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So Monica’s recent friendliness puts me on edge.
Growing up as a foster kid taught me to distrust anyone who’s overly friendly with no reason to be. More often than not, they’re the kinds of people who only want to get close to you to take something.
Whether that’s your lunch, your money, or your virginity.
I haven’t figured out what Monica wants from me yet. But the way she’s screaming in my ear and grabbing at my arm with her too-sharp, manicured nails makes me wish I’d just stayed home and locked myself in my bedroom to avoid my foster father like usual.
The thought of another night spent avoiding his “accidental” touches and leering glances makes my skin crawl, and I shake my head, glancing around the club.
Fuck it. At least I’m out of the house.
I’ll be free of foster care permanently when I turn eighteen in six months, so the end is in sight. I just have to make it until then.
“Oh, fuck. Dammit, where’d they go?”
Monica’s nails dig into my arm again as she scans the crowd, licking her lips like some kind of cartoon character.
I can’t help it. My gaze tracks alongside hers, scanning the large dance floor of the club and the dimly lit tables and bar that line the perimeter. I don’t see the guy or his friends, and I suppress a smile of satisfaction as Monica pouts.
“Shit.” She scowls, adjusting the tight tank top she’s wearing, tugging it down to display a little more cleavage. “They were the only good fresh meat I’ve seen all night.”
“Sorry,” I mutter, not even caring that the music swallows up my words.
I’m not sorry at all. The goal of my life isn’t to get Monica laid, and I don’t particularly want to see her get to third base with a guy on the dance floor. Especially not that guy.
Disappointed at losing sight of her prey, she finally shuts up, and we dance for another couple of songs without speaking. I’m sweaty and hot, and the thud of the bass seems to drown out my own heartbeat until it’s all I can feel in my body.
As I lose myself in the music, the tension and irritation fade from my body, and I remember why the fuck I agreed to come out tonight at all.
For this.
For this feeling of energy.
Of weightlessness.
Of freedom.
“Ooh, that guy’s kinda hot.” Monica points to a total fucking Chad who’s leering at the two of us from across the dance floor. She puffs out her ample chest and turns to me, waggling her eyebrows. “Come on, let’s give him a show.”
She starts trying to grind up on me, and I push her away, stepping back. Jesus. If I’m gonna “put on a show” for some trust-fund asshole, I better at least be getting paid for it.
“Nah, I’m gonna get some air,” I yell over the music. I jerk my head toward the guy who’s still eyeballing us with a confident smirk on his face. “You do… whatever.”
She pouts again, but before she can say anything else, I slip away through the tight throng of bodies on the dance floor. The door we entered t
he club through is behind me, but instead of heading in that direction, I move toward the hallway that leads to the bathrooms and probably another exit door.
I need quiet, and I don’t feel like dealing with a bunch of drunk Monica clones out front fighting over who’s gonna Venmo who for a cab.
Fortunately, I do find a door at the end of the hallway with an exit sign glowing over it.
Pushing the metal bar, I step out into the alley behind the club.
Cool air rushes over my damp skin, making goose bumps rise up all over me. It’ll be spring soon, but the desert air in Nevada always seems to bring a chill at night.
The alley smells a little like rancid oil and piss, but right now, I’ll take that over the smell of sweaty bodies and too much cheap cologne.
Digging into my pocket, I pull out a pack of menthol cigarettes and my lighter, then rest one between my lips and light it up.
