Damn. She’s right. “He’s not just some guy, though.” God, admitting this out loud is so tragic and depressing. “He’s the guy. The only guy. And…he’s awful.” I laugh again, shaking my head, trying to paint a smile on my face, but I must look pretty terrible, because the girl steps in, hugging me hard.
“No. Nuh-uh.” Pulling back, she strokes a hand over my hair. “What did I say? No crying. Especially if he’s awful. He is the dirt beneath your feet, my friend. Even if he is the one. Best thing you can do is go out there with your head held high. Find some smoking hot dude to dance with and forget about him for an hour or two. Hiding in here isn’t gonna help.”
“I know. I just—” I sniff, wiping my nose with the back of my hand. “God, I should probably fix my eyeliner. I’m a fucking mess.”
“No, you’re not.” She points at my reflection in the filthy mirror. “Tell me that shit doesn’t look sexy,” she says, raising her eyebrows. “Smokey eyes will bring a dude to his knees every time. Throw your shoulders back and walk out of here with confidence.”
She reapplies her lip gloss and goes, wishing me luck while at the same time telling me that I don’t need it. I exit the restroom, chanting to myself on repeat: I don’t need luck. I’m confident. I’m beautiful. I don’t need Pax’s approval. I could have any guy here if I wanted.
I’m ready to face him again now. I—
The blow barely registers at first. My head snaps sideways, my body rocking with the impact. Then I’m falling. I put my hand out a split second before my forehead bounces off the floor.
The walkway’s dark already, but the flashing blue and white lights at the end of the hall dim to a low pulse, becoming a flickering shadow in my peripherals.
Hands, too rough, grab me by the shoulder, spinning me around, lying me out flat on my back. Thank god. Thank god, someone’s come to help.
“Whoa! Whoa, is she okay, man?”
My eyes roll back into my skull. My head…fuck, my head is killing me.
Soft, apologetic laughter fills the walkway. “Yeah, sorry. She always does this. Has too much to drink and makes a fool of herself. I tried to tell her to slow down earlier, but…urgh…”
What?
I know the voice. It’s so familiar. I hear it all the time. It makes my chest too, too tight. What…? what the hell’s going on? Thoughts fracture and break apart in my head. I struggle to force them back together. To make sense. No matter how hard I try, I can’t grasp hold of the ends of them. My mind scatters in all directions.
“You need a hand getting her up?” the second person asks.
Fingers dig into my flesh as the person, the guy looming over me, drags me up into a seated position. “Ahh, thanks, man. I appreciate it, but she’s my girlfriend, y’know. I got her. She’s my responsibility.”
He makes me sound like a mischievous dog that slipped its leash.
“All right, well…” The other person sounds a little unsure. “Whoa! Is that blood? Damn, her head’s bleeding all over the place. You should get someone to look at that—”
“Fuck,” the guy says, his fingers gouging into my arm and my side, pulling me to him. “You’re right. Hey, maybe moving her isn’t the best idea. Would you mind going and grabbing someone? One of the bartenders? I bet they have first aid kits behind the bars.”
“Of course. Use this. Hold it to her head. Keep pressure on that. It looks bad.”
“Thanks. You’re a life saver, man.” Something rough and warm presses to the side of my head—some kind of fabric. Denim?
My vision begins to clear—a good and a bad thing, because the light from the strobes out on the dance floor that were dull shadows just now are suddenly too bright. Even with my eyes closed, the light feels like it’s about to split my head apart.
Hot, whiskey-soaked breath hits me in the face. I try to turn away from it, but another explosion of pain detonates inside my head and I can’t move. I’m being pressed against the wall. My ribs groan, protesting under a phenomenal pressure as something heavy and solid slams into me. “God, Red. You are so fucking stupid.”
I try to catch my breath, but it’s impossible.
“Come on. Let’s get out of here. Just me and you. We’ll have ourselves a good time.”
PAX
* * *
“Quick! There’s a girl bleeding by the bathrooms. I think someone hit her.”
It’s Chase. The second I hear the breathless guy lean across the bar and shout this at the bartender, I know that it’s Chase.
I bailed and left her to her own devices after our little spat, but I have been watching her like a hawk. I saw her shut down that asshole when Jacobi and Stillwater were dancing. I would have intervened, but it looked like she had her shit handled and I didn’t want to give her more ammunition for yet another fight. I followed her from a distance as she made her way to the bathroom. I was hardly gonna follow her inside, though, so I decided to get another drink…
And now here I am, charging across the dance floor, fury blazing in my chest, ready to tear that preppy fucker’s head from his shoulders if he’s done anything to hurt Chase…
I reach the hall leading to the women’s bathroom before the bartender, and there’s no one there. There’s only a tiny puddle of blood on the floor, and a bright red streak of it up the wall.
Fuck.
FUCK!
Spinning around, I’m lost for what I’m supposed to do next…but then I see him, standing there on the outskirts of the dance floor, swaying drunkenly as he talks to another girl in a bright blue dress. The guy with the preppy polo shirt and the slicked back hair yelps like a kicked dog when I grab hold of him. His eyes bug out of his head. “Whoa! What the fuck, dude!”
“Where the hell is she?” I will hurt this motherfucker. I will cause him so much pain, he’s gonna wish he’d hurry up and die already.
The guy who tried to hit on Chase looks like he’s just shit himself. “Wha—what are you talking about, man? Where’s who?”
He smells like cheap, stale beer. “The smoking hot redhead you pissed off earlier. The one you hurt outside the bathrooms,” I snarl.
“Wait—what? I—I didn’t hurt anyone! That girl was rude as fuck. I—”
Blood explodes out of his mouth when I hit him. “Try again, motherfucker.”
“I swear!” the guy moans. “I didn’t touch her!” His eyes roll back into his head, and I believe him. No one can be this drunk, reeling from a right hook, and still manage to lie convincingly.
I let the bastard go.
“WHO SAW THE REDHEAD BY THE BATHROOMS?” I roar. Stunned groups of people stop talking, and dancing, and laughing, all turning to look at me. One girl with braids, wearing a skintight body suit steps forward. “I spoke to her in the restrooms,” she says. “I left my phone in there. When I went back to get it, I saw someone carrying her toward the emergency exit. She was upset over her boyfriend. I figured he’d apologized and…I don’t know.” She looks confused. “Swept her off her feet or something. I thought it was romantic.”