Page 14 of I Blame the Club

Trip winces as her boyfriend drops to the floor and tries to do the worm in the middle of the dance circle. This is the third time tonight he’s tried this move and it looks just as terrible as the last two tries. I could blame the lack of coordination on the fourshots of tequila he’s had, but I know for a fact that Wes has been practicing this move since we were teenagers.

Spoiler alert: It’s never gotten better.

“Dude! You need to find a new move.” I crack up as Wes rejoins us, his white t-shirt stained with God knows what substances were on the floor.

“And a new shirt.” Trip steps away from him and earns herself drunk puppy dog eyes.

“But wasn’t that better than the last try?”

Trip shoots me a panicked look, so I step in, “It was worse. So much worse.”

“Awe man.” Wes looks genuinely disappointed, so Trip accepts the risk of an infectious disease and wraps him in a hug.

I laugh, “Cheer up, man. Now you’ve got room for improvement.”

Wes grins, his dimples making an appearance, “That’s true.”

Lights flash around us as the opening notes to a Pitbull song comes on. A new wave of energy hits the crowd as the well-known lyrics are screamed from every corner of the nightclub.

I laugh, throwing up my arms and letting myself be swept away with the music. Sweat drips down my back as I jump and dance with the strangers around me. Vertical strands of lights hang down from the arched ceiling, the bulbs changing colour with each new song. A red haze hits the room when the song fades into the next, triggering another bout of energy to wash over the room.

A winding staircase occupies the back corner of the nightclub, a section catered only to the super rich or the super famous. The railing has strands of leaves woven throughout, blending in with the nature theme thatLifestyleis known for. Even the drinks come with some sort of leaf or flower addition, each one stamped with the club’s logo.

Trip was so excited when her Dark & Stormy cocktail came with a daisy, she snapped a picture and immediately put it on her social media.

Ah, heterosexuals.

I’m in the middle of a terrible Mr. Brightside rendition with an incredibly handsome black man when someone calls for my attention.

“NICO!”

The shout drags my attention from the glistening dark skin begging for a taste. I turn to see Wes gesturing towards the exit.

“Trip and I are going to head out. Do you want us to call you a ride?”

I wave him off, “I had two shots in the last four hours. Even if I wasn’t a river of sweat, it would have worn off by now.”

He nods, throwing an arm around Trip. She gives me a knowing look, “Be careful, Nico. Text us when you get home.”

I shimmy over and plant a big kiss on her forehead, “You're the sweetest. I’ll jam out to a couple more songs then head home. Go take care of our boy.”

She nods and leads Wes through the crowd. I turn back and find my dance partner lip locked with an equally attractive blonde. I watch them go at it, getting hornier by the second before turning away with a sigh.

I really should be getting home.

Groaning at my sudden ability to be responsible, I head for the exit. I spy Raphael pushing someone out the door and quickly swerve for the side door to avoid unnecessary contact.

Cold air hits my sweat-soaked body when I push through the door, raising goosebumps on every inch of exposed skin. I sigh happily as I make my way towards the car, the cool breeze blowing through my damp hair.

Nothing beats the rush ofLifestyle.

I turn off the music as I make my way home, the ringing in my ears and leftover adrenalin giving me more than enough fuel to stay awake. My stomach lets out a growl about halfway through the drive, and a quick glance at my fuel tells me I’m running low.

Gas up, grab a snack, and then crash in bed. Sounds like the tamest Friday night I’ve had in a while.

I pull into the next gas station I see, parking at the fuel station next to a massive, souped-up Cadillac. Groaning, I quickly register the BC plates and the warrior-sized shadow moving past the convenience store windows.

Out of all the gas stations I could have stopped at, I ended up at the same one as Maurice O’Brien. Typical.

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