Page 72 of Golden Burn

We both head toward the entry. The closest security guard sees the deadly expression on my face, the expensive suit and shining Rolex, andknows I’d have him fired if he even looked at me the wrong way. He lets me through with a cliche greeting. “Welcome to the PlayHouse.”

The stench of alcohol hits me with the force of a slap. The music, too, penetrates my eardrums and muddies my senses. The nightclub is three levels, packed to the walls with human beings holding drinks or another person’s hand. Every time someone presses against me, whether it be intentional or a mistake, I want to spin around and shove them.

The panic is turning to acid in my stomach. And as I make my way through the writhing masses, my assumption that she might be in danger is replaced by the thought of her touching someone in the club. Feeling pleasure at another person’s fingertips.

My jaw tightens.

This possessive, primal urge is nothing new, but it’s awakening after such a long slumber, stronger than before. It’s wrenching control and doing what my conscious mind doesn’t want to. Staking a claim.

After scouring the lower level, it’s clear Etta isn’t here. Moving with a pace that sets my heart into a frenzy, I climb the stairs to the next level, where a soothing summer mix is pumping through the speakers. People mouth the words and slide their bodies around. The lights flicker neon pink and blue, hitting certain faces and illuminating their features. I stay on the outskirts and hunt for any sight of black short hair.

She’s not on the dance floor. Not at the bar, either.

I change tactics and search the outer rim of the room, my heart in my throat thinking of her pushed against a wall with a man’s face buried in her neck and her legs wrapped around his waist. When that once again proves fruitful, I make my way over to the railing so I can peer down at the floor below. A different vantagepoint.

Somehow, despite working against the odds considering how packed it is. I find her within seconds. How could I not? She’s capturing in a way that no one else is.

Etta stands by herself, leaning up against a wall, arms crossed, hidden from the larger crowd. Either side of her is a cluster of women sipping their drinks. Men hover around them, waiting for any gaps to appear so they can slither in. Despite wanting to plow them all down, I’m rooted to the spot.

She peers up at the ceiling as if searching for the sky that isn’t there, and I want to see what she sees. I want to hear what she’s thinking. I want to know if my presence consumes her as much as she does mine.

Minutes pass as I watch her from above. Even though she’s in the shadows, the metallic dress she wears sparkles like a disco ball under the lights, sending out rainbow rays that hit my suit, almost tickling my skin.

Several people approach her, making flirty comments, I assume. She shakes her head every time, denying them a moment. Some try to push, bolstering their swagger, but she holds her ground, turning away. And I’m so glad she does, because if any of them made her feel uncomfortable, I would shoot them without hesitation.

Nothing deadly. But satisfying, nonetheless.

I’m saved from making a scene when Etta peers up one more time before her face scrunches and she starts to move. She barrels through the crowd, dodging and weaving. I want to take off after her, but I watch a few seconds more to follow her direction.

Halfway across the lower floor, a man grabs her wrist and spins her around. A growl slips from my throat as I reach for the gun behind my back.

Etta rips her arm away furiously. She screams at him over the speakers and yanks her hand out of his grip. The man is pissed, but he lets her go, laughing with his friends as he slaps her ass as she tries to retreat.

I run, shoving partygoers out of the way, so I can reach Etta. But I’m not fast enough. There are too many bodies and not enough space.

By the time I reach the man who assaulted her, he’s still laughing. I grab the drink from his hand and smash it against his nose. He howls as the glass cuts his face, spilling blood onto his ridiculous polo shirt. One of his friends throws a weak punch in my direction. I dodge it and slip behind the crowd forming.

There’s a heavy metal door in the direction Etta fled that leads outside. I step through it and out into the putrid alleyway.

I don’t see Etta. The lights from the main street aren’t directed this way enough, which creates pockets of black shadows that are impossible to focus on. Wishing for the aid of both my eyes, I follow the sound of her heels clicking against the stone, the cooing of her voice as she calls to something.

Then I follow the sound of her screams.

28

Etta

‘Language’- Porter Robinson

This is not as fun as I thought it would be.

I’m not experiencing the sense of escapism I thought this would elicit inside of me. Instead, I feel like I’m drowning and the only thing keeping me afloat is the music.

Every hand that drags along my back, my thighs or my neck, sting like they’ve been dipped in poison ivy. None of them provide the reprieve I was hoping for. They just remind me of what I’m trying to escape. My mother’s death, her legacy wiped from the map, and the fact that no one has touched me lovingly in a long, long time.

The person who came even remotely close is the man who shoved his hand into my chest, pulled out my bleeding heart, and gave it to the devil on a silver platter.

The man whose touch I cannot forget and crave more than I should. The man who mimics my emptiness and does not shy away from it.

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