I took another sip. The cocktail Enzo had ordered was the same as before. Gina explained that Moutai is a baijiu, the most expensive Chinese liquor. I tried to taste it, to distinguish the notes of wheat and lemon juice. I’d never try it again.
“Gina, you can’t decide what?”
“Two things. First, whether he’s crazy about you or just crazy. Second, what I feel like doing.”
I almost spit my cocktail out through my nose. The burn of the alcohol mixed with a sudden jolt of laughter sent me coughing into my napkin, eyes watering.
“Alright,” I said, wiping my mouth and catching my breath. “How about we leave this room and see where the night takes us?”
Gina’s eyes lit up, her grin wide. “I’ve never tried hallucinogenic mushrooms. Or absinthe. Or good champagne. What else do you think they’ll sell in here?” She pushed herself to her feet, stumbling over my legs. “And what if we look for some food?”
I grabbed her by the shoulders to steady her. Gina’s small—barely five feet—and she wasn’t built to handle much alcohol. I could see it in the loose sway of her hips and the lazy blink of her eyes. She looked like a doll about to topple over.
“That sounds like a good idea,” I said, keeping my tone light. She giggled, and I caught her before she could teeter off in the wrong direction.
I checked the time on my phone—1:30 a.m. Enzo had said they closed at four. We still had some time. I followed Gina outside the room.
Chapter 13
At first, we just wanted to check out what kind of shop a nightclub had that included a tattoo studio. But the moment I walked in, it became clear that Gina had her own agenda. The attendant told us that the artists hailed from every corner of the globe; they were the best, the most sought-after, the crème de la crème. He rattled off names that flew over my head, yet he also mentioned that only a select few could afford their craft, which was why these artists travelled to find clients rather than the other way around. I realised I was one of those few.
Gina gave me her best puppy-dog eyes.
“Do you know how expensive tattoos are, V? This is my only chance to get one for free!”
The employee furrowed his brow.
“I mean,” Gina corrected, “it’s the only day you could give me this gift. Please?”
I slapped a stack of bills on the counter.
“I hope you have an idea of what you want,” I said to my friend.
The tattoo artist working that night, Dixie Liu, a woman with short blonde hair and silver teeth, made room for us in her schedule.
“It’ll have to be something small,” she said. “I don’t have time for more, sorry, girl.”
This was the third—or maybe the fourth—tattoo for her.
She had once told me she got a new one every year since she turned sixteen, the earlier ones carefully concealed from her mother.
This year would be the exception: two tattoos in less than twelve months. I think the last one was in July; she had tattooed the Pisces zodiac symbol (two fish forming an oval) between her breasts and spent an entire week doing topless at home until she got tired of seeing it twenty-four hours a day.
In the end, she chose a delicate dragon, resembling a Christmas candy cane, winding around her ankle. The tattoo machine vibrated when it hit a spot near the bone, creating small drops of blood that slid down her foot, and I had to sit down to avoid fainting at the sight.
When we left the studio, I felt overwhelmed, and Gina wouldn’t stop shouting. It was two-thirty. The music hadbecome louder again, more enveloping, as if they had added sound amplifiers that weren’t there before. The lights hurt my eyes.
I think my blood pressure had dropped. I have hemophobia. Fear of blood. My body knew I was heading for trouble.
“Let’s find a place where I can sit,” I told Gina.
She responded with something I didn’t understand. I saw her mouth moving, but I couldn’t hear her words.
“Let’s go,” I shouted over the noise.
I started walking toward the room where we had parted ways with Enzo, unsure if there were other quiet spots where I could sit and wait for the dizziness to pass. Gina trailed behind me, or so I thought. By the time I reached The Square, the central space of Club Montari felt like it had shrunk.
The crowd had multiplied—or was it the effect of the mirrors?—and there was no space to sit. The sofas had disappeared among the commotion.
