, friend. Two more songs, please.”
“Fine.”
The record switched to F. U. C. K. by Victoria Monét, and I swayed, lip-synching every word, letting the bass run through me. It felt good—until a tug at my elbow snapped me out of it.
“Excuse you,” I said, pulling back.
“I know you…” His eyes ran me down like I was property.
I snatched my arm free. “Nope. Never seen you before.”
“You that fine ass fire bitch that be rescuing niggas and shit.” He licked his lips, proud of himself, like that line was supposed to work. “I got a pole you can slide down.”
“You can’t be that damn dumb,” Tessa cut in, rolling her eyes.
“Dumb?” he barked, squaring up because she hit a nerve.
“Yeah, dumb. Or are you deaf too?”
That’s when it came, the shift I’d seen a thousand times. The one that always follows rejection. Men only had two settings: get physical or cut deep with a sexual insult. Either way, it was predictable as hell and bound to get him beaten up by two women.
“Ain’t nobody checking for your clout-chasing ass,” he spat, his face twisted. “All the nigga know you probably a hoe anyway. Everyone probably already had it.”
Same script. Different man.
“You’re momma’s the hoe, and had she been a better one, we wouldn’t be talking.”
