Florrie
The bass thrums through the floor, vibrating up through my heels and into my chest. I should be having fun. That's what tonight was supposed to be about…fun, possibility, maybe even a connection.
Instead, I'm trying to figure out how to extract myself from Brad's grip without causing a scene.
"Come on, babe," he says, his breath hot against my ear, fingers digging into my waist. "Let's get out of here. My place is, like, ten minutes away."
He keeps doing that. Calling me “babe” like he knows me. Or like he can’t even be bothered to remember my name.
I hate being calledbabe, but after politely telling him my name three times already, I’ve given up.
I force a smile and take a step back, but his hand follows, sliding lower down my hip. My skin crawls beneath the thin fabric of my dress. I’m regretting downloading that dating app with every fiber of my being.
"I'm not really ready to leave yet," I say, keeping my voice light and pleasant despite having to shout over the music. "I'm having a good time here."
It's a lie. I stopped having a good time about twenty minutes ago when he started treating my personal space like a suggestion rather than a boundary.
When I'd swiped right on Brad three days ago, he'd seemed perfect. Okay, not perfect but better than a lot of my recent swipes. Good job, nice smile, said he was looking for somethingreal. The messages had been sweet, a little flirty but respectful. He'd suggested this club, and I’d heard about it at work, everyone raving about howamazingit is. Upscale, not too loud, good cocktails. If I were here with anyone else it would be the best night ever.
I'd been excited to meet Brad, to come here... Optimistic, even. It's been so long that I finally let myself hope that this time would be different.
Turns out, online Brad and real-life Brad are two very different people.
"You look like you need another drink," he says, already signaling the bartender without asking what I want. His other hand is still on me, thumb rubbing circles that make my stomach turn.
"Actually, I'm good—"
"Two more cosmos," he tells the bartender, then turns back to me with that smile that probably works on other women. "Don't worry, I've got this."
He says it like it’s a favor. Like I must have come down with the last shower of rain and don’t know that this is his way to guilt me into sex later…
“But I bought you all those drinks, baaaaabe.”
Besides, I don'twantanother Cosmo, they aren’t even my drink of choice. I've been nursing the same one for the past half hour, taking tiny sips just to have something to do with my hands. But he's already paid, already sliding the fresh glass toward me with an expectant look.
"Thanks," I say, because what else can I say? I can feel myself spiraling. Losing my grip on my calm demeanor as that expectant look grows in his eyes and the red flags are parading through my brain with their own brass band. Why did I agree to go out with a stranger? How did people even date before the internet?
He leans in closer, his hand moving from my hip to the small of my back, pressing me against the bar. "You're so fucking hot, you know that? I knew from your pictures, but damn, in person..."
His eyes drag down my body in a way that makes me want to cover myself with my arms. I'd felt good in this dress when I left my apartment. Black, fitted but not too tight, hitting just above my knees. Classy and a little edgy when teamed with the leather bomber jacket I grabbed on my way out. Now I just feel exposed.
He leans in a little more and I almost feel guilty for not feeling any attraction to him at all. Then I remind myself that I don’t owe him anything. Not my time, or my gratitude or my commitment to anything other than drinks in a club.
"I really need to use the restroom," I say all in a rush, seizing the excuse like a lifeline.
His jaw clenches as his hand tightens briefly before he lets go. It’s quick enough that I would have missed it had he not been so up in my personal-fucking-space. "Don't be long, babe." Only it doesn’t sound endearing anymore. It sounds like a threat. Like boredom is edging in and he is also starting to regret his choice of date tonight…
I have to work hard to suppress the relief as I grab my clutch and weave through the crowd, my heart pounding harder than the music warrants. The main bathrooms are near the entrance; I remember passing them when we came in. But there's a line, ofcourse. A long one. Women checking their phones, touching up makeup, laughing with their friends.
I don't want to wait. I don't want to give Brad time to follow me or corner me in the hallway.
There has to be another bathroom. This place is huge, sprawling across what looks like a converted warehouse with multiple levels. I spot a hallway branching off from the main floor, dimly lit, away from the dance floor and the bar.
Staff area, maybe? But staff bathrooms are still bathrooms, and maybe someone could help me get out of this place without Brad realizing I’m gone.
I glance back toward the bar. Brad's watching me, even from here. He raises his glass in a little salute, like he's making sure I know he's keeping track of me.
Decision made.
