Page 4 of Fearless

“Open up to your past so you can address it and move on, Meisie.”

And to think Mother paid good money for her stupid advice.

Just breathe.

You don’t want people to think you’ve just escaped from the crazy house, do you? Although honestly, I’m not sure anyone around here would notice.

Around me toilet doors slam and hand-dryers cut out. Heels click-clack against tiles and girls giggle, shout, stumble, fix each other’s hair, and whisper secrets. There’s a lady sitting at the end of the long row of sinks with a trolley full of hairspray, perfume, lollipops, and condoms.

Should I buy a lollipop?

Pay one pound for a spritz of perfume that smells like a putrefying corpse?

No. I need to get the fuck out of here.

I’m not supposed to be hiding in the bathroom.

I dip my head to the basin and splash lukewarm water on my face. It’s a good thing I didn’t bother with makeup tonight, because it would have been ruined. When I come up for air, I stare for a long moment at my freckled reflection.

Wow, I look like shit.

My dark hair’s up in a messy ponytail, and because I didn’t bother to groom my face, my shaggy eyebrows look like they’re about to start beating each other over my nose.

Should really get around to plucking those one day.

Pale gray eyes peer out between dark lashes as I slowly blink and try to will myself to transform into one of the pretty rave bunnies prancing around outside the door.

Coming to one of the hippest, grungiest clubs in Edinburgh to live out my therapist’s wet dream of triggering my own PTSD…solid fucking plan, Meisie. Truly—there’s a Nobel prize in your future, you can bet on it.

I straighten, push out my small boobs, and force my sequined dress down my curves. It doesn’t help that I feel like a girl playing dress-up in places like this.

Always have, always will.

Even when I’m definitely not a kid anymore.

I push away that treacherous thought before it can take root and plant poison ivy all over my psyche.

I give myself a good hard tap on one cheek, then the other, and blow myself a sarcastic kiss in the mirror.

Asylum’s music slams into me when I open the bathroom door.

I have one goal tonight.

Meisie Ford is getting herself laid by a complete stranger. An evening of wild, dirty, hot sex.

The rougher, the better.

But as I stare out over the packed dance floor, my willpower starts draining again.

I might feel like a kid, but this purple-hued room—reeking of the dusty fog pouring out of a nearby smoke machine—is bursting with actual kids. How the hell did any of these guys get in here?

Some pimple-faced guy isn’t going to do it. I doubt even the guy I originally set out to meet here will cut it.

I need a real man.

Now all I have to do is find one in this packed club.

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