#50
The bass didn’t just thrum—it claimed Christina’s chest, pounding through her ribs in a rhythm so raw it felt older than thought. Each beat reverberated through her spine, settling low in her gut, as essential and undeniable as a heartbeat.
Sweat slicked her skin, a sheen born not only of heat and movement, but of a volatile blend of cheap tequila, loud music, and the intoxicating relief of not having to be careful for once.
Neon lights slashed through the dark like restless blades—electric blues, violent pinks, sickly greens—painting the nightclub in constant motion. Perfume hung thick in the air, sharp and expensive, tangled with something more honest beneath it: sweat, alcohol, and unrestrained energy. It was messy. It was loud. It was perfect.
This was her element.
Out there—beyond these walls—Christina measured her words, moderated her posture, kept her voice even and her expressions neutral. Out there, restraint was expected. Here, it evaporated.
“Another round, Chrissy!”
Maya’s voice bulldozed through the noise, boosted by a laugh that belonged more to a rowdy sports bar than a club. She slapped her palm against the sticky tabletop for emphasis, nearly tipping over an abandoned glass.
Her eyes gleamed with the reckless confidence of someone who had already decided tonight was going to be a bad idea—and embraced it.
Christina snorted, turning toward the bar just in time to catch her warped reflection in the mirrored surface. Her ponytail had long since surrendered, dark strands plastered to her temples and neck.
The oversized band t-shirt clung damply at the collar, stretched loose and comfortable over her shoulders. Her jeans were scuffed and worn, far removed from the sensible clothes she usually favored.
“You guys are gonna have me crawling home,” she yelled back, lifting her glass in surrender.
“Promises, promises!” Chloe shot back.
Their mugs collided in a clumsy toast—glass on glass, liquid sloshing dangerously close to the rim. Maya, Chloe, and Sarah crowded the small circular table with her, loud and unapologetic, occupying space without a shred of hesitation.
The dance floor nearby was a heaving mass of women—different shapes, styles, and attitudes blending into a single, pulsing organism. They moved with loose shoulders and confident hips, unbothered by judgment. Some danced badly on purpose. Others danced like they owned the floor. Laughter cut through the music in sharp bursts, overlapping conversations creating a constant, chaotic roar.
Men dotted the edges of the room instead—clustered near walls, tending bar, weaving through the crowd with trays held carefully level. Most kept their heads down, shoulders tight, eyes flicking up only briefly before retreating again.
Christina noticed one of them then.
A young man with striking blue eyes navigated the tables, balancing a tray of neon-colored cocktails with meticulous care. His movements were precise, almost rehearsed, like he was afraid of taking up too much space. When a group of women laughed too loudly nearby, he flinched—just a little.
He smiled when he reached a table, polite and practiced, but a faint blush crept across his cheeks as several pairs of eyes lingered on him longer than necessary.
“Look at him,” Maya murmured, nudging Christina with her elbow. “He’s so… earnest.”
Christina followed her gaze. The word fit. There was something openly vulnerable about him—about the way he avoided eye contact, the way his fingers tightened briefly on the tray when someone brushed too close.
Before Christina could say anything, Maya leaned back in her chair and reached out—casual, thoughtless—
Her hand landed on his ass.
The young man stiffened instantly.
He spun halfway around, shock and anger flashing across his face as his blush deepened into a furious crimson.
For a heartbeat, he looked like he might say something—do something—but the weight of the room pressed down on him. Laughter from a nearby table. The size of the crowd. The imbalance was obvious.
He turned away instead, retreating quickly, steps too fast, tray wobbling slightly as he disappeared into the sea of bodies.
“Maya,” Sarah snapped, her voice sharp even over the music. “What the hell is wrong with you? Do you want to get thrown out again?”
Maya threw her head back and laughed, utterly unrepentant. “Relax. I barely touched him.” She smirked, unapologetic. “Besides, did you see that ass? Damn. Juicy.”
“You’re disgusting,” Sarah growled, leaning forward with her elbows on the table. Her jaw was tight, eyes following the young waiter until he vanished behind the bar. “Have you already forgotten what happened last time? We’re still banned from that other place because of your ‘barely touched.’”
Chloe winced. Christina exhaled slowly, watching the bar where the young man now stood, shoulders hunched as another woman leaned a little too close to him while ordering a drink.
The club roared on—unbothered, relentless.
Christina drained the rest of her glass and set it down with a dull thud.
Maya, however, merely threw her head back and let out another booming laugh—raw, unapologetic, and loud enough to slice through the club’s bassline like a rusty chainsaw.
“Banned, my ass!” she barked. “They always let us back in. Eventually.”
She leaned back in her chair, spreading her arms wide like she owned the place.
“Besides,” she added, winking conspiratorially at Christina and Chloe, “…it’s not like they’ve got much choice, do they? Where else are all these lovely ladies supposed to go for good music and even better eye candy?”
She gestured broadly toward the dance floor.
Several male waiters wove carefully through the crowd, trays hoisted above their heads like fragile shields. Each step they took was deliberate, cautious—backs straight, movements precise. Their expressions held that familiar mix of professionalism and faint unease, as though they could feel the weight of hundreds of female eyes tracking them from every direction.
Sarah felt a familiar heat creep up the back of her neck. Amusement, yes—but threaded with second-hand embarrassment sharp enough to sting.
Maya is unbelievable.
And yet… a part of her admired it.
That reckless confidence. That absolute lack of shame. It was the kind of freedom Sarah rarely allowed herself.
Born and raised in the care of her father, some habits clung stubbornly to her—restraint, self-control, the instinct to rein herself in before crossing lines. She was taught to respect and not to take advantage of men, no matter the place and time. Conditioning ran deep.
Tonight, though, with tequila warming her veins and the music vibrating through her bones, that restraint felt… optional.
“Seriously, Maya,” Chloe said at last.
Her voice was calmer than Sarah’s, softer—but there was steel beneath it.
Chloe sat back in her chair, eyes scanning the club with an almost clinical detachment. Her oversized glasses reflected the neon lights in sharp flashes, making her dark eyes seem even more alert.
“That was the last decent place within a twenty-mile radius that didn’t card us at the door or charge an absurd cover,” she continued. “Remember The Den?”
Maya groaned theatrically.
“We had to drive an hour and a half just to get there after you decided the last club’s bartender’s uniform was ‘too restrictive’ and tried to—” Chloe hesitated, lips twitching, “—help him out of it.”
A reluctant smile broke through her composure as the memory surfaced.
“Oh, he liked it!” Maya shot back, still grinning, though the glint in her eyes shifted from defiant to mischievous. “He was just shy.”
She shrugged. “Some of them pretend not to, but they love the attention. They practically preen.” She elbowed Christina, sloshing a bit of her drink. “Right, Chrissy?”
Christina laughed, wiping at the damp spot on her shirt.
“I wouldn’t know, Maya. I believe in asking before grabbing someone’s ass.”
The rebuke was half-hearted at best, her tone betraying more amusement than actual disapproval.
“And honestly,” she added, swirling the last of her drink, “these guys aren’t really my type.” She didn’t bother hiding her boredom. “I don’t care much either way.”
Maya’s grin twitched.
“…I really hate hearing that from you,” she muttered.
Everyone knew why.
Among the four of them, Christina was the only one who had managed to keep a boyfriend for more than a few months. It was a point of envy—sometimes joked about, sometimes resented, always noticed.
Maya leaned in, eyes sharp with teasing cruelty.
“So?” she asked. “You finally managed to score a point with your man?”
Christina’s smile faltered.
For just a split second, her thoughts flickered to him—her boyfriend.
Ex-boyfriend.
The hesitation was subtle, but not subtle enough.
Maya caught it instantly. Her lips curled into a knowing smirk.
“Yeah, that figures,” she snorted. “That sissy of yours never had the guts anyway.” She took a long sip of her drink. “Guess you’ll have to try harder to get laid now.”
Christina shot her a glare.
This bitch.
“No need,” she scoffed, lifting her chin. “I already kicked him to the curb.”
The table went quiet for a heartbeat.
Then Maya let out a low, impressed whistle.
“Oh?”
Sarah raised an eyebrow.
Chloe leaned in slightly.
The sudden pronouncement hung in the air, cutting through the pulsing music as cleanly as a blade.
For a brief moment, even the club seemed to falter.
Sarah’s jaw dropped, her carefully maintained frown dissolving into unguarded shock. Chloe blinked behind her glasses, her usual composure cracking just enough to betray genuine surprise. Even Maya—the undisputed queen of audacity—paused, her grin freezing mid-curve as she processed what she’d just heard.
“You… you what?” Maya finally blurted out, disbelief bleeding into delighted incredulity.
“You broke up with him? That one?”
She leaned back, then forward again, warming to the subject far too quickly.
“The one who cries every time a sad movie comes on? The one who clings to your arm whenever thunder rolls in?” She laughed. “That cute little thing~?”
Christina shrugged. It was casual—too casual—but the motion did nothing to quell the restless churn beneath her ribs.
“He’s predictable,” she said simply. “He’s just like other men, all tease but no action.” Then, after a beat, “And I’m tired of being teased.”
She lifted her glass and took a long, unhurried sip. Her gaze drifted across the club—over the mass of loud, confident women claiming space without apology, over the carefully groomed men moving cautiously among them, all polished smiles and practiced restraint.
“Tired of being teased?” Sarah echoed, her voice low, almost reverent.
“Christina, you were with him for almost two years. Everyone thought you two were… well. You know. The stable couple.”
“Stable is boring,” Christina replied, sharper now. Something hot and restless sparked behind her eyes.
“And I’m done being bored.”
Maya’s surprise dissolved into something far more dangerous—pure, predatory glee. She leaned forward, elbows on the table, eyes glittering.
“Hold on,” she said slowly. “There’s more to this.”
Her voice dropped conspiratorially.
“Did you two fight because you got a little too eager and almost—” she waggled her eyebrows, “—forced the issue?”
The question was crude, delivered with a laugh—but the implication lingered. In their world, it wasn’t unheard of. Just rarely acknowledged so flippantly.
Christina shot her a glare, heat flashing through her chest. For the briefest instant, an uncomfortable truth brushed too close to the surface.
“No,” she snapped, draining the rest of her drink. “Nothing like that.”
She exhaled sharply.
“I’m just tired,” she continued, her voice hardening. “Tired of being his weak blanket. Tired of the constant need for reassurance, of comfort. I’m fucking tired of them… you don’t know how hard it is for me to keep my hands tucked in my sleeves just to follow his whims.”
