Chapter Five

The club reverberated with techno sounds. Laser lights of all colors danced to the beat, crisp in the smoke-filled air. People gyrated in rhythmic flow, drinking, laughing, and yelling to converse. I weaved through the sweaty, swaying bodies to the bar.

The bartender leaned over. “What are you having?”

“A purple passion,” I screamed back.

He nodded, snatched a glass from a stack, spun it through his fingers, and landed it on the block in one fluid motion. He grabbed two bottles by their necks, one with clear liquid, another with grape juice, and mixed them in the glass. Next, he sprayed it with seltzer water, dropped a cherry inside, and then slid the tumbler across to me.

I handed him a twenty-dollar bill across the counter. “Keep it.” Then I winked and turned to the room. The cell phone in my back pocket buzzed for the incessant sixth or seventh time. I gave in and glanced at the screen:

—Where are you? Remember, we’re having dinner together.—

Meredith. I groaned. No way did I feel like going home right now—especially to her. This morning shook me a bit. I should never have let myself feel something. I knew better. Stay out of the past. It hurt too much. Live for the now. Only do what made me happy. Meredith did not make me happy. Like a designer knock-off, she could not be a real replacement for something I loved.

Dad could have had any woman, and who did he pick? A hippie, part-time waitress at a local greasy spoon diner in the lower-east end of Los Angeles. How trite. Single mom, clearly hurting for money, flirting with a newly widowed man. Disgusting. Shame on her. I laid the phone facedown on the counter and glanced at the fairly attractive guy sliding toward me. With a flick of his head, he sent dark bangs out of his face, revealing two chocolate-brown eyes at half-mast. I let my stare travel down to his chiseled abs clearly visible through his taut black T-shirt.

“Hi,” he said.

“Hi, yourself.” I kept my gaze over the rim of the glass, as I sipped the drink in my hand.

“What are you having?” he slurred.

“Whatever you want to buy me.” I grinned a seductive smile, setting the empty tumbler onto the counter.

He turned and waved to the bartender. “Two Tom Collins, please.”

“Good choice.” I leaned into him and smiled.

A different bartender walked up this time and glowered. “ID.”

I reached into my purse and plucked out my fake driver’s license. I had to do a lot of flirting to get this card, but some nerd actually bought that I’d hang out with him if he got it for me. Never did. Don’t need to. Besides, I’d be twenty-one soon. Like anything would change in that amount of time. I’d still be the same person—lonely and sad, in need of a drink.

The husky bartender glanced at it, then walked away, returning with two tall, clear glasses, topped them with a lime, and slid them across the counter.

The guy paid, then leaned on his elbow. “I’m Pete.”

“Thanks for the drink, Pete.” I blew a kiss at his cheek, rose from the stool, and sauntered away. I sensed his stare burning into my back, but I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of turning around. I swallowed until the glass became empty, and then tricked another guy into another one. Of course, I could easily pay for my own drinks. After all, I had a few $100 bills tucked in my purse, but where was the fun in that?

I squeezed between a couple of brothers on a couch and smiled at each of them. They, of course, bought me a few rounds of whiskey sours. My head whirled, the room swayed below my feet, but another guy across the room motioned with a wave of a finger to join him. I allowed him to buy me a beer. I chased that down with another shot of something gross that burned my throat. At this point, my legs wavered beneath me, and I struggled to remain vertical. But my thoughts had finally numbed. No more pain, which was the way I liked it.

My phone buzzed in my pocket again. I held the screen close, squinted, and read, Dad. With some effort, I stumbled to the restroom with the floor blurring and swaying, to finally answer it. “Hi, Dad. What’s up?” I slurred.

“Where are you, Cynthia?”

“Out.”

“Meredith said she is worried sick. You were supposed to be home hours ago.”

I rolled my eyes. “I’m fine.”

“Where are you?”

“The Generation’s Bar on Fourth.” I slapped a hand over my mouth, then mouthed, Shoot!”

“Bar? Cindy, you’re only twenty.”

“Don’t worry; they wouldn’t let me in,” I lied.

“I’m sending a limo. You better take it.”

“Yes, sir.” I saluted the air.

“I’m warning you, Cynthia.”

“I see that. Look, I am an adult and—”

The line cut dead.

“Dad?” I blew through my lips. Real nice, Dad. Hang up. Super mature. “And you think I’m the childish one?” I staggered back through the crowd and out to the parking lot. A blast of cool air licked my damp skin, and I regretted not bringing a jacket. Of course, I usually didn’t. They concealed my curves, and I detested carrying them.

A valet started to approach me, but I held up a hand. “Back off, dude. My limo is coming.”

The guy shook his head and crossed back to the booth.

Suddenly, the ground shifted beneath my weight. My head swirled in indistinct colors. Nausea surged through my stomach. I cringed at the burning poison in my throat. I swallowed against the bile and begged my body not to puke. I despised vomiting. Especially when it got in my hair. So gross. I leaned my forehead against the building, hoping to still the world beneath my feet.

The club door opened behind me, sending music and joviality pouring out for a moment. I peered to the side at whoever had exited the building and frowned.

Pete staggered straight for me. Too drunk to escape, he drew alongside my cheek and murmured, “So, you like to trick men into paying for your drinks, huh?”

The stench of sweat and alcohol permeated my nose, and I swallowed not to gag. “Why not?” I laughed, flipping away.

He shuffled around to the front of me and brought an arm to the wall by my face.

Suddenly, my tummy curdled. Burning stomach acid mixed with too many drinks and a handful of nuts spewed from my mouth to his feet.

He jumped back, eyes wide, then they tapered. He stepped over the mess and grabbed my wrist, hard.

My heart accelerated. I shook my arm to wrench free, but my muscles were too weak in their drunken state to do any good. “Let go! You’re hurting me.”

“Good. Maybe you’ll think twice next time.” He yanked me toward him.

Unable to balance, I fell into his chest.

His free hand traveled down my body.

Panicked, I opened my mouth to yell.

He clamped his hand over my lips.

I couldn’t breathe. I called him names, muffled by his hand.

He hissed in my ear, “Shut up, or—”

Someone yanked me back and punched Pete’s jaw, sending him sprawling hard to the cement.

Blood trickled from a slight cut on the drunk guy’s upper lip. He glanced up, mouth open, eyes wide.

My hero leveled a foot taller than Pete and had at least twenty pounds more muscle. This would not be a fair fight. The dude must have come to the same conclusion because he scrambled backward, up, and staggered back inside the building without another word or glance back.

My knight turned around.

I frowned. Of course, it had to be the new limo driver.

He held out a hand. “You okay?”

“Fine,” I snapped, more embarrassed than anything. I took his hand to stand, then jerked it back, toppled toward the long car, and waited for him to open the door.

He let out audible sigh, then crossed to let me in.

As the door closed, I heard him mutter, “Thank you, Henry.”

“Why should I have to say thank you? Just do your job.” I lay back on the seat and closed my eyes, wanting to sleep forever.