Total pages in book: 164
Estimated words: 152853 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 764(@200wpm)___ 611(@250wpm)___ 510(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 152853 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 764(@200wpm)___ 611(@250wpm)___ 510(@300wpm)
I need to get laid, and soon. This train of thought is dangerous for both of us.
“How about we frame it this way?” I suggest. “I'll come along with you and stick around, but I'll give you space. I'll be there if shit goes south or you can't handle it. Otherwise, I'll leave you to yourself.”
Her lips twitch and damn it, I want a taste. “You mean it, don't you?”
“I do.”
“So you're going to go to a club? Romero Pierce, hanging out with a bunch of people, dealing with the music, bodies, and sloppy drunks?”
“You should be a writer. You know how to paint a picture with words.”
She giggles before she can help herself, and now there's no holding back a knowing grin that lights up her face. “You are going to hate it.”
“That's my problem to deal with, isn't it?” The more I think about it, the more I have to agree with her. The thought of being surrounded by a bunch of drunk, sweaty strangers sends bile rushing to my throat, but I'm not backing down now. Not when we've already gone back and forth like this. It would be too much like letting her win, which she cannot do. If I give her an inch, she’ll want a mile.
“Okay. This might actually be more fun than I originally thought.” She stands up straighter, brushing back her blonde curls. “Let's roll.”
I hope we don't both end up regretting this.
“So, how are we doing this?”
“What do you mean? Doing what?” I wouldn't say I like the looks of this place. The façade’s painted black, there's no sign, there's not even a light over the front door. Someone thought they were being particularly edgy when they came up with this idea. It comes off lazy, not to mention that somebody has an overinflated sense of how cool they are.
“Hey.” She snaps her fingers close to my face and I swat her hand away.
“Do that again, and I’ll break your fingers.”
“Sorry, sorry. Maybe if you'd pay attention when I ask you a question instead of scoping the place out like Secret Service or whatever...”
Do not engage.
It's getting harder and harder every day to take the high road. She would love nothing more than for us to get in a fight out here and for me to walk away, leaving her alone to do whatever she wants. It’s not happening.
“What were you saying?” I ask with what probably looks more like a grimace than a smile.
“How are we doing this? Are we hanging out together? Are you hanging back at the bar? Do we pretend we don't know each other?”
“If only it was that easy.” I don’t like the looks of the guys walking in right now. Seven in all, young, looking like they shared a copy of the How To Look Like A Douchebag manual: tight shirts, gold chains, cologne strong enough to choke me at a distance. None of them can help looking her up and down, though she’s too busy glaring at me to notice.
“You could have stayed home.”
“So you say.”
She shivers in her thin cardigan, rocking back and forth on her heels. “Let's go in, yeah? I’m freezing out here.”
“If you didn’t insist on being half naked...”
“Not your decision,” she reminds me through gritted teeth. “Not my father.”
I have to bite my tongue while paying the cover charge for the both of us. She's not a stupid girl, far from it. Why does she have to be so hardheaded? What seems like common sense to me is mystifying to her. I've never known anyone so hell bent on having their way even if it hurts them, and I'm not sure as we enter the dark, sort of seedy club what bothers me most: her defiance or my inability to help her.
I hate EDM, but that seems to be the music of choice around here. The vibration from the heavy bass travels up my legs and makes my head pound. I know better than to complain because she'll only set down roots and refuse to leave until the lights come up and we're all kicked out. Even if she's miserable, she would do it to spite me.
That's why I put on the most neutral expression I can. “You know, it's been a long time since I've gone out. Thank you.”
“Fuck off!” she shouts back. “Don't even pretend you're enjoying this.”
“We just got here. I'm trying to keep an open mind. I especially love how sticky the floor is.” Spread out before us is a sunken dance floor two steps down from the outer perimeter of the room. In that perimeter there are chairs, tables, and a few booths in the back, with a railing separating drunken spectators from drunken dancers. I guess there would be more than a few accidents if there was nothing keeping people from tumbling down those steps. To my left, spanning the entire wall, is a well-stocked bar currently two or three customers deep from end to end. She picked a popular place. I guess there’s no accounting for taste.