I force myself to dance, to move, to laugh. The music pounds, shaking the ache loose, turning it into something sharper. I let men stare. Let the alcoholloosen the fist around my lungs. I refuse to let Dominic own my mood. He can call, he can text, he can rage—let him go insane and see if he feels half of what I felt today.
Time slips weirdly when you’re drunk. The club is hotter and blurrier. My drink is empty in my hand, my legs pleasantly numb as the girls scream-sing a song I only half know.
A man’s been watching me all night. His gaze drifts down my bare legs, over the edge of my hemline, and lingers a little too long.
I feel it.
I just don’t care.
Let him look.
I’m half-laughing at something Clarissa said when Melody turns to me, her face flushed from dancing, but concern has crept in.
“Hey… Jess.” Her voice fights through the music. “Does Dom know you’re with us?”
My heart trips at the tone. A tone someone uses when they already know the answer. I swallow and force the most effortless shrug I can manage.
“Yeah,” I lie. “I told him earlier. He probably forgot.”
Melody stares at me, then turns her phone around. My eyes try to focus; when they do, I see a wall of texts from her brother.
Dom: Are you with Jessica?
Dom: Melody answer me.
Dom: Jace said you're at the club.
Dom: Melody pick up your phone.
Dom: Is Jessica with you?
He’s been asking, demanding answers.
Melody locks her phone and looks at me. “I didn’t hear my notifications,” she shouts over the music. “I saw those texts when I went to the bathroom.”
I try to come up with an excuse. “He probably just… forgot. I told him I’m going out.” My voice cracks. “I’ll text him to let him know we’re okay.”
Melody doesn’t believe me. She’s seconds away from probing deeper when someone screams our names. A new round of shots appears like magic and the girls pull Melody and me back into the circle.
My head feels warm, chest heavy, music pounding under my skull like a second heartbeat. I lean on the bar, trying not to think about Dom’s texts, the woman from this morning, or the way my chest still hurts.
The bartender slides me a new drink as a man appears beside me—the one who’s been eyeing me all night. Tall-ish, light hair, an easy smile. He has that predatory confidence men get when they’ve been drinking and think they’re charming.
“Back for another?” he asks.
“Yeah. Long day.” I nod without looking at him.
“Oh, I believe that.” His eyes flick lazily down my body and back up. “You look like you needed a night out.”
I lift an eyebrow and suck on the straw.
“In a good way,” he leers. “A very good way.”
I take another slow sip; he leans closer, elbow on the bar.
“So who’d you come with?”
“My friends,” I reply, nodding toward the girls.
