Page 3 of Wicked Lies Grow Wildflowers
I snort, rolling my eyes at her dramatics and the very unrealistic expectation she has set for me. I don’t think I’d ever want to tell my grandchildren about meeting a man at a club.
Hard pass, Sage.
We walk up to the unmarked club doors and say this weekend’s password before being let in by the bouncer. This is Sage’s favorite spot. The White Rabbit is kind of like a speakeasy-club hybrid. After entering the front door, we walk down a short hallway to a second set of doors that are buzzed open. Unnecessary? Yes. Another layer of fun? Absolutely.
I can feel the bass pumping through me once we enter the actual club. To the left side of the room are rows of leather booths with velvet curtains draped on each side, some closed for privacy. The energy in here is palpable and I take in the bodies filling the booths, surrounding the pool tables, dancing, and lining the bar. We find a couple of empty seats at the bar and Sage calls over a bartender for our drinks. She orders my usual Moscow mule and her vodka cranberry. We down our drinks and order another round, not wanting to take things slow tonight. We are in full on celebration mode.
One of the best things about the White Rabbit is that they play the best indie and alternative rock, skipping all of the overplayed mainstream pop found at most bars in the area. When the next song starts, Sage squeals with excitement. “Let’sgo dance!” She doesn’t give me the chance to answer before tugging me through the sea of sweaty bodies, our drinks in tow.
Once we start dancing, the drinks go down easy and two turns into three. A guy comes up behind Sage and starts grinding up against her. She gives him a devious smile and presses herself tight against him. She quickly forgets I’m there at all, lost in her own world and forever the main character. I take that as my cue to go to the restroom.
I walk towards the small hall that leads to the bathrooms, enjoying the space I’m afforded away from the hot and stuffy mass of bodies. I spot the restroom sign and as I round the corner, I run right into a solid mass of a person.
“Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry! I wasn’t paying attention,” I rush out, a little slur lacing my words as the alcohol takes effect. I take a step back, looking up into sharp gray eyes.
In front of me stands a man who’s height towers over me, and though I’m not really a short woman, he’s got at least six inches on me, placing him around six feet even. He’s broad and his biceps stretch the sleeves of the gray t-shirt he’s wearing. My eyes snag on the tattoos peeking out from under one of his sleeves and then slide down his body, taking in his distressed jeans and boots, before looking back up and making note of his sharp jawline, clean shaven face, and messy brown hair. He’s clearly fit, though not too bulky, and absolutely striking.
“Are you going to stare at me all night or move out of the way?” His deep voice sends a chill through my entire body, the rumble of it curling my toes.
“Right, sorry. I am seriously so sorry,” I repeat. Great. I am clearly flustered and absolutely embarrassing myself.
I move to the side and stumble a step. The stranger reaches out a hand, grabbing hold of my upper arm and steadying me so I don’t faceplant. A jolt shoots through me at the contact. Normally I’d attribute the feeling to fear or discomfort.Considering my upbringing, I don’t tend to react well to random physical contact, but I can’t help wondering if the electric feeling is caused by something more. I don’t dwell on it for more than a second, realizing he only grabbed me because he thinks I can’t walk, which is a fair assumption at this point with the amount of alcohol swimming through my veins.
“Someone can’t handle their alcohol. Maybe be more careful? You never know who’s waiting around for a woman to take advantage of.”
The stranger says it in a menacing tone, echoing the same thoughts I often have when I’m alone at night. I don’t know if it’s a threat, but it definitely felt like one.
Yuck, this is part of why I hate going out. There are always so many creepy ass men.
His comment hits me like a bucket of ice water, instantly sobering me. “Right. So, get the hell off of me,” I snap, yanking my arm from his grip before stalking into the bathroom, not bothering to spare him a second glance.
So. Fucking. Weird.
I fluffmy hair and blot my face in the bathroom mirror, still uncomfortable from the whole encounter with the rude, slightly intimidating, slightly creepy, butdefinitelyattractive man. Exiting the bathroom I make sure no one is in my way this time and then head back to the dance floor, looking for Sage with every step, but she’s nowhere to be found. Maybe she’s already left for the night? It wouldn’t surprise me, girl’s got some serious game. I check my phone and see a message from her twenty minutes ago.
11:15 pm: Hey Mae, I linked up with one of my previous hookups ;) I don’t mean to ditch you on your birthday so call me if you want me to come back or pick you up! We’re only five minutes away.
Ugh.Great.Just what I needed, being ditched on my birthday, leaving me stranded, drunk, and utterly alone. Totally against girl code, Sage. My vision sways as I reread her message and think up a reply that isn’t too bitchy. I text back, just mildly annoyed, and let her know it’s fine and I’ll Uber home.
So much for a fun celebratory girls night out together.
I can’t say I blame her for achieving the goal she had set for tonight. Good for her—at least one of us is getting laid—but I selfishly don’t want to be here by myself. I’m not a social butterfly and making friends with other drunk girls in the bathroom doesn’t seem appealing. My warm bed and quiet room is sounding really, really good right now. But considering itismy birthday, I decide I deserve another drink. Just one more. Plus, I don’t feel sad when I’m intoxicated. A bad coping mechanism, I’m sure, but hey, it’s one night. Making my way back to the bar, I elbow my way through a crowd surrounding a pool table, trying my best to not step on any toes.
Once I snag my final drink, I down it, feelingreally, reallygood. So good, in fact, that the dance floor seems to be calling my name. Fuck it, I can have fun on my own, I’m already here anyways.
My tipsy brain is way more enjoyable than my far too rational sober one—why ruin a perfectly fine night by leaving early?
The weird encounter earlier leaves my mind as my vision gets fuzzy around the edges and the room spins. So, maybe fourdrinks wasn’t a good idea after all, but it feels freeing to lose a little focus and, therefore, a little stress. I deserve this.
The music is entrancing as I close my eyes and sway my body, dancing amidst the crowd. I’m lost in the music when hands set themselves on my waist and a body presses firmly against me. The heat of the moment feels euphoric. I haven’t been touched like this in so long and I find myself leaning into it, dancing against this total stranger. I’m suddenly so glad I stayed.
One song fades to the next and we keep moving together, a sweat working itself up across my body, and it's not just from the exertion. The hands continue to grip my hips, thumbs brushing beneath the waistband of my jeans. I flush at the thought of being this close to someone I don’t know while we dance so intimately with one another. I soak up the rare attention, knowing it’s something I normally never allow. The need to see who has me this out of my element, this open and willing to let another so close, overcomes me. As I rotate my body, the hands and heat against my back suddenly disappear. Whoever was there is gone in an instant, leaving me flushed, alone, and a little irritated.
As soon asmy dance partner deserted me, I took an Uber home to my apartment, letting Sage know I made it home safely so she wouldn’t worry about me ending up onDatelineorForty-Eight Hours. If I did though, it would totally be her fault.
I stumble up my steps, trying not to faceplant in my heels. Reaching my apartment door, I jumble with my keys, willing my vision to stabilize so I can get the key in the doorknob. Afterseveral failed attempts and a few swear words, I finally get it, rushing inside.
The moment I reach my bedroom, I kick off my heels, not caring that they go flying across my room and hit the wall. I groan as I peel off my tight pants, my feet getting stuck in them before I finally manage to kick them off completely. Each layer gone feels amazing and I’m relieved to be out of my sweaty clothes. I throw my hair up into a messy bun before turning on the shower and stepping into a cool stream of water, washing away the sweat that clings to me and the grimy feeling the club always leaves me with.
