Megan waved her hand to usher me and the rest of her bridesmaids toward the door. “Tonight is about this hot bitch. Not about Derek the Douchenozzle, or her absentee dad, or her mom’s failing business?—”
“Thanks for the reminders,” I muttered.
“It’s about dancing, drinking, and finding Laney Fisher the best eight inches Vegas has to offer. You and Derek broke up over a year ago. Your vagina probably has cobwebs.”
“Ew!” said the bridesmaid named Reagan. “Can you imagine dust bunnies down there?”
“You know that’s not the way vaginas work, right?” I decided not to mention the pretty purple vibrator that had been my sole nocturnal companion for the past twelve months. Reagan, muchlike her namesake, didn’t seem like the type to frequent sex shops.
The door shut behind us on a riot of cheers for my vagina’s right to sex, which quickly gave way to a debate about which nightclub we were going to.
As we waited for the elevator, I caught one last look at myself in another mirror.
Okay, so Megan was right. Not Laney Fisher was a legitimate smoke show.
Maybe Megan was right. Maybe I did need this. Maybe I needed one night to ignore my family’s struggling store, my father’s hollow eyes, and the fact that I was twenty-seven years old and felt twice my age. Maybe it was time to open myself up to a connection that went beyond romance novels and the purple battery-operated device I had lovingly named Rodney.
Even if it was just for one night.
The nameof the club should have been the first red flag. If the last few nights had been any indicator, the more a Vegas venue leaned into Greco-Roman motifs, the more it turned into the hedonistic playground everyone believed the city to be.
Naxos was no exception. Once the bouncer let us in and we paid the truly astronomical cover charge (why did every club in Las Vegas cost fifty dollars to enter?), we were greeted with bass so loud I felt it through my toes. Bodies writhed in cages and on a dance floor the size of an airplane hangar, and strobing lights split the world into fragments that could be put back together later. It smelled of sweat, spilled drinks, and expensive cologne. Everyone was here to make bad decisions, and not a soul was trying to hide it.
“Shots!” Megan shouted. “Bride’s rules—tonight the maid of honor gets as toasted as the bride!” She glanced at me and asked quietly, so just I could hear, “Do you want me to get NA for you?”
The presidential bridesmaids cheered. I gave a meager wave and found myself shaking my head. “No, it’s okay. I can have a couple of drinks for once.”
There was another expression I recognized. The conflicted one where she wanted me to have fun but also wanted to take care of me. Megan had been giving me that look since we were nine years old and I passed out on the monkey bars. A scream, a defibrillator, and an ambulance ride later, and I became the Girl with the Broken Heart. Don’t believe me? Check my senior yearbook.
“It’s fine.” I grabbed one of the shots of tequila the bartender had just presented and tipped it back, ignoring the additional lime, salt, and the sear in the back of my throat. “See? Acting my age for one night won’t hurt me.”
The first shot burned going down. The second one burned less. By the third, I couldn’t feel my face, and I was pretty sure I could solve all my problems with the power of dance.
Plus, Megan was possibly going to get her wish. Every additional shot seemed to make the men in this club exponentially hotter.
“Oh, shit, this is our jam, Laney! Remember the eighth-grade formal?”
I had to laugh when the familiar notes of “Blurred Lines” pumped through an EDM mix. “Oh,God. You mean when we did the actual choreography to a song no fourteen-year-old girls have any business dancing to?”
Megan cackled. “Hell, yes. And we’re doing it now, too.”
Seconds later, we were surrounded by chaos, and I was dancing. Not my usual side-to-side shuffle while I worried about how I looked or whether I was actually keeping any sort of time(spoiler: I usually wasn’t). Apparently, Not Laney Fisher was hotanddanced like a pro. Not Laney Fisher let her hands do whatever they wanted, gyrated her hips like a belly dancer on molly, and allowed her feet to slide around to whatever rhythm they wanted.
She just…danced. And she loved it.
“Don’t look now.” Megan pulled me close so she could speak into my ear. “You have an audience. There’s a guy watching you, and he is stupid hot.”
“What? Who?” I turned to look, but Megan yanked me back to face her.
“I said don’t look. Just dance. Did high school teach you nothing? Men love nothing more than watching two chicks pretend to get it on. Trust, he’ll make his move when you’re ready.”
“When I’m ready? Or whenhe’sready?”
Megan slipped her hand around my waist and winked over my shoulder at whoever our audience was. “With this guy? Based on the way he’s watching, I’d say he knows the difference. Oh, Kev is lucky I love him so damn much.” She grinned. “Trust me. You want this one to keep looking.”
So, ignoring every instinct I had, I followed her instructions, enjoying the way the other bridesmaids cheered us on, even flirting with some of the other men on the dance floor while I moved around. I wasn’t an exhibitionist. I could barely handle the toast at Megan’s engagement party last fall. But right now, with a stranger’s eyes (plus plenty of others, according to Megan) on me and enough tequila running through my bloodstream to fuel a jet, Not Laney Fisher had no problem putting on a little show.
After what might have been minutes or hours—tequila had the additional effect of erasing the concept of time—I needed a break. And another drink. Preferably more tequila, althoughbased on the racing in my chest, I probably needed to stick with water.
