“Cheer up! Your future cherry popper could be inside right now. It’ll be worth the wait.” Blake rubs my arms to warm me up.
After we shuffle along for a bit, a man in a bright purple shirt with the top buttons undone and white pants walks by. He stops and looks us up and down. The half smile that grows on his face makes me feel icky.
“Come with me and I’ll get you two on the list.” He shoots us a wink, and my insides revolt.
Blake takes the lead. “What’s it gonna cost us, handsome?”
“Dance with me for at least one song and we’ll call it even.” He reaches his hand out to her, and she takes it. Blake will dance with anyone. She is vibrancy personified.
Blake holds his hand over his shoulder for a moment, then lets go to walk with me. “See? Our night is looking up already.”
I roll my eyes at her as we make our way to the front. Everyone we pass stares. Some with appreciation and some with envy. It’s a little too much attention for my taste.
At the door, the promoter says something to the bouncer, who dips his head, then removes the burgundy velvet rope to let us inside.
The neon lighting is strategically placed in a way that looks opulent and doesn’t make me want to wander the room with my eyes closed. Circle booths and cocktail tables are spaced out along the walls, lining the dance floor in the middle. The entire place is filled to the brim with people dancing, drinking, and having a good time.
The beat of the music thumps through the floor. It’s a polished rhythm with a deep bass. The sound has Blake doing a little shimmy as we head for the bar.
“We’re going to get a few shots. I’ll meet you on the dance floor,” she informs the promoter. It’s very likely that he can’t hear her, but he nods his head and gives her a thumbs-up.
We squeeze our way through the packed bodies to get to the bar. The shelves are backlit, showcasing the expensive bottles of alcohol, making the whole view look like a work of art. The bartenders are all dressed in the same white shirts and black pants. The way they mix the signature cocktails is a performance in and of itself.
Blake politely bypasses the throngs of patrons waiting to order and easily gets the attention of a young male bartender.
“What can I get for you two lovely ladies tonight?” He has a charming smile and nice eyes that I might have found alluring a couple of weeks ago.
But now?
All I can do is note how his eyes aren’t a radiant evergreen with flecks of gold, a deep fawn brown with a hint of softness, or a shimmery aqua.
“Two lemon drops, please,” Blake orders, and the bartender jumps right to it.
He hands us the two small glasses when he’s done and tells us that they’re on the house.
“Bottoms up,” I say to Blake and hold up my little drink.
She clinks her glass with mine, then together we touch our shots to the counter and down the liquid. The vodka leaves a fiery trail in its wake as it goes down my throat, but the burn only lasts for a moment.
Blake points to the dance floor with a raised brow. I give her my answer by leaving the shot glass on the counter and motioning for her to lead the way. She claps her hands with glee, abandons her own glass, and snags my hand, guiding me into the crowd. We stop in the middle, and Blake turns to me as we sway and bounce with the song.
The promoter from earlier appears next to us and does some hand motions that I think are him trying to ask Blake to dance. Instead of nodding her head, Blake grabs his hand and pulls him toward her, and they dance together.
The first time Blake took me out to a club, I was as stiff as a board. I didn’t know how to move, and I felt guilty when Blake taught me how. If I were caught dancing like this when I was younger, my father would have locked me in my room and thrown away the key.
Or worse.
When he was sentenced, I went through an existential crisis. And slowly, over time, I unraveled all the lies he fed me while establishing my own beliefs. But every so often, that little voice tells me that I’m acting like, as my father would say, a harlot.
A calloused hand touches the skin on my shoulder, sending my body into alarm. And when I turn, I find Slicer. His eyes roam my outfit, lingering a little too long on all the places my normal clothing usually conceals. A prickling sensation shoots up my spine.
Slicer leans forward toward me, shouting in my ear so I can hear him over the music. “Funny running into you here! I didn’t know you went to places like this!”
Blake gently places her hand on my arm. I glance at her, and she quirks a brow, checking in on me. I subtly shake my head, letting her know that I don’t need her to intervene. We’ve perfected our silent communication over the years.
The last time I saw Slicer, he chased me into RHL, then another part of the memory comes back to me.
“How do you know my real name?”
