The moment we step inside, the club’s energy swallows us... Bass thunders through my chest, Soca’s rhythm infectious. A sea of bodies moves as one, hips swaying, hands in the air. Tasha grabs my arm, already pulling me toward the dimly lit staircase leading to the VIP level.
“Welcome to Culture, Ms. Diamond. You’re in private room 213,” the bouncer says, gesturing toward a roped-off section overlooking the dance floor. “You’re also welcome to use the VIP area on the main floor if you’d like to be closer to the action.”
“Thanks,” Tasha replies easily, guiding us past the velvet barrier. We climb the stairs and step into a glass-enclosed VIP room. The second the door shuts, the music drops to a low hum, so you don’t have to shout to be heard.
“Hey there, I’m Mary. I’ll be taking care of you tonight,” the waitress greets us. “That’s Chris, your bartender,” she says, pointing behind the bar.
Chris flashes a thousand-watt smile. “Welcome to Culture. What can I get you, ladies? I make a killer Tequila Sunrise.”
“Chris,” Gracie says, surprising all of us, “we’ll take four… but first, four shots of tequila. Then we’re hitting the dance floor.”
We blink at her. “What?” she shrugs her shoulders. “You think just ’cause I’m Japanese I ain’t got rhythm?” Her Boston accent comes out thick and unapologetic.
Tasha snorts. “No, honey, I think your demure bridal shop accent just clocked out.” Gracie’s smile falters for half a second. Tasha catches it in an instant. “Hey… your real accent? I like that one better. That’s who you are with us.”
Gracie’s lips curve into a genuine smile. “Deal, as long as you all do the same with me.”
Saaha raises a brow. “That means y’all gotta accept me in all my Texas glory.” Laughter erupts as Mary returns with our shots.
“To my girl, Aria!” Tasha cheers, lifting her glass.
“To Aria!” the others echo.
“Thank you, gorgeous souls,” I say, grinning. “Let’s kick this off properly.” Our glasses clink in celebration and toss our shots down. The tequila burns warm and delicious.
Gracie hiccups, grimaces, then bursts into giggles. “This night is just the beginning.”
By the time our cocktails arrive, and a few more tequila shots disappear, I’m buzzing. We spill out of the VIP room and onto the VIP dance floor closer to the action. I close my eyes, letting the music carry me.
This is it. My last night out as Aria Boschett. In three weeks, I’ll be a MacBrady. The thought presses in, but then Tasha’s arms come around me, and it brings me back to the moment, bright and reckless. The girls’ energy wraps around me, warm and intoxicating.
I laugh, for tonight, I’ll just be me. “Time to teach Gracie and Saaha how to Dutty Wine!” I shout.
“Alright, ladies... watch and learn!” Tasha claps her hands and steps into the center of our little circle. “You drop low, roll the hips–like this.” Her movements are fluid, effortless, hips circling as her shoulders and neck follow. Saaha tries to copy her and fails. Spectacularly.
“Girl, that’s not Dutty Wine. That’s a damn hula hoop!” I laugh, nearly spilling my drink as Gracie, tipsy and determined, gives it a go. She moves too fast, loses her balance, and stumbles straight into me. We collapse into giggles.
“Okay, okay,” Gracie wheezes. “I officially respect Caribbean girls and their waist control.”
We drink some more, we dance, and we laugh. For the first time in a long while, I feel completely free. “I need the bathroom!” I yell over the music.
“Wait! Me too,” Gracie grabs my hand as we weave toward the VIP restroom. Inside, an attendant greets us before we duck into separate stalls. When I step out, Gracie’s stall is still occupied. Guess she really had to go. I wash my hands at the sink, barely registering the two women at the vanity reapplying their makeup, until their voices drift closer.
“I see his plaything is still hanging around,” one of them sneers, her voice dripping with disdain.
Through my intoxicated haze, I snap my gaze up to the mirror.Did I hear that right?“Excuse me?” My heart rate kicks up a notch at seeing her.
Elana lounges against the counter, one hip cocked, a wicked curl to her lips. Her pink mini dress clings to her long body as she flicks her hair over her shoulder. Her eyes gleaming with pure malice.
“You heard me, homewrecker.” For a beat, I just stare.Did she really—
“Guess she’s too chickenshit to answer you, Elana,” her friend snickers. Another Barbie clone. Ding. My brain finally comes back online. It’s a fucking ambush. I exhale slowly, gripping the counter. Not tonight, Satan. I’m too tipsy for this shit. I focus on drying my hands, pretending they don’t exist.
Elana lets out a frigid laugh. “Look at her, too scared to even answer.”
Fuck it. Fuck the high road.
“I don’t have time for your petty fuckery,” I snap, feeling heat crawling up my spine. “Cyan made his choice, Elana. It wasn’t you. Have some pride and move on.”
