The DJ jokes about getting high for the next song, and the crowd goes wild as artificial smoke fills the air, wrapping around the dance floor and making it difficult to breathe. Add that to the blazing heat and blinking lights, you have yourself a bunch of drunk girls very likely to pass out soon.
“Get your fucking hands off her if you want to keep them,” Will warns through gritted teeth.
Preparing to turn around, Chinese food cackles and releases my wrist. “Would you look at that? Someone thinks you’re worth saving, tramp.”
Will doesn’t miss a beat, shoving me behind him. A lone tear rolls down my cheek at my pulsing, red wrist. Can’t help it. I have no tolerance for pain.
Will sees the bruise.
And loses it.
“So young to die. Oh, well,” he quips, gripping Chinese food’s shoulder to spin him around and crashing his fist into his jaw without blinking.
A wave of “Oooh” streaks across the dance floor as Simon’s friend stumbles backward, nearly losing his balance. He looks dumbfounded at how fast this all went down. Chasing his composure, he looks up at Will, ready to say something, but his words trail off in an instant.
He blinks once.
Twice.
His lips part.
“No fucking way…” He blinks. “Will?”
Do they know each other?
The shock in Will’s eyes echoes my doubts. That’s recognition right there.
“Will, let’s just go,” I beg.
“Good to know you still have the same type, Martins,” Chinese food spits blood.
Wait, what?
“Shut up, Dixon,” Will barks.
They do know each other.
“What? Blonde, tight ass? You going to bullshit me and say you don’t see it? She’s a spitting image of Lyla.”
Lyla.
Who the fuck is Lyla?
Will threatens him with a step forward, and I skip into his path to stop him.
“Will, stop. Please. Let’s get out of here. Please,” I beg, but he pays me no mind, attempting to walk around me once more. The whole point was to stay under the radar tonight, and when I see two bouncers pushing through the crowd to reach us, I know we managed to do the very opposite.
“Oh yeah. Just like that. Give me a good look, baby.”
I see a camera flash and turn to find Dixon snapping a picture. He checks his phone screen, satisfied with the shot.
Realization finds me.
He just took a picture of my ass.
That’s what does it.
Will pounces, tackling Dixon to the floor and pummeling his face with hooks so powerful the crowd gasps in terror. Taking notice of the fight, people scatter, giving them space to kill each other. The music climbs in volume, the bass in strength, making this moment all the more dizzying. Simon and Dixon’s friends don’t dare intervene, watching Will beat their buddy to a pulp. Dixon is barely fighting back, covered in blood.
The bouncers reach us a few seconds too late. It takes two of them to get Will off Dixon. One yells at Will to get the hell out of the club while the other helps Dixon to his feet, asking him if he’s okay. It makes me sick to my stomach, but they’re right. Will threw the first punch. For all they know, Dixon is the victim here.
Will yanks his arm out of the bouncers’ grasp, telling him he knows the “fucking way out” and walking away.
But just before he dashes to the door…
He takes my hand and drags me along with him.
Kassidy
Pulling up in my driveway, Will pushes the gear into drive and kills the engine. We haven’t exchanged a single word since he led me out of the club with smoke oozing out of his ears. I didn’t dare ask him any of the million questions driving me mad, in fear that it would distract him from the road.
I’d like to live, thank you very much.
I glance around the empty lot. My mom’s still at work, and I assume from the nonexistent light in Winter’s window that she’s asleep.
“Who was that?” I ask.
“No one.” He unbuckles his seat belt.
Is he serious right now?
“What kind of idiot do you take me for, Will? You knew his name was Dixon. Who is he?”
“I said no one. Fuck.” he snarls, storming out of the car and slamming the door. These two definitely have a past. And if Will lashing out at the mere mention of Dixon’s name is anything to go by, it’s a rather destructive one. I don’t let his anger faze me, following him out of the vehicle and scampering to his side.
“Will, who was it?” I grab his arm.
“A fucking terrible friend. That’s who!”
Seemingly annoyed with himself for telling me, Will curses, his chest rising with shallow, ragged breaths. For a reason I can’t pinpoint, my instinct is to grab his hand—the way he previously grabbed mine on his way out of the club—to show my support.
His fingers are cold, rigid in mine, but he doesn’t move away, staring down at our linked hands as though he can’t compute my affection.
Rejection in 3, 2, 1…
He doesn’t say a word and intertwines our fingers.
Wait, what?
“He’s the guy I told you about.” His shoulders relax like a burden was just lifted off his body. “The one I thought had my back.”
Memories flood my brain. He’s the friend Will told me was a masculine version of Zoey. Must be why he hates her so much. Because she reminds him of his past.
She’s like salt to his opened wounds.
“I met him when I was seven at the homeless shelter my mom and I had to move into. We practically grew up glued to each other. He taught me to survive life on the street. Made it bearable. He’s two years older than me, so I looked up to him. Wanted to be just like him.”
This explains a lot. The similar way they carry themselves, the way they talk. They spent so much time together they eventually rubbed off on each other. This leaves me to wonder how Will and his mom ever got off the street. Will said his mom recovered from it all, and he obviously isn’t homeless anymore.
So, what, or who, pulled them out of this hell?
“Then what happened?” I push my luck an inch too far, and he puts me in my place.
“Then we grew up, and he dropped me when it mattered the most. The end.”
He unlatches our hands, stalking toward my house.
“And the girl he was talking about? Lyla? Who is she?”
Was she his first girlfriend? His first love? The girl who broke his heart and made him… Will?
Does she really look like me?
“No one.”
His stubbornness sets me off.
“Will, I swear to God, say ‘no one’ one more time and I’m kicking you in the balls.” I stick my finger in his face.
In response to that, he laughs.
Yes, laughs.
And I know this is arguably the worst moment for laughter, but it feels insanely good to see him smile. It takes me back to the beginning. Back to the nicknames, the jokes. This is the reason I caught feelings in the first place.
Our back-and-forth banter, the teasing.
That laugh.
I missed it.
Straightening out his hand, he asks me for my keys, which I dump into his palm.
“Come on, let’s get you inside.” He unlocks the door.
I’m not sure why he’s sticking around. My guess is he thinks I’m too drunk to function. I’ll admit drinking Zoey’s cocktail for her might not have been the best idea, but overall, I feel fine. But I can’t tell him that. I’m scared if I did, he’d leave.