Arrow shrugs, but he whistles as he goes, all fake giddy, until the door shuts and the bell chimes one more time.
Finally, silence.
And a slow drip of adrenaline, lined straight to my veins.
I hit the lights, one by one, until the place is nothing but weird reflections from the streetlight outside. The silence buzzed worse than my machines. It makes my skin itch. I check my phone for the tenth time. Nothing new. Just a follow-up reminder from the club with their address.
No further instructions.
I double-check the shop one last time before grabbing my jacket. I check the door three times out of habit, but also because my brain’s already a thousand miles away, thinking about what’s coming.
For a second, my reflection catches in the glass. I look like hell. All sharp bones and haunted eyes. That’s fine. I’m not going there to pretend I’m anyone else.
Tonight, the wind is brutal…cold and mean. Corrine’s car is already gone, the parking lot empty except for the faint stink ofexhaust. I roll my shoulders, pop my neck. I should be ready for this. I’ve done weirder things, had darker nights. But this feels different for some reason.
I climb into my truck, crank the engine, and sit there for a minute, hands locked on the wheel like I’m gripping a lifeline.
One more deep breath.
You can do this. It’s just another night.
But I know I’m lying.
I pull away, killing the headlights for a split second, savoring the dark.
Next stop, Heaven. Or whatever fucked up version of it they are selling.
I’m used to Arrow always being the loudest thing in the room, but compared to what I’m feeling right now, he’s nothing but white noise. I watch the city blur past my windshield, every red light a bruise on the night. The closer I get to the club, the more anxious I feel. It’s not excitement, exactly. But this burn of anticipation, a panic I can’t shake.
I have the window cracked, letting the cold rip through me. The air is sharp enough to wake the dead, but I don’t feel it. I keep checking the time, trying to ignore the little voice in my head that's telling me that I need to go ahead and back out at the last second.
Not happening.
There’s a reason I got that call. There’s a reason I’m here.
As strange as it is, I can’t help but feel that tonight is important. That it matters.
By the time I reach the block where Purgatory sits, I’m all nerves and nothing else. It’s a regular street, dead, quiet, nothing flashy.
I park around the corner.
No one needs proof I was here.
I kill the engine, sit with my hands on my thighs, flexing, stretching, wishing I could tattoo the anxiety out of my veins. I check my phone…8:58.
Walking up is worse than waiting. I concentrate on the sound of my boots hitting the pavement, the crunch of old leaves. The streetlights are washed out and flickering, trying to decide if this part of town deserves to be seen. At the door, security’s in black suits, earpieces, eyes like razors. No one blinks.
I step up and one of them opens the door, all efficient, no questions. Warmth hits me in the face the minute I’m through, thick with the scent of expensive cologne, smoke, and a hint of something sweet.
Once inside, it’s like flipping a switch. The club’s nothing like the street outside. It’s all velvet, dark colors. I trail my fingers over a banister as I pass, catching the grooves in the wood, polished so thick it’s almost slick. The sounds around me are low and hushed. But right now none of it matters.
The lady at the front desk slides a folded slip across the marble. The paper is thick, smooth. I stare at it for a second, pulse jackhammering in my throat.
She’s watching, but not really. She gestures towards the stairs, then looks away, already handling the next VIP.
I open the note, barely able to breathe for a second.
Please, just make me feel wanted.
