The dancer laughs and shrugs, moving over to Conner, who happily slides a bill into her bikini bottoms.
Personally, I think he’s a little too handsy, but she doesn’t seem to mind the ass-grabbing and tit motorboating.
All I can do is sigh and drink my beer.
“This is...not my cup of tea,” I tell Paul in between songs.
“Okay, okay,” he says, grinning wildly and very clearly already drunk. “Guys, guys, let’s go down to Magnolia, yeah?”
We all shuffle a few doors down to another club. This one is a dance club, at least, and I go out on the floor for a few songs because I don’t feel like sitting on my ass anymore.
I take a couple of shots to loosen up, and I find a petite woman to dance with. Finally, late in the night, she asks me if I want to go somewhere, and it sort of jars me to some state of semi-sobriety.
“Ah,” I say, stepping back slightly. “I don’t. Um. No, thank you. But I had fun. Dancing.”
She gives me a look mixed with confusion and amusement before heading toward someone more interested in parting with cash.
The lights flash pink and blue across the stage, and the bass thumps so hard I feel it in my chest. My head’s spinning, the alcohol thick in my veins.
I stumble off the floor, dodging a server carrying a tray of shots, and Connor catches my arm. “Dude, what the fuck are you doing? Go get laid already.”
I put up a hand. “Nah. I’m good, man. Gonna walk back to my car and sober up.”
He stares at me as if I’ve just spoken in tongues. “Jesus fuck,” he mutters, rubbing a hand over his face. “You’re unbelievable. Most guys dream of nights like this, and you’re out here acting like you’re eighty.”
I smirk faintly. “Maybe I’ve just lived a harder eighty than most.”
Connor laughs, loud and genuine, but I can tell he doesn’t get it. He never will.
I shrug, back out of the booth, and make for the bathroom. Take a piss. Splash water on my face. Try to wash off the night.
Outside, the air’s cool, Chicago’s version of a wake-up call. The breeze cuts through the leftover heat from the club, helping me feel halfway human again.
A pizza truck’s parked a block away, the smell of garlic and burnt cheese floating through the air. I grab a slice of pizza and a bottle of water, figuring carbs and grease will do more good than another drink.
I eat standing on the curb, watching the city breathe. The buzz fades, and with it, the noise in my head.
If I’m still not sober by the time I hit the garage, I’ll crash in the car—no sense adding to the shit show by driving drunk.
As I walk, my mind starts drifting to places I swore I’d stopped visiting.
To olive skin and wild, dark curls.
To sky-blue eyes and a perfect, pink mouth.
We met as kids. Friends first.
Then more.
We had a plan.
And then she just... left.
No goodbye. No explanation. Just gone.
And my heart was fucking shattered.
I drag a hand down my face.
