Nodding, I glide an apple slice off the toothpick and take a bite. Tonight is ’90s rock night in the main room. One of my favorites. While I enjoy the gothic scene, I don’t always jive with the harder music. This one has adopted the atmosphere while incorporating a more varied lineup. Last night featured classic rock—primarily hits from the ’70s—another favorite. I got to sing the Eagles, Fleetwood Mac, and Lynyrd Skynyrd. Axel would hate me being here, but he would have enjoyed those—songs that our mom used to sing.
Upstairs is an elite sex club—a feature Axel would not appreciate. I haven’t ventured there. It’s the vibe in the rest of the facility that drew me in. There’s a vampire-esque costume admission requirement that lends interest to every person who enters. Some lean into it—full-fledged bloody fangs, glittery skin, capes. Others limit themselves to a simple mask with ordinary attire or dark, overdone makeup with an eccentric outfit—kind of like Mardi Gras back home. Maybe that’s part of the appeal for me.
I chose a butterfly eye mask to complement my sexy little black number—a maxi dress with lace, crystal stones, and high slits on both sides. The corset bodice is magical with its winged cups and boning. Somehow, it transforms my no-curves-anywhere shape into the illusion of a subtle hourglass figure. I’d like to be buried in it, so it seemed the perfect ensemble to wear to a club revering the undead.
In hindsight, I should have gone with a thicker face mask to cover my bruised cheek, but I doubt it’s that noticeable beneath the strobe lights.
There are several rooms on this level. One that plays the typical heavy metal found in the average gothic nightclub, which attractsthose most devoted to their costume. A private gambling parlor that is reminiscent of La Lune Noire’s invitation-only game lounge—add in the sultry anonymity from the sexy disguises, and you reap a vibe of back-room corruption at a ritzy masquerade ball. Out front is a lobby bar with slot machines and Keno to entice patrons inside. And finally, there’s the Rock Through the Ages club, where I’m currently drinking.
The best part about this place is that if you search for gothic bars in the Pacific time zone, this one isn’t included. The diversity of its offerings must skew the search engine criteria. That pleases me greatly because while I wanted to lead Ty to me, there’s no rush. The thought of him chasing me down is appealing, especially if I’m gauging things between us correctly.
I’m sure he believed I was inadvertently revealing everything he needed. He could’ve found me without any of the details I gave up. But that would have awarded him all the control. This way, it’s on my terms with the added benefit of sending him on a wild goose chase—an element I’m convinced will prove to be entertaining.
The crowd thickens as I enjoy another appletini and a cover band that is currently bringing home Foo Fighters. With the air hazy from a fog machine on the stage, the aroma of black orchid wafts through the air because they utilize ambient scenting to conceal any unappealing club smells—a detail I’m eager to share with my brothers.
There’s something to study in every direction. Lights swirling over the dance floor, illuminating the array of costumes. And a wall of sleek, caged dancers, aglow by red light, which serves as a source of entertainment and advertisement for the upstairs amenities.
As the thumping beat transitions into Sublime’s “What I Got,” screams and cheers rising to the rafters, my phone vibrates inside the hidden pouch on my hip. A thrill skitters up my spine, cascading through my limbs to tingle my extremities. Maybe Ty’s here.
Sliding it out, I swivel my stool so I can read the text without prying eyes.
Ty: You’re fucking with me, LM.
He doesn’t want to use names, but can’t resist abbreviating the nickname he bestowed upon me—orobvious categorization, as he labeled it. Love that. And the fact that he’s onto me. I can’t help giggling as our correspondence proceeds with rapid-fire, as it did this morning with the blueberry and rain discussion.
Me: Is that surprising? You obviously saw my delivery truck stratagem. Aren’t you supposed to be all shrewd and savvy?
Ty: You’re more calculated than I realized. I’ll give you that.
Me: And more fun. Your text reads grumpy, but I suspect you’re enjoying this as much as I am.
Ty: I’ve always known that about you. Girls just wanna have …
Me: Are you baiting me with song lyrics? That’s pretty much my love language.
Ty: See? Wouldn’t it be more fun if we were in the same place?
Me: I’m not sure you’re ready for that. Fun and calculated are just the tip of the iceberg. There’s probably a lot about me that’s different than you thought.
Ty: What I thought is that we’d reached an understanding. A mutual respect since I honored my promise.
Me: I have no way of knowing if you’ve kept your word yet. And respect is earned.
Ty: I haven’t been able to eat or sleep since I got the call that you were missing. I flew all night to get to you. Surely, that earns me your location.
My chest tightens, heart thrashing wildly against my sternum and the beat radiating out to all my pulse points, as though it were one of those imprisoned dancers, desperately seeking asylum in Ty.
Has he really been that worried?Of course he has. My brothers are best friends with him and his family. They’re probably all flipping out, which means Ty’s concern could simply be about them.
But this back-and-forth between us feels like more. Like he could see me apart from them, believe that we could be something.
What if it isn’t more? What if I’m clinging to a never-gonna-happen fantasy in the wake of losing my reality?
If it isn’t, I might really have nothing left. I’ve been gripping on to the idea of him like a lifeline. Partly because there’s nothing else to grab on to and partly because Ty Reynolds is the embodiment of my dreams. The mere thought of him cushions all the craggy edges of my disillusionment. My world would be treacherous in his absence.
Me: Maybe this isn’t fair to you, especially because I believe the truth in that plea. And I’m grateful if you’ve kept your promise and flew to me. But I can’t just tell you where I am. It might seem illogical. Or mean. I’m not even sure what it proves, but I need you to work for it.
A minute or two passes with no answer, and out of the corner of my eye, I spot Fender making his way through the throng of people toward me.
