They say that first impressions are important. They're the lasting impressions. Clearly Brady Creek hadn't paid attention to that saying. As soon as we stepped out of the taxi, we were met with the lovely sight of a scantily clad woman vomiting on the sidewalk!
All along the street, bright lights and loud music abounded from the door to door bars and clubs. Rowdy, raucous crowds of people waited in line to be allowed entry. It was like Amsterdam on crack! Short skirts, tight tops, the type of gritty city atmosphere that made you feel filthy just looking at it. A place where nightmares went to die, or get high and wander off home with the most convenient piece of ass they could find. A true mecca of sin. And I'd only been there a couple of minutes!
"Wow, you weren't lying about this place. It looks like something out of a Tarantino movie," Petr commented, gawking with glee. "I love it already."
It wasn't exactly my scene, but I was in the mood to get a little crazy tonight.
"Where should we go first?"
Petr pointed at a club with the shortest line. "Devil's Highway. With a name like that we can't go wrong."
I wasn't so sure, but went along anyway.
Our wait wasn't long. Once inside, we wasted no time shoving through the mass of drunk, sweaty twenty-somethings to the bar. Eighties and early-nineties music blared from the surrounding sound systems, as blinding colors poured from strobe lights.
"Hilarie would have had a heart attack if I ever brought her to a place like this," I shouted into Petr's ear once we had our drinks. It was the first time I could remember mentioning my ex-girlfriend in months. I chuckled to myself just imagining her face.
"Oh, that reminds me. I saw her the other day, just before I came here. She was leaving the optician's."
"No way!" I burst into laughter. "Doctor Hilarie needs glasses? She'll hate that." It was totally petty of me to react this way, but the irony was hilarious. Hilarie had been adamant that she would never date anyone with glasses, like bad eyesight was an STI or something. For no reason other than she always felt inferior around people who wore them.
"Maybe she was picking them up for someone else."
"I doubt that. How did she look?"
He shrugged. "The same. Overworked, in a hurry. Do you miss her?"
I made a face. "No! Why would I? It took me a while to realize I didn't even like her as a person. I'm still surprised we lasted as long as we did."
"I'm not. You would have stayed with her at least another year if you hadn't fallen in love for real. Because that's who you are. You don't know how to be happy."
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" I cut him a look.
He threw his hands up in defense. "All I'm saying is you were always complaining about how miserable you were, but you never did anything about it. I just think you don't know what happiness is. You'll endure a terrible relationship just...because."
I pondered it for a moment, as Prince's Kiss came on and the club went wild. Had that been my problem all along? That I didn't know how to be happy? I'd been miserable for so long, after losing my whole family, that misery had just become a part of my life. Since the age of twelve, and possibly even before that. I found the thought troubling. If I didn't know what happiness looked like, how would I ever know when to go after it? Or, how would I know if it was already there, and not to take it for granted?
I threw back my drink, suddenly depressed.
My phone vibrated in my purse. I took it out and looked at it even though I knew who was calling. This was the fourth time she'd tried, my devoted girlfriend. Twice in the taxi, and once while we were in line for the club.
"Lissa, answer the damn phone and put her out of her misery!" Petr scolded when he peeked at the screen. Only he could dance, drink and glare at me simultaneously. He had it down to an art.
"I don't want to." I slipped it back in my purse, and proceeded to dance all my troubles away, feeling pleased with myself for distressing Jean with my disappearing act.
We completely let loose after the second drink. The old me never could dance in front of others, because I knew I was terrible at it. Add alcohol to the equation, and I started to forget that I wasn't alone, jiving around the living room. Which was precisely what happened that night. I knew that I would cringe hard the next day at how ridiculous I looked, but when a suitable song came on (and, I'm ashamed to admit, even when an unsuitable one came on) Petr and I started twerking with each other. A party of gay men were suddenly cheering us on, clapping and wolf-whistling, and drawing more attention to us. And when a bunch of people more intoxicated than yourself start cheering, you know you've gone too far.
"Now that's a girl who knows how to party," Petr shouted above the music. He gestured with his head at two girls making out. Like, really making out. The brunette was practically having her face eaten by the blonde in the leather biker jacket. And then they came up for air, and I got a glimpse of their faces.
"Wait, I know that girl. The blonde. Yeah, she's the bitch who almost ran me over." It was her. The same jacket, the same messy blonde bob.
"What, her? No."
"I think I'd remember the person who almost took my life, Pete."
"She's hot."
I glowered at him. "Sure, if you find women who hit and run sexy."
He looked at me with a cheeky smile. "I didn't say sexy, you said sexy..."
Well, it couldn't be denied. That whole leather jacket, messy out of bed hair, and the tight black jeans that looked plastered on, clinging to a pert butt, what wasn't sexy about that? Bad girls had never been my thing; I found the whole thing a bit of a cliche. I liked stability in my relationships, and outlaws, however hot they were, could never provide that.
I turned away quickly when I noticed I was staring. Through my peripheral vision, Petr's grin only widened.
"You're a class act, Lissa."
"I don't know what you're talking about," I said haughtily, a sign that I did indeed know what he was talking about. Girl tried to knock me over, I found her attractive. It must have been an illness.
"Come on, let's get another drink. It's my round."
We hung at the bar while we drank, thankful for the rest. And then a human Ken doll with the cheesiest smile approached Petr and asked him for a dance.
"Are you gonna be all right by yourself?" he said, already walking off. It wouldn't have mattered what I said.
"Sure. I'll be here when you get back." I waved them off and tried not to look like a loser standing all alone in a packed out club.
It's all right, I've got you. You won't desert me, I mentally communicated to my glass of rosé. I went to take a sip.
Someone barged into me just as the rim went to my lips, and the whole thing spilled over my top.
"What the hell?" I screamed, dripping wet, my chest now freezing. And then I looked up to see the culprit. My eyes narrowed to slits of hatred. "You!"
Biker chick stood before me, looking far from contrite, with the most obvious little smile teasing the corners of her mouth. "Oops."
"What is wrong with you? Don't you ever look where you're going?"
"Hey, you should be thanking me. It's actually improved your shirt."
My mouth sprung open in outrage, but no words came out. Shock had rendered me speechless. I clenched my fist, my hands itching to throw a punch and wipe that smug look off her face. I'd never wanted to hit someone so hard in my life.
But she walked away before I could say or do anything.
"Hey, this one's on the house," the barman said, and slid a freshly poured glass of the same rosé to me, accompanied by a sympathetic smile. "You really don't want to go picking fights with that crew."
I thanked him, but was so furious I couldn't enjoy my free drink. Add to that my soaking wet blouse, that was now clinging to my flesh and making me feel yucky.
I drained the glass anyway, every gulp done in anger, and then stormed to the ladies' room to see what could be done about my top.
The bathroom attendant took one look at my shirt, nodded knowingly, then pointed stoically to the dryer. This type of thing must have been a nightly occurrence for her.
I took off my previously cream blouse, and held it under the dryer while inebriated women passed in and out of the stalls behind me. I cursed out loud, my swearing drowned out by the sound of the dryer.
"You're gonna be there for ever, you know," came a voice behind me. I didn't turn around to see who it was, because I didn't care. But then she moved into view, leaned on the wall, beside the dryer, watched me with folded arms and a mischievous smirk. "But by all means, continue. I'm kinda enjoying the view." She looked me up and down, all over. Was I shivering because I was half-naked, or because of her look?
"Go away," I said through gritted teeth.
"I could do that, or I could get you another top. Your choice."
"I don't want anything from you," I spat. If looks could kill...
She chuckled. "Look, I think we got off on the wrong foot."
"What, you mean after you tried to knock me down on your motorcycle, or after you insulted my top?"
She threw up her hands in surrender, still smirking. "If I say I'm sorry will you let me buy you another drink?"
I was glaring into the most unusual eyes I'd ever seen – a blue-gray shade, like stone, something I didn't even know was possible, set around thick black eyeliner. She had a beauty spot just above her lips. A curious, somewhat garish necklace hung from her, composed of odd-looking stones of different sizes and shades of gray. It didn't seem to fit her outfit or cool exterior.
"No," I said, pulling myself out of my trance.
"What, just no? Don't I even get a reason?"
"You need one? I try not to accept drinks from people who try to kill me! You know, it's sort of my thing."
This was all a source of amusement to her. She never once showed any signs of being insulted or annoyed – in contrast to me, who was both.
"I'm Dallas by the way."
"I don't care."
"Ouch. You're actually cute, in a feisty teenager sort of way."
"I'm twenty-four!" Did she just call me cute?
"So am I. We have that in common. If you let me buy you a drink, I'm sure we'll find some other things we have in common."
Was she really trying to flirt with me? After what she'd done? She must have been insane.
"No, thanks."
Suddenly a blonde girl burst into the room, and grabbed her arm. "Dallas, we gotta go. Sara got into a fight with some guys, and now she wants to go after them."
Girls fighting guys? Who were these people? Certainly no one I wanted to associate with. The barman was right – I didn't want to go picking a fight with them.
"Maybe we'll see each other again," Dallas said as she made her way to the door.
"I hope not."
She only laughed, then hurried out with her friend. I was left shaking my head in wonderment and slight amusement, while the dryer continued to blast my sodden top.
"Dallas." I tutted. "I mean, what sort of name is that anyway? And I'm pretty sure she only wanted me to say yes just so she could say 'psych!' or whatever." It was a little after three and our cab was approaching the manor. The ride back to Greenfields had sobered me up. Or was it my nonstop jabber? I didn't know.
"So you didn't say yes to the drink? I thought you said you got a replacement."
I sighed. "No, I did, but not from her. The barman gave it to me. I told you."
"Oh, right. So what's the problem?" Petr yawned, his voice heavy with sleep.
"The problem is that she thought, after everything she'd done to me – the motorcycle, spilling my drink all over me – that she could just say a few cheesy things and I would be putty in her hands."
"Okay, but you've been talking about her literally the whole journey home, so..."
"Yeah, only because I wanted to convey how much of a jerk she was. I can't believe she ever thought I would find that whole detached bad girl act cool or sexy."
"You're using that word again, Lissa."
I opened my mouth to protest, but the cab stopped.
"This the address? You guys live here?" the driver asked, incredulously, peering out of his window into the lit up grounds of Canterbury Manor. I didn't blame him for asking. He must have thought we were two drunk college students playing a prank on him.
I stuffed some notes into his hand, said thanks, and dragged Petr out of the car with me.
"What are you implying?" I fished out my keys. Behind us, the cab driver waited and watched, likely out of curiosity, to see if we did actually live there.
"I don't know anymore, Lissa. Just open the door."
I opened the door, looked back at the driver, gave him a smug smile, then closed the door behind us.
"I'm going to sleep like the dead tonight," Petr went on, and started up the stairs like a zombie.
I hung back, checking my phone. Twenty missed calls, three voice messages, all from Jean. Crap, I was in trouble.
As soon as I got to the top of the stairs, and Petr closed his door behind him, I saw her waiting outside her bedroom, arms crossed, face unreadable.
I braced myself for the lecture I was about to receive, breathed in more oxygen especially for it. I'd really screwed up this time. Worst thing of all, I was too sober to not give a damn.
She just stood there looking at me, saying nothing. It freaked me out. What was she thinking? Why wasn't she shouting at me?
So I decided to go first. "Look, I was at a club and I didn't hear my phone going off. I'm sorry I missed your calls." For some reason I sensed that she knew I was lying to her. Her face didn't change; she stayed silent, barely even breathing. So pale and beautiful and elegant in her nightgown. Always the same. Why did she have to be so perfect, and as a result make me feel much worse than I already did?
She cleared her throat a little, and I thought she would say something, but...more silence.
"I should have called to let you know where I was, that I was okay. I know that."
"I didn't even think you noticed I'd left the restaurant. You were so caught up in your work, with Nadine..." I tried my best to keep the accusatory tone out of my voice, but it was obvious. I couldn't even say Nadine's name without having an attitude about it.
"But I'm all right. Look, I'm here now. In one piece. Completely safe. God, say something, Jean," I said shrilly, desperately.
And she did. Very simply, without any emotion at all. "Goodnight, Lissa." Then she turned and entered her room, closing me out.
I stood on the cold, lonely landing, perplexed, mouth agape. Goodnight, Lissa? Good-fucking-night, Lissa? What sort of reaction was that? Twenty missed calls and all I got was a dispassionate goodnight?
I tore across the hallway and charged into her room. She was already back in bed with her book, and she didn't even do me the courtesy of looking up.
"What the hell was that?"
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"You called me a million times, and now that I'm here you don't have anything to say other than goodnight?"
"What else would you like me to say?" Her eyes were fixed on the pages of her stupid book.
"I don't know, but not goodnight."
She carried on reading until I ripped the book from her hands. And then she looked at me, her expression impossible to read.
"May I have my book back?"
"No. We're talking." I slammed the book on the chest of drawers, away from her, like a spoiled kid trying to annoy their parent.
"I think I've said all I had to say tonight. It would be best if you went to your room and slept it off."
"I'm not going anywhere. Or had you forgotten that this is my room too. That's what you said when we first moved here."
She stood up. "I'm not going to fight with you, so if that's what you came here for, you're wasting your time."
I narrowed my eyes at her, wanting to kiss her so badly, but instead stepped around her and climbed into the bed. I scooted down to the other side, leaving her space free. It may have been in my head, but I thought I saw a smirk just as she turned around to look at me.
"So now you're sleeping in here?"
"For tonight at least. Got a problem with that?"
She shrugged. "You can do whatever you want. You always do."
If she knew how much I wanted her, how powerful the throbbing between my legs was, it probably would have frightened her. The feeling only worsened after she retrieved her book and climbed in beside me. Dallas became a distant memory, just like everyone did when Jean was around.
Her leg was lightly touching mine, and I snuggled a little closer to her so that we were really touching. She didn't object, nor did she move. I highly doubted she was reading her book.
"Goodnight," I said.
"Goodnight, Lissa." The same words that had moments earlier infuriated me, now soothed me. They no longer carried the same connotations. The tone had changed completely.
I wanted to believe that as soon as I fell asleep she put her book aside and cuddled me until the sun started coming up. That was what she used to do, and I would wake up in the middle of the night and feel her arms around me.
It was crazy how much those little things still meant to me.