“Members only.”
I think it’s a lie, because I’ve watched strangers glide through those doors all week without showing proof of their membership.
I barely get my name out the next night before he produces a card reader I’ve never seen before.
“Swipe in.” I don’t have a card. Of course I don’t.
I walk away with humiliation knotting my stomach, but something else simmering under it—determination. I’m clearly a glutton for punishment. Or stubbornness. Possibly both. Whatever the diagnosis, I didn’t get the memo about cutting my losses, so I keep showing up at the club night after night, expecting the universe to eventually cave.
It doesn’t.
Still, I keep trying.
Because I will get inside—one way or another.
Tonight, I walk straight toward the door like I belong there. Tonight, I’m done being rejected.
“I’m on the list,” I lie, flashing my student ID like it’s a divine passport instead of the pathetic piece of plastic it is. My hand doesn’t even shake. Stupid bravery is still bravery.
The biggest bouncer looks at it like I’ve just offered him a library card.
“Kid,” he insults me, voice deep enough to rattle my ribs, “this isn’t a place that takes homework passes.”
He makes a move to shove me off—again—when a crackle pops through the comm tucked behind his ear. A voice I can’t hear speaks. The bouncer stills. Then his whole expression changes, shifting into something… alert.
He turns to his partner.
“Let her in.”
“You serious?”
“Let. Her. In.”
They exchange a look that tightens every muscle along my spine—an understanding I’m not privy to, something close to amusement and warning all at once.
But then they step aside.
“If you cause trouble, sweetheart,” the bigger one murmurs, “you’re banned for life.”
“I don’t know the meaning of the word,” I say, stepping past him before he reconsiders.
The door swings open.
Heat knifes into me first—wet, heavy, sinful. Then sound. Low bass, a heartbeat dragged through smoke.
Strobe lights wash over the crowd, slicing masks into fleeting glimpses—silver, black, gold—faces erased, replaced, rewritten. Bodies move like sin wearing human skin. Sweat, perfume, liquor, sex, the metallic tang of danger—they all fuse into the same humid darkness.
Everyone looks like they belong here.
I look like a mistake. Eyes flick toward me. Slow. Assessing. Predators sniffing out the smallest shift in the air.
A deliberate shoulder slams into mine as someone passes. Another laugh cuts too close to my ear.
They know I don’t belong. Hell, they smell it.
I push deeper into the belly of the club. Every step feels like I’m walking into a throat about to swallow me whole.
My instincts flare, low and unforgiving. But I keep moving.
