Page 29 of City of Wind and Lies

The lights of the city's skyline glow brightly against the dark night sky, and as we get closer to the club, I can hear 'Paint the Town Red' by Doja Cat playing quietly over the car's radio. The driver looks to be around our age, and she humors me when I ask her to turn it up.

"Mmm, she the devil," I start singing, whipping my head toward Drea and sliding my hands down my body. "She a bad lil' bitch, she a rebel." I hum some more, leaning a shoulder into her. "Take a whole lot for me to settle."

She laughs, leaning back into me. "Save it for the club!"

"You just don't want to hear me sing anymore." I pull a face, folding my arms at my chest.

"No," she says as she rolls her eyes, pointing out the windshield as the driver maneuvers to the curb. "We're here."

The line outside the building is insane. Groups of girls and guys all dressed to the nines weave a trail down the block. We thank the driver, and like some sort of celebrities, we march right up to the bouncer holding up the VIP cards.

Giving us a once over, he murmurs something into his earpiece before lifting the black velvet rope and motioning for us to go inside.

Pure excitement courses through me, my body vibrating to the beat of the steady thrums of club music pulsing around us when we step into the moodily lit room. Blue and purple lights radiate from the LED bars decorating the ceilings and walls. Another brick shithouse of a man in a perfectly tailored black suit greets us, then guides us to a reserved table at the back of the club with a perfect view of the entire dance floor.

We slide into the tufted purple booth and place our drink orders with the red-headed waitress, Crystal, who was already waiting for us.

"Oh my god!" Drea exclaims. "This place is incredible! It doesn't even look the same!"

"I know, right!" I squeal.

"Two kamikaze shots, a tequila sunrise, and a paloma," Crystal repeats, placing the colorful drinks down on the table.

We sing our thanks, grabbing for the shots first. "May the drinks be strong and the dicks be long!" Drea yells as we clink our glasses together.

Tossing back the shot, the sweet burn of vodka and citrus sends red hot prickles coursing through my veins. The heavy electric beat of David Guetta and Bebe Rexha's 'I'm Good' starts up, and my eyes widen in an unspoken plea to Drea.

Reading my mind, she hops up, and we snake our way through the sea of sweaty bodies pressed up against each other, moving in rhythm to the music until we find a spot in the middle of the dance floor to start this night off right.

After five or six songs, my body is covered in a sheen of sweat and my voice is hoarse from all the songs I've been belting out off-key. I grab Drea by the shoulder, leaning close to her ear and hooking a thumb over my shoulder. "I'm gonna grab some water, wanna come?"

Her eyes dart sideways to indicate the dark-haired wall of muscle beside her and she shakes her head. "If you're good by yourself, I'm gonna stay here."

I toss her a wink and turn to make my way through the crowd, nudging in at the end of the bar and leaning over the cool granite surface. Fanning myself with a flimsy cardboard coaster as I wait for the bartender, I feel the heat of another body press up against me from behind, large hands settling on my hips. It sets off a cacophony of alarm bells in my head. My stomach bottoms out, skin going ice-cold as my heart hammers in my chest at the unknown threat.

My fingers curl into a fist and I ram my elbow back, nailing the potential creep in the stomach. Then I whip around, ready to feign innocence, when the tauntingly familiar scent of woods and spice floods my senses. Recognition kicks in when I see Bowie's hauntingly handsome face contorted in shock and pain.

“Cazzo,” he mutters with a cough.

“Bowie?!” I gasp. “What the-?”

“Fuck was that for?” he finishes for me, scowling.

Bowie’s dark eyes lock on mine as I gnash my molars together, struggling to find words. I want to say something clever, something that could cut him down and make him feel as small as he made me feel earlier this week, but the words don’t come to me. Instead, all the embarrassment and hurt that I felt leaving his office that day comes bubbling back up, and suddenly this club feels way too crowded and I can’t breathe.

I push past him, shoving my way through the onlookers, trying to get to the hall I know leads to the back exit. Turning down it, the crowd thins the further I get, and by the time I reach for the door, I think I’m in the clear. But just as my fingers brush the cool metal of the door handle, a hand curls around my elbow. I don’t have to look to know who it belongs to. I jostle my arm, trying to break free of his grasp, but he only tightens his grip and jerks me to a stop.

My chest heaves as I spin around, expecting to see his impassive face, but I’m surprised to find a flicker of hurt burning in his hazel eyes. And just like that, I feel myself being sucked back into his gravitational pull.

“Can we talk?” he asks gruffly, carding a tattooed hand through his dark hair. By the slightly disheveled look of it, I’d say he’s been doing that a lot.

“Ha, now you want to talk?” I scoff, folding my arms across my chest and leaning back against the door. The bite of the cool metal acts like a balm to my flushed skin.

“Wren,” he starts, erasing the distance between us and bracketing his arms around my head. “It was a mistake.”

Deja vu slams into me, punching the air out of my lungs as Trey’s same words echo in my head.

“Well, fuck you too!” I snap, slapping my palms against his chest in an attempt to get him and his damn audacity out of my bubble. “It’s not a mistake if you keep consciously choosing it, asshole.” I sidestep around him to stomp off down the hall, but he catches me by the wrist, and that touch is the friction that ignites the fire.

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