Page 50 of I Love to Hate You
Thirty-Two
~ MAYA~
My reflection in the mirror puts a smile on my face, and seeing myself smile sends joy to my heart. I haven't worn this dress in so long that I wasn't sure if it was still going to fit, but it’s the only one of its kind that I own, and this is a special enough occasion for me to break it out—a night out with my new work colleagues … and Kendrick. Just the thought of him sends goosebumps skittering across my flesh. He is going to be there tonight, probably looking better than ever, dressed in whatever he deems worthy to go out in. I can already picture him standing across from me with that look in his eyes, that twinkle that tells me he’s ready to take control and bend me to his will. God, I didn't realize that all I ever wanted was a man who could bend me to his will. It’s so hot I can barely stand it, and I already feel an addiction for it forming beneath the surface of my skin.
I take another moment to assess my outfit: a white bandage dress that stops mid-thigh, with the upper torso made of criss-crossing rope, putting the middle of my chest and upper stomach on display. It’s a club dress if there ever was one, and with my hair perfectly styled and my makeup doing what it does, I’m feeling good. I have new friends from work and have successfully shown my skills to my boss with a successful pitch. I have a knack for marketing, and it’s so incredible to watch all of my hard work starting to pay off. It’s a beautiful beginning to my life after college, and I’m ready to dive into it head-first.
I climb the stairs from the basement to the main floor and step into the hall to find my father sitting in his usual spot in the living room. I close my door and walk toward him, part of me hoping he asks what I’m dressed up for so I can tell him about my pitch, but his eyes stay glued to the TV. He has been on this same bullshit for a long time now, so I’m very used to being ignored by him, but it still sends ripples of frustration shooting from the center of my body out to every limb.
I sigh and roll my eyes as I place my hand on the front door knob. “Well, I’m going out. Not that it matters, but I’ll be back later than usual. I hope you have a good night, Dad. Bye.”
He clears his throat, but silence follows so I assume he has nothing to say, but when I turn the knob, he finally speaks.
“Dressed like that?” he asks without even turning around to see me.
I look down at my dress and frown. “What do you mean?”
“Oh, nothing,” he says. “Your mother didn’t have to wear stuff like that to getmyattention, but you're dressed like the whore I always knew you’d become. Good luck landing a good man wearing that.”
The contents of my stomach come to a boil in a flash. “Excuse me? Did you just call me a whore because of the dress I’m wearing?”
“Don’t worry about it,” he says, dryly. “Go out and have yourself a good time. If your boss is there and asks for a blowjob, give it to him so you can get a raise and move out sooner. Then you won't have to hear what I think about your dress.”
Tears quickly fill my eyes as the shock of what he just said hits me like a backhand.
“God, what is wrong with you?” I snap. “Why would you talk to your daughter that way over a dress? You barely looked at me when I walked by, and you're sitting there swimming in your own stench and filth, but you somehow have the audacity to judge me based onmyappearance, ruining my fucking good mood. I don't understand how my mother ever loved somebody like you.”
Dad finally turns around in his seat, and he is snarling. “Oh, you’ve got a lot to say for someone who’s about to walkoutof the house, standing by the door with your hand on the knob so you can run from the consequences of your words.”
“What do you want me to do, go in the living room and fight you?” I bark.
“The only thing I want you to do is get out of my life.”
“Trust me, I’m working on it as fast as I can, because you are the fucking bane of my existence. Thanks for ruining my night before it even has a chance to begin.”
“My pleasure,” he screams as I open the door. “It’s the least I can do for you ruining my fucking life!”
Just as his last words land, I slam the door shut and cry my way to the car.
* * *
Club Asylum is one of the most packed nightclubs in all of Philadelphia. It’s always popping here, with a long row of people standing outside and trying to get in to be a part of the craziness that goes on behind those massive black doors. The club is known for two things: its chaotic energy—featuring blaring music and a sea of bodies that have consumed cocktails of drugs, and the flow of known criminals who seem to frequent the place—none more popular than alleged criminal mastermind, Solomon King. This man has been accused of everything from bank robbery to murder, but nothing has ever stuck to him, so he’s still operating his nightclub and living his best life, surrounded by an ocean of people who double as both club-goers and fans of his legend.
I don't know how Chad, of all people, managed to get the six of us inside, but he pulled it off. The group of us have to push through an impatient crowd to make our way in, but once we clear the front doors, the music booms through what sounds like a thousand speakers, and the dark atmosphere is all-consuming. People dance in every nook and cranny they can fit into, and I’ve honestly never seen a place so full of excitement. The club is filled to the brim, and I can’t think of a better environment for us to celebrate our pitches, or for me to blow off steam from what my father just put me through.
My head still hurts from crying in the car, but I managed to shut off the waterworks before I parked in the expansive lot of the club. I fixed my makeup in the visor mirror and just hoped that the dim lighting of the club would shadow my eyes enough to make the red in them less visible. By the time I reached the group, all traces of my father's bullshit were no longer on my face, although I’m still feeling every bit of what he said to me.
Kendrick, being the last to arrive, stands at the back of the group while I’m behind Chad at the front. We haven't had a chance to speak to each other yet because we started pushing our way through the crowd, but I’ve seen enough of him to know he’s sporting a red button-up with black flowers running down the outer edge of the right side and up the right sleeve, and black pants. He has had a fresh haircut and his beard is lined up perfectly. Just as I figured he would, he looks incredible while still carrying around an air of invincibility with him as we reach the bar and regroup, making sure we’ve got everyone.
“This is all of us, right?” Samantha says, pointing at each of us to count up to six. “Good, okay, let’s order some drinks and get upstairs. Chad got us into VIP, so we have a table up there with our names on it. He’s going to go up and make sure we didn’t get our spot stolen first. Everybody order so we can get out of this rowdy ass crowd and get to where we have more space.”
“Seriously, I can’t even hear myself think,” Erica says. The look on her face says she’s not having a good time at all yet.
“Plus, I’m pretty sure every one of us would get roofied down here,” Chad says dryly.
I move to the bar and squeeze my way between two men seated on circular bar stools so I can order my drink, but both bartenders are on the other side of the bar helping customers down there. All six of us end up standing there staring at the bartenders without being helped, and to my dismay, my first interaction comes from one of the men I stepped between a second ago. He looks at me with an expression people get when they’ve had so much to drink that they barely know who or where they are, and the second he opens his mouth, I’m hit in the face with the stench of his liquor and plaque-flavored breath.
“Damn,” he exclaims, looking me up and down with no regard to the clear discomfort on my face. “Girl, you're finer than a box of matches.”
