Mia
The bass hits me like a physical force, vibrating through my chest cavity and rattling my teeth. Pulse isn't just the name of the club, it's a command my body is following against my will. The music is so loud I can feel it in my internal organs, rearranging them with each thump. I take another sip of my vodka cranberry, grimacing as the watered-down alcohol does absolutely nothing to dull the sensory assault or the growing certainty that I've made a terrible mistake by letting Laney drag me here.
"It'll be fun," she said. "You'll forget all about Dr. Frosty," she promised. What she failed to mention was that forgetting requires literal brain death, which this place might actually achieve with its deafening music and epilepsy-inducing strobe lights.
I tug self-consciously at the hem of the emerald green dress Laney insisted would make my eyes pop and my ass look phenomenal. It's shorter than anything I've worn since med school, the fabric clinging to curves I usually hide beneath shapeless scrubs. My hair—unleashed from its usual braid—cascades down my back in wild red curls that took an hour and half a can of product to achieve this ‘effortless’ look. I feel exposed. Vulnerable. Like a woodland creature forced to parade through a predator convention.
"Stop fidgeting," Laney had commanded as she applied my makeup earlier. "You're hot as fuck, and it's time the world knew it."
The world—or at least the male portion of it in this club—seems to have gotten the memo. Since we arrived, I've endured more lingering stares than a cadaver in first-year anatomy class. A guy at the bar has been watching me for ten minutes straight, his eyes traveling up and down my body like he's mentally calculating the most efficient way to remove my dress. Another one actually licked his lips when I walked past him to the bathroom. Classy.
"Special delivery." Laney's voice somehow pierces through the wall of sound as she slides back into our booth, precariously balancing four shot glasses between her fingers. Her electric blue dress is even shorter than mine, her confidence radiating like a supernova as she gracefully drops onto the seat. Not for the first time, I envy her ability to exist so comfortably in her own skin. "Free tequila, courtesy of the hot bartender who couldn't take his eyes off your ass when we walked in."
"Wonderful," I mutter, eyeing the clear liquid with suspicion. "Just what I need, more alcohol to help me forget I'm wearing dental floss disguised as a dress."
"It's Valentino, and it cost me three night shifts to buy it for your birthday, so shut up and take the compliment." She pushes two of the shots toward me, her smile infectious despite my determination to remain miserable. "Come on, sunshine. One night without thinking about our jobs is exactly what the doctor ordered."
I take the shot glass, clinking it against hers before tipping the burning liquid down my throat. The tequila blazes a fiery trail from my mouth to my stomach, momentarily distracting me from my discomfort. Laney whoops, already downing her second shot while I'm still wincing from the first.
"To not giving a fuck," she toasts, eyes sparkling with mischief.
"To not giving a fuck," I echo, forcing enthusiasm I don't feel as I knock back the second shot. The alcohol warms my blood, softening the edges of my anxiety without quite eliminating it.
"That's more like it." Laney bounces in her seat, surveying the crowded dance floor like a general planning battle strategy. "Ugh, I needed this. If I had to spend one more minute thinking about Mr. Peterson's exploding hemorrhoids, I was going to lose it."
I laugh despite myself. "Thanks for that mental image. Now I need ten more shots."
"That can be arranged." She winks, then leans closer, her voice dropping conspiratorially. "So, you forget all about Dr. Frosty yet?"
Just hearing his name sends an unwelcome flutter through my stomach. I take a too-large gulp of my vodka cranberry, buying time.
"Can we please, please not talk about him tonight?" I beg, gesturing vaguely at the club around us. "Isn't that the whole point of this excursion into auditory torture?"
Laney grins, mercifully letting the subject drop. "Fine. New mission, find you a hot stranger to dance with. Someone who can actually express what they want instead of—"
"If you say his name again, I will stab you with that little plastic sword," I threaten, pointing at the cocktail garnish.
She mimes zipping her lips, then suddenly straightens, her eyes focused on something, or someone, across the dance floor. "Are you freaking kidding me?"
"What?" I follow her gaze but see nothing but a churning mass of bodies under flashing lights.
"It's Alejandro." She's already half out of the booth, her eyes locked on some target I can't identify. "From orthopedics. The one with the hands."
I vaguely recall a tall surgeon with a dimple that made the nurses swoon. "The one you said could reset your bones anytime?"
"The very same." She's practically vibrating with excitement. "I'll be right back. I just need to say hi."
"Laney—" I start to protest, but she's already sliding out of the booth, turning back only to flash me a reassuring smile.
"Five minutes, I promise. Don't go anywhere." Then she's gone, her blue dress disappearing into the crowd like a tropical fish vanishing into coral.
And just like that, I'm alone. The thump of the bass seems to grow louder in her absence, pressing against my skull like an unwanted hand. My half-empty drink sits sweating on the table, as unappealing as the thought of remaining in this sensory hellscape for another minute.
I check my phone. It’s not even eleven yet. Too early to justify calling it a night without Laney giving me endless shit about it tomorrow. I scan the club, hoping to spot her blue dress, but the dance floor has become an impenetrable wall of bodies. The guy from the bar is still watching me, now with a friend who's equally interested in what this dress doesn't cover.
Five minutes, she said. But in Laney time, that could mean anything from five actual minutes to five hours, especially if Alejandro lives up to his reputation. The thought of sitting here alone, nursing watered-down vodka while fending off increasingly bold advances from liquid-couraged finance bros, makes my skin crawl.
No. This was a mistake. I can text Laney from the cab. She'll understand or at least, she'll forgive me after I bring her coffee and donuts tomorrow. I drain the last of my drink, and grab my small clutch purse. Freedom is just a crowded dance floor and one slimy bouncer away. I can do this.
