“April?” Jiro’s voice was concerned.
She set the glass down carefully. Her hands still trembling. She stood and walked away.
TWENTY ONE
The Backroom
April
The hallway she found was quieter. The bass faded into a distant, almost manageable thrum. The lights stopped strobing and settled into darkness, which felt like a gift from a universe that had spent the last twelve hours punishing her with sensory overload.
April could breathe again.
Which meant she could feel how angry she was.
April pulled out her phone, fingers still shaking.
April:I'm so nad right now
April:*mad
April:freaking Chad and stupid men and velvet ropes and they're all HIGH FIVING
April:I can't even right now
Laura:I have SO many questions but also yes be mad if you need to be mad
Laura:Wait what velvet ropes??
Laura:Did you make it to the club?
April shoved the phone in her pocket and kept walking. She needed a bathroom, a small, enclosed space with a locking door and running water. She needed to splash her face and have a brief, urgent conversation with her reflection about whether her life was actually happening, or if she’d been suffering an elaborate stroke since approximately eight that morning.
She followed what she assumed were bathroom signs, though she wasn’t really paying attention. Her brain still trying to process the fact that seven men had stood up without a single word of discussion and created a formal barrier between her and her ex-boyfriend. They’d used paperwork and velvet ropes as if they’d been planning the intervention for weeks instead of four seconds.
Finally, she found a door. She opened it.
It was not a bathroom.
It was a room that looked like someone had decorated it using the wordintimidatingas their only design guideline. Dimly lit, smelling like expensive cigars and something darker that her brain insisted on cataloging as either cedar or the concept of consequences.
There were men inside. Seven of them. Sitting around a table playing poker with a focus that suggested the chips probably represented actual money and not the fun plastic kind.
They looked up when April walked in. Muscles. Tattoos. Eyebrow scars that implied their faces had been in negotiations with sharp objects.
Oh.
Bouncers. Security guys on break. Clubs this size probably had a whole team, and they’d need somewhere to decompress between checking IDs and ejecting drunk finance bros who thought bottle service made them invincible.
Though they were really committing to the aesthetic. The wholewe could pass for organized crimevibe was strong enough that she briefly wondered if the club had a theme night she’d missed.
“Sorry. I was looking for the bathroom.”
The man at the head of the table set down his cards with deliberate slowness. He was older than the others, with silver at the temples that read authority instead of age. Dark hairslicked back with precision that implied a standing appointment with someone who took hair very seriously. A sharp suit that screamedexpensivewithout needing a price tag.
His eyes were sharper than the suit. He looked at her the way you looked at something unexpected that had wandered into your space. “You lost?” he asked.
His voice was low, smooth and made you want to believe whatever it was selling.
