Six months ago
The music is louder. The lights are brighter. My whole world is spinning and that’s exactly how I like it. I’ve been waiting for Friday night all week, but it feels like it’s been a month. Maybe longer. I’ve had graduate school exams for the last three days straight and I’m basically tutoring full-time now. I’m beyond exhausted, but the bump of coke I did in the car has made everything seem a little more possible. And all I want to do is dance.
The faces around me are a bit blurry, but I can tell that my dance partner is at least somewhat hot. Hot enough to take home for a night, anyway. Not quite hot enough to tell my real name to.
I grind up against his thigh and he puts a hand on each of my hips, flexing his fingers in a way that pinches deliciously. God, I’ve missed this. All I want is this—a night of complete and utter intoxication, where I can feel the rush of the night and the slight bite of pain. I can forget about school, about tests, about student teaching. I can forget my every-present anxiety and the panic in favor of feeling anything but anxious. I think they call this feeling “free.”
“God, you’re fucking sexy,” the guy I don’t know murmurs into my ear.
The music is loud but his face is so close to mine that I can hear him clearly—as clearly as I can smell the liquor on his breath mingling with a dose of Axe body spray. At any other time, it would be noxious and overbearing. Right now, it’s just right.
Everything here is just right. And I don’t have to think about tomorrow.
Over my dance partner’s shoulder, I glance up at the band. I don’t know if I’ve seen them here before, but they’re good. The lead singer, a muscular black guy with a shaved head and quarter-sized plugs in each ear, is clearly closer to professional than amateur. He’s got a wailing voice that’s both raspy and melodic, so much so that he practically drowns out the other instruments.
Well, all except the drums—or, at least, the drummer.
I blink rapidly, trying to focus on the drummer’s face. He’s beautiful—his brown eyes are wide and flash with energy as he holds the backbeat, then breaks into a cymbal-heavy solo. I lock my gaze on him and flip around, tucking my ass up against my new friend and grinding back against his already hard cock. His grip on my hips tightens and I relish that bruise-worthy pressure. All I can see is the drummer. All I can feel is my arousal.
And we dance. Or, at the very least, move against each other like there’s no such thing as clothes or propriety. The first song fades into the next and the next. I don’t know if the drummer sees me—in fact, I’m sure he doesn’t, not with the bright spotlights blinding his vision. But fuck if I care. In my mind, he’s behind me, pressing against me and sliding his hands over my skin. I feel fingertips scale my arm from wrist to shoulder, then tuck inside the strap of my tank top and bra. The fingers move down over the slope of my breast until they meet my nipple and I gasp when he pinches.
The pain always makes it ten times hotter.
The drummer is going wild now, his body bent practically parallel to the kit. His arms and torso are cut and tan, glistening with sweat from his exertion.
I’ve never wanted to fuck anyone so bad in my life.
“I gotta get you home, baby,” the guy behind me whispers. “I can’t wait to peel you outta these fucking clothes and get my hands all over your body.”
I swallow, still watching the drummer play his set. God, there are more tattoos on his arms than unmarked skin. I lick my lips, then glance back at the man behind me. My vision is starting to clear. He’s not unattractive or unappealing—he just isn’t the drummer. And that’s the only person I can imagine screwing tonight.
“Let me run to the ladies room first,” I say into his ear, then give him a winning smile before sashaying off the dance floor.
I know what I need to get me back in the mood—or at least, to allow me to find enough of it to transfer my desire to the man I’ve been humping on the dance floor rather than the one I’ve been watching all night. I teeter a bit on my lace-up boots and run a hand over the back of my neck. I’m sweating and I’m not exactly sure why. I need something to balance out the lust in my system, not to mention the martinis from earlier. Just one more bump—maybe a line? I’ll be good to go. I’ll be ready for anything. And, if I’m lucky, I’ll wake up tomorrow with a clean slate and an empty memory—just like last time. And the time before that. And the time before that.
I turn the corner and slam right into two people who clearly couldn’t wait for home or a bed or even the backseat of a car. The girl is straddling the guy and he’s hoisting her up around his waist, both hands grasping her ass beneath a tight black skirt. I blink and start to mutter an apology when I realize who exactly I just ran into.
“Dude, Lennon. What the fuck?” I narrow my eyes at my brother, who pulls his mouth away from the woman’s neck long enough to smirk at me.
“Sup, sis. How goes it?”
I cock a brow at him. “Couldn’t keep it in your pants long enough to find a storage closet?”
The girl giggles and Lennon shrugs. “Why bother?”
I shake my head, then motion to the restrooms at the other side of the bar. “I’m gonna hit the ladies and get outta here. You can get a ride?”
Lennon’s blue eyes dart at his lady friend, then back at me.
“Yeah. I can guaran-fucking-tee there’ll be some riding.”
My lip curls involuntarily. “Gross. Well, make good choices.”
I brush past them and hurry closer to the bathroom. My high is wearing off too quickly and my good humor is fading fast. There’s nothing like being sober to remind me that my older brother is a womanizing fuck-up who still lives at home with our parents and who asked me for a ride to the bar tonight. Again.
Once I’m inside a stall, though? Yeah, it’s easier to forget.
I dip my nail into the tiny brown vial I had stashed in my jacket pocket and take the bump like a champ. I breathe deep and wait for the shimmer of a delicious high as it travels through my body.
It takes less than five minutes. In the meantime, I focus on the sounds from outside. The band has stopped playing, replaced this time by the pumping bass of a DJ’s set. There’s a loud crash and some yelling, but I’m too far gone to even consider what the commotion could be. When the coke hits my system, it hits hard—like a freight train of pleasure. It’s better than sex—at least, any sex I’ve had lately.
After a few more minutes—Two? Four? Twenty-four?—I manage to get back to my feet and stumble out of the stall. I glance up at the mirror. The streak of deep blue in my hair always surprises me when I see it—I added it to my spiky pixie cut last week, but I’ve gotten used to the jet black I’ve been dying it for years. Below the hair, my eyes look glassy, their pale grey framed by slightly smeared navy liner. Everything about me feels a little less than perfect lately.
Fuck if I care.
I readjust my tight black tank top and smooth a hand over my bared midriff. My belly ring winks at me in the mirror. I wink back, then giggle as I move toward the door.
I’m still laughing when I exit the bathroom—and slam right into a very strong, very muscular body to my right.
“Fuck—sorry. Apparently I’m just going to run into shit all over the place tonight.”
I glance up and then freeze.
It’s the drummer.
He’s even hotter up close. Like, literally and figuratively—he’s sweating enough that his grey t-shirt appears almost black. In this dim light, his eyes are about the same color. I lick my lips, which are suddenly dry.
The drummer, though, seems like he couldn’t be less interested in me right now. He’s huffing and puffing and rubbing his right fist with left hand. When I look a little closer, I can see his knuckles are bleeding.
“Hey, are you okay?”
I begin to reach out to touch him, but he shakes his head, then stalks past me into the men’s room.