The streetlight above flickers once and dies, leaving enough shadow for him to disappear when I blink. My legs lock into a fast walk until I see my house’s gate. I shove it open and run inside and lock the door behind me. I lean against it, my breath shaky. My phone is in my hand before I realize it, my thumb hovering over a name I shouldn’t call. Tyler.
I don’t press it, but I’m so close to finding refuge in him.
Twelve
Sara
My entire bedroom is already prepped for a version of myself I should approach with caution, I press play on “Keep On Boogin’” by Enlly, and my feet dance of their own accord. My body sways to the lyrics, feeling every beat.
Nearby, my dress hangs waiting for its cue that I have yet to act on, though the decision has finally settled. I saw this girl in me the other night, in Tyler's mirror; her eyes darker than I remembered, cheeks flushed with something between shame, desire and ownership. Flicking the small vanity lamp, the midnight-blue velvet of the dress on the bed turns into liquidshadow. The little devil on my shoulder has found a partner in mischief, and I’ll fight Liam back.
I slide the dress on and my heels. When I catch myself in the mirror, I feel stronger, wiser, and tamed by my heartbreak. Tonight, I’m walking straight into the fire, and I won’t let Liam stalk me in the night's depths to scare me.
The line outside Gayo club curls down the street, facing the dormant parked yachts right across, each their own secret party. As I enter the club, a restless coil of heels, perfume, and cigarette smoke envelops me when I see my girls waving.
“Sara!” Anne yells out, standing next to Artemis and Mimi, already laughing, glitter flashing in the neon spill from the club’s sign. They rush to me, arms tight around my shoulders.
“Hi!” I say excitedly.
“Holy shit,” Artemis gasps, stepping back to drink me in. Her eyes flick down my midnight velvet slit, the bare curve of my back. “Wow!”
I smile, taking steps toward the dance floor. Ready to lose myself in the music.
Gayo isn’t just a club…it’s a cathedral of temptation.
The walls are alive with carvings of Shiva and Buddha, their faces serene yet watching, lit by the flicker of candle-glow hidden in crystal sconces. Black and white stone sprawls across the floor in hypnotic patterns, each step a pilgrimage deeper into the night.
Above, chandeliers drip light like molten diamonds, swaying enough to scatter shadows across velvet-black booths. The air hums with incense laced into the heat of sprayed champagne, a strange, unholy perfume that clings to the skin. It feels sacred. It feels sinful. It seems as though every pulse of the bass dares to surrender to a sin while thanking a god. Quite the paradox.
We sit at the booth, where a silver ice bucket filled with vodka waits for us on the table. Artemis lifts a bottle and drains it right into her mouth. Savage.
The DJ drops“Simon Says from Pharoahe Monch”and the entire club explodes. The bass slams, rolling through the floor with each beat, shaking the air like Godzilla is lurking somewhere in the smoke, walking through the walls.
“This is our song!” Artemis screams over the music, already rolling her hips, her long hair flying.
Bodies surge in rhythm, wild and unrestrained. Artemis shrieks with laughter, grabs my hand, and yanks me into the crush of the dance floor. The sound is filthy, commanding, a trance that gets under your skin until you can’t tell if you’re dancing or being devoured by it.
Then I see him, Liam.
My body slows down, and I try to steady my breathing. A monster standing there. Half in shadow, leaning against the far side of the bar, a glass of something amber in his hand. Dark shirt rolled at the sleeves, tattoos trailing up strong, veiny forearms, his gaze tracking the room like he’s calculating with predatory eyes to which, with the cruelest trick of fate, have landed on me.
He slowly and deliberately drags his stare down my body, as if he is deciding whether to drag me out of here or strip me bare on the spot? It’s hard to tell. But what I know for sure underneath that,
Hate.
Thick, unspoken, coiling hate in the air like smoke. He hates hating me, and I want to give him more reasons to, assuring he’d leave me alone once and for all.
Even though the urge to spit in his face burns as hot as the disgust in his eyes, the thought makes my thighs press together. I want to draw him forward and be the jagged nail caught at the bottom of his shoe and reclaim myself. My instinct is to turn and walk away from the dance floor, but my lips curve in something dangerously close to a dare because it seems Liam doesn’t approve of this. Shocker. What’s also shocking is that I’m done letting him push me around.
Tyler, did he touch you?
My phone is suddenly in my hand, screen lighting my face as I type out the message before I can think better of it:
Here. Now.
Location sent.
Tyler would come.
