“I just want you to enjoy this time with Kaitlin,” I croak. “That’s all.”
In theory, my moving out was supposed to be our chance to start over. Put some distance between us. Cut the cord…
If anything, he’s started to strangle me with it.
Only because he loves me. He does.
“Night, Bran.” I know better than to hang up until he grunts out a muttered goodbye. Only then can I rest assured that he won’t show up outside my apartment in the middle of the night.
Hopefully.
But I’ve survived, and as I return my phone to my bag, I refocus on the task at hand—not chickening out of my—technically first—night out with a real live friend. Ever.
Not even Branden can make me turn back now.
Squaring my shoulders, I face the club entrance, no less intimidated by the sight of the line than I was before.
What had Mara called this place? Eccentric. “It’s the best! Really grunge. The kind of place where you’ll find an underground DJ as often as a drug dealer.”
Fortunately for me, there don’t seem to be any drug dealers among the scantily dressed women and men who make up the bulk of the line—not that I would honestly know the difference. Still, something won’t let me scurry from the alley and join them just yet.
Fear? Branden isn’t the only reason I’m hesitant to go headlong into a nightclub, in a strange neighborhood with a “friend” I’ve admittedly only known for a few months. But part of my New Year’s resolution is to live a little. Stop dwelling in my bubble. Stop living life under Branden’s discretion.
And, most importantly, grow as an artist…
Inhaling deeply, I force myself to advance the few necessary steps it takes to join the end of the line. My hands shake as I rummage through my bag for a card Mara gave me. Neon blue, it proclaims the club’s name in a bold black script—Dragon’s Head. When I flash it to the bouncer, he barely gives me a second glance.
And I’m in. Dorothy is no longer in Kansas, but the real world is a dizzying collage of neon lights and crushing music. Dark walls and a press of bodies make this realm so very different from the cloistered, closeted spaces I’m used to. One overriding thought weighs on my mind as I inch my way forward, but I’m smiling the more I mull it over. Branden would kill me.
But at least then he wouldn’t be able to control me anymore.
In this place, control seems to be a foreign concept entirely. Mara hadn’t been lying. Beneath the grime and decay, the venue oozes creative allure in spades. I have to physically stop myself from dragging my journal from my bag and writing down snippets of inspiration. I can’t help it. Poetry lurks in the flickers of bright light and lingering shadow. Stanzas beg to be written about mysterious figures lurking on the outskirts of the dance floor.
Every person here has a story to be told—people watching, in less flowery terms, sure. Either way, this is much better than sitting at home watching old movies in my ratty pair of sweats.
I do my best to meld within the crowd, craning my neck back to take everything in. The high rafters riddled with metal scaffolding. The brick walls illuminated in muted reflections of the pulsing lights. Color abounds, and I almost miss the flash of pale skin as someone grabs my wrist, spinning me around.
“You came!” Mara Chan stands before me, dressed to kill in a black minidress that hugs her curves. Her long black hair hangs loosely down her back, and her light makeup enhances her pretty features and almond-shaped eyes.
She could have easily chosen to be a model rather than an English lit major.
And in her shadow, I instantly feel underdressed. “I thought you said this was casual?” I have to shout just to be heard above the music.
“What do you mean?” She eyes me with a frown and shrugs. “You look great.”
Great—as in boring. My beige sweater—speckled with white bunnies—and a conservative brown corduroy skirt are admittedly the most risqué items in my wardrobe. Even so, Mara waggles her eyebrows.
“Relax! You have that sexy librarian thing going on. Now, let’s dance!” Grabbing my hand, she pulls me out to the center of the dance floor. “The music tonight is fire!”
I spot a DJ in the corner, curating the pulsating, energetic beat that seems to switch on a dime, keeping every dancer on their toes.
It’s an electric atmosphere far different from what I see portrayed on television. Yet my worried, niggling fears meld with the flourishes of the music…
Branden would kill me.
Kill me.
Kill me.
“Hey, buzzkill!” Mara giggles even though she’s forced to shout near my ear. “Loosen up! I’ll get us some drinks.”
She scurries off before I can follow, leaving me adrift amid a sea of writhing bodies. I grip my bag with both hands and try not to panic—a feat made ten times harder as paranoia sets in, nibbling away at my fragile resolve.
Branden would kill me. He will kill me. He’s on his way here, sensing that something is wrong. He’ll find me here and then kill me.
He’ll…
Stop controlling my every moment because he is my brother, not my keeper. I mentally chant the thought as fiercely as I can until it sinks in—a little bit.
Until I remember his explosive reaction when I backed out of the beach trip he spontaneously planned to start this week—a full month earlier than when he usually takes his vacation. You’re so fucking selfish, Hannah.
You hate me, Hannah.
You’re just like them.
Like them.
You’ll abandon me too.
I flinch as a dull ache resonates through my right arm. I’d started to clutch it with the opposite hand without realizing it. I stop and refocus on my surroundings.
It’s too beautiful here to worry.
Neon lights bathe the room in alternating plumes of color. Yellows. Reds. Greens. They transform the space into an almost mythical realm where the clubgoers around me shift and mutate at random. A girl grinding against a male companion glows pink, then blue before appearing normal again for a split second. She catches me staring and winks, gyrating her hips.
My cheeks flame as I push my way past the dancing couple, hunting for Mara. I don’t see her over by what seems to be the only bar in the back corner. Neither do I spot her long hair swaying in the nearby vicinity. Confused, I keep going, making my way through the club. On my second trip around, I spot a flash of dark hair along a section of booths cordoned off by a neon blue velvet rope. Two massive bouncers guard the opening I assume to be the entrance, and Mara stands beyond them, inside the section.
One look at her and I stop short. Something’s wrong. Her arms are crossed, her chin jutting defiantly.
And three men eye her from various positions spread out along a row of black leather couches. I inch back a step as an invisible alarm in my brain goes off, making my chest constrict. It’s the way they’re looking at her. Like a piece of meat on display.
Ravenously.
I love you, Han. The memory plays on the fringes of my consciousness, threatening to unfold in full. No one cares about me like you do. No one…
I close my eyes. Shake my head. Ignore. But when I refocus, I find myself inching closer to that corner, straining my ears to hear above the music. This far from the DJ, and the beat isn’t anywhere near as overwhelming as before, but their voices are so loud I can understand every word. It’s as if they don’t care who might hear them.