Page 9 of Because of Dylan

He stops mid-bite. “Isn’t that a strip club?”

“Yes. They’re having aMagic Mikenight. And no, I don't make a habit of frequenting strip clubs, but tonight they’re hosting an all-male show, and I thought it would be something different to do.” I got tickets for River and her sister, but River said Skye is on an actual date with a hot cop. Good for her. Skye could use a little spice in her life.

He grins. “I have a few dollar bills if you want to borrow some money.”

I ball up my napkin and throw it at him. He ducks and laughs.

I catch Pat looking at me. I know she notices my hair. I'll need to touch up my roots soon since the honey-blond roots are showing. I’ve been dyeing it darker since I was sixteen. Even if it’s a temporary color, the brown makes me feel less like myself, and the less I am me, the better I feel.

* * *

I walk into Skins, and my stomach rolls. The stink of stale beer and cigarette smoke mingles with the scent of whatever cleaner they use on the floors, and it suffocates me. It smells like broken dreams and hopelessness, forcing old memories to come to mind and creating a time machine of misery I have to remind myself I’m no longer that girl at the mercy of a drunk man who always smelled of alcohol and cigarettes. My chest tightens. I should have known better than to come to a seedy place like this.

I'll need a drink if I'm to stay here for another couple of hours.

I make my way to the bar and get a shot of José Cuervo. José is an old friend that I was first introduced to at the tender age of twelve by one of my mother’s many boyfriends. I lift the glass and silently toast the now-dead loser my mother brought home to live with us. One of many, but the worst by far. I hope he’s rotting in hell.

River finds me as I finish downing my first shot. I slam the glass down.

She raises an eyebrow. “Starting early?”

“Never too early for José.” I smile big and slip into my well-crafted happy-girl persona. I wear it like a shield. No one questions happy people. River sits on the stool next to mine. Her eyes linger on me, and I know she has more to say.

“Happy birthday, best friend. Welcome to the age of legal drinking!” I hug River, and whatever she was about to say is lost in the moment. I don’t give her a chance to try again. “Let’s find the girls.” I grab her hand and pull her along behind me until we find the table I reserved for tonight where two of our friends are already sitting.

Our tiny table, not meant for holding more than a few drinks, is front and center, acting as a poor barrier between us and the stage. River takes a seat, and I follow, sitting across from Sabrina and Juliana. They're a couple, but it's not widely known. They surprised me by wanting to come along when I mentioned my plans for River's birthday. They said they liked dick, just not the men attached to it.

That cracked me up. I can totally understand what they mean even if we don't play for the same team.

A waitress arrives right after we’re settled with the pitcher of sangria I ordered at the bar.

River uses the wooden spoon and plucks out an apple chunk. “Yummy, but I'm not drinking tonight. I have to drive. I’m adulting.” She shouts to be heard over the music pumping through dozens of speakers and the voices of a hundred other excited women.

River rolls her shoulders as if trying to shake something off. She looks around the semi-darkened room. I follow her gaze. She’s spotting all the EXIT signs. She seems as uncomfortable as I feel. I want to escape too, already regretting tonight's choice of entertainment.

I'm about to suggest we go somewhere else when the lights blink and dim even more. The women around us whoop and scream louder. A single spotlight illuminates the stage, revealing a guy wearing very low-cut jeans and no shirt. He's huge and muscular. My stomach clenches, but not in the way one might expect when faced with such a beautifully sculpted body. All I see when I look at him is someone who could easily overpower me. I seehisface. Theodore. My mother’s boyfriend. The thought of him sends pangs of revulsion through me. One of my legs begins bouncing incessantly. I gnash my teeth, breathing in and choking on the heavy air. I close my eyes and grip my knees. Squeeze until my fingernails bite into my skin through my jeans’ fabric. The small pain grounds me, gives me something else to focus on.

The guy on the stage is still talking. Listing all the rules of what we can and can't do. No worries there. I have no intention of getting any closer to these guys. This Magic Mike thing looked way more fun in the movies.

I want another shot, but I won’t. I need to keep my wits about me. I reach for the sangria pitcher and fill my glass with mostly fruit. It looks full, but it's probably less than a third of actual liquid. I sip and try to look like I'm enjoying myself. River looks at me and reaches out to squeeze my hand. The lights go out completely, and the music grows louder. The sound ofPonyby Ginuwine reverberates off the walls and thumps inside my chest.

The screams, the excitement, the loud music, the smells, the lights—it's all too much. I squeeze my eyes shut and swallow down the bile rising in my throat. My heart runs miles inside my chest as if it could replace my feet and escape on its own. Too late now.

The room is closing in on me. I find a spot on the floor and try to concentrate on it, blocking everything else out. It’s not working.

I can’t do this. I have to get out of here. This was a stupid idea. I'll excuse myself and hide in the bathroom until it’s over. Like old times. Like when I locked myself in the bathroom and hid fromhim.

But I don’t have a chance to escape.

Eight men fill the stage. Eight huge men. They’re all dressed in very low-hanging jeans and white T-shirts. Muscles bulging everywhere. Skin glistening under the spotlights. I swallow again. Take a deep breath, but instead of clean, calming air, all I get is a stronger dose of the cigarettes, sweat, and alcohol, even more nauseating as it mingles with the perfume and heat of over a hundred overly excited women.

The men continue to dance in a choreographyof simulated sex. In sync, they rip all their shirts off and fall to the ground. Their movements pick up with the beat of the song. The screams get louder. The pants go next. Easily ripped and dropped to the ground. Golden strips of fabric barely cover their groins. A nervous twitch breaks through my panicked, frozen state. I try to distract myself by thinking about those pants and what are they made of that they can so easily be ripped away. My face heats up, and sweat breaks out on my brow. I probably look like all the other desperate, lonely, and under-sexed women in here.

I'm having a panic attack and on the verge of hysteria—run, run, run, hide, hide, hide—the words play on repeat in my mind like a mantra. But I’m frozen in place. I can’t move a muscle except for the small gasps of air I force myself to suck in through my mouth.

Amid all the excitement, no one can tell. No one but River, that is. Her brows furrow, and she reaches out to me, a tentative hand on my shoulder. I squeeze my eyes shut to hold in the tears. Force more air into my lungs. Hold my breath. Count to ten. Release. Do it again. And again. I open my eyes, and River is watching me, not the men dancing a few yards away. The men who begin to jump off the stage and walk up to the screaming women who grab at them eagerly.

Dizziness overcomes me. I'm so sickened by the entire thing that I don’t notice when one of them approaches me until I feel the presence of a body inches away from me. The smell of sweat and weed slaps me in the face.

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