Page 87 of Wicked Little Secret

Monotonous techno beats that feel like they might bust an eardrum.

I submerge myself among the sweaty, writhing clubgoers, my eyes peeled for her.

I stick out like a sore thumb. An older male with glasses and a button-up shirt, I’m hardly subtle as I search the club.

Is she not pleased with the sex we’re having? Have I been too soft? Too rough?

Am I too old? Not interesting enough for her youthful mind?

These questions and more plague me as I explore every inch of the club. I come across the dance floor, where dozens of people gyrate to the edgy, dark techno music, and then I wander into another area of the club where it seems the hookups happen.

I witness things like a woman disappearing out an emergency exit with two men in tow and another couple snorting white lines off each other.

None of them Nyssa.

I’m left in the dark. I’m wading uncharted water without a clue where I’m going.

Just like before.

“You have no business here,” Professor Vise snarled.

Josalyn hugged her books to her chest. “But we need to talk about what happened…”

“Nothing happened. How many times do I have to tell you?”

I hovered outside his office door, my heartbeat frantic. I was a second away from rushing inside and interrupting.

“How could you?” she sniffled. “I won’t let you get away with it.”

He grinned. “You’re delusional, Miss Webber. Get out of my sight.”

I was outside as the door flung the rest of the way open and Josalyn ran out in tears. I started to follow.

“Josalyn, Josalyn… what’s wrong?”

“Mr. Adler,” came Professor Vise’s baritone. “Never mind what you think you heard. If you’re here to interview for the TA position, we can begin…”

I shake my head and realize two hours have gone by. I’m entrenched in the pulsing beats and humid air of the club, hoping Nyssa happens by.

But it’s vain hope.

Clearly, wires have been crossed, and I’ve misunderstood.

I sigh deeply, then start for the exit. Coming up on the outside, the night’s turned into a chilly, drizzly mess.

My car is half a block down.

I begin my trek with hands deep in my pockets, only to stop after a few footsteps.

Nyssa’s up the street, her usually springy curls sleek and straight. The tight curls aren’t the only thing that’sgone—her preppy, sometimes vintage manner of dress has been traded in for thigh-high leather boots, hot pants, and a semi-sheer top.

She almost doesn’t look like herself. If I hadn’t been searching out every face on the street, I certainly wouldn’t have recognized her.

She stands back as a bald, penguin-shaped older man opens a rear car door for her. From where I am, I can’t see his face, but Icansee the appreciative smile on hers. She slides into the backseat before he joins her, drawing the door shut.

The windows are dark, obscuring whatever it is going on inside.

I’m quick on my feet. My mind’s lost to the feverish, obsessive virus that takes over. I rush toward the car like a madman with no care in the world.

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