Page 2 of Ghost Of You

“I’m good,” I reply. “How’s the wife and kids?”

“Same old, same old,” he responds with a smile. “Anyway, I’m due for a new session for some fillers. I’ll give you a call this week to set it up if that’s alright with you?”

“Absolutely!” I grin. “Just shoot me your availability, and I’ll find a slot for you.”

“Sweet!” Sam says, opening the glass door. “And hey, you guys head straight in. Let the woman at the counter know you’re with me—she’ll hook you up with a discount.”

“Thanks, Sam,” I say with a smile as I walk past him, Ethan and Jasper following closely behind. We push through the glass doors and head inside, eager to enjoy the night.

As we make our way deeper into the club, we navigate through a corridor adorned with glittery black walls and pink strobe lights. The faint hum of rock music grows louder as we approach the main area. We pause outside a booth where a woman in her early twenties sits behind a small counter on a stool. Her tight top and layers of makeup make her stand out, though not necessarily in a flattering way.

“Tenner each,” she says, her gum popping loudly as she chews with her mouth wide open.

I have a pet peeve about people chewing with their mouths open. It’s one of those little things that just gets under my skin.

Ethan steps up, clearly unfazed. “We’re with Sam. He told us to mention it.”

The woman looks Ethan up and down, rolling her eyes dramatically. “Fine,” she says with a huff, tapping away on the screen. “Fiver each.”

I reach for my wallet, but Ethan is already tossing fifteen pounds onto the counter. “I’ll cover this. You two can buy me a drink,” he says with a grin.

“Deal,” Jasper chuckles, as I slide my wallet back into my pocket.

The woman looks up at me, chewing her gum noisily. “Hands,” she commands, causing me to grimace. Her attitude is already grating on my nerves.

“What’s your problem?” she snaps when she notices my reaction.

“Nothing,” I reply curtly, eager to get this over with.

“Give me your hand, then,” she says with a sarcastic edge.

What the fucks her problem?

I extend my hand, but she immediately frowns and sighs. “A hand I can stamp that hasn’t got a fucking tattoo on it.”

“Both of my hands are tattooed,” I respond, turning my right hand over to show a clear patch of skin on my wrist. “So, I guess you’ll have to stamp the inside of my right wrist.”

She rolls her eyes again but reluctantly stamps my wrist, then turns her attention to Ethan, who is now leaning casually against the counter.

“Am I going to have the same issue with you?” she asks, her tone dripping with disdain.

“Nope,” Ethan replies with a playful wink.

Unfortunately for him, her expression doesn’t soften. “Not in a million years, pretty boy.”

As the woman stamps their hands, I glance down at my wrist to see the club's logo—a lightning bolt with the name “Laser” in the middle—blending seamlessly with my existing tattoos. I idly wonder if having a club logo tattooed would earn you free entry for life. Not that it’s a practical idea—though I do have a fair share of tattoos that some might consider ridiculous.

A gentle nudge brings me back to the moment. I look up to see Ethan nodding towards the club entrance, signalling that it's time to go in. As we approach the next set of doors, the thundering rock music becomes almost unbearable, the kind of volume that could burst your eardrums if you’re too close to the speakers.

The crowd inside is thick and pulsating. Every step forward requires us to manoeuvre through a sea of people dancing, chatting, and drinking heavily. The strobe lights above cast shifting rainbow patterns across the packed dance floor, adding to the chaotic atmosphere.

Once we finally break free from the dense crowd, the air around us feels stifling, almost suffocating. It’s clear the placehas probably exceeded its capacity, but who cares about safety when the party’s this wild?

We make our way to the bar, where I take in the mirrored wall lined with bottles of vodka and trays of lime and lemon wedges, prepared for a night of heavy drinking. From what I can see, they’re anticipating a busy night—there must be at least twenty to thirty boxes of vodka stacked behind the counter.

As we wait to be served, I notice Ethan’s gaze fixed on something—or rather, someone. I turn to see a waitress with six-inch heels, a short black leather skirt, and a tiny pink top that barely covers her chest. Her purple hair is styled in a high ponytail, and her cherry red lipstick stands out as she balances a tray of shots. It’s clear Ethan has found his target for the night.

To snap Ethan out of his trance, I nudge him with my elbow. He glances at me momentarily before turning his attention back to the waitress, who’s selling shots to a group of young guys who can’t seem to tear their eyes away from her cleavage.

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