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“Who am I partying with? This can’t be the girl who just stole my bike.”
Sabrina shrugs. “Why be one thing when you can be everything?”
When you can manipulate reality, life is a game.
I know this game. I play it all the time. I’ve just never played it with anyone else.
“I can’t get used to you,” I tell her. “Every time I see you, it’s a slap in the face.”
Sabrina smiles. “You like getting slapped?”
I bring my hand down hard on her ass, giving it a sharp smack. Her ass is full and firm beneath my palm, the impact rippling across her flesh.
“Not as much as I like doing the slapping.”
Sabrina doesn’t flinch. She looks up into my face, softly saying, “Then I guess we’ll see who hits the hardest.”
I pull her onto the dance floor.
The pounding bass bounces off stone walls so thick that the club stays cool as a refrigerator, even in the density of bodies pressing in from all sides.
Streams of light shoot off in all directions from the DJ booth, cutting across the dance floor, illuminating Sabrina in vivid bursts of violet and blue.
She raises her hands overhead, showing off her sinuous length. She writhes like a snake, a cobra under the hypnotist’s charm, swaying to the music.
I press against her, her back against my chest, our hips moving together. I run my hands down her sides, feeling those outrageous curves, feeling the heat radiating out of her body into mine.
The music pounds harder and harder. Sabrina dances faster, full of wild energy, a star that blazes bright in the sky, believing it will never burn out. She holds nothing back, saves no energy for later.
We dance until we’re sweating all over, pressed together down every inch of our frames, moving as one.
The bartenders line up a hundred shot glasses down the length of the bar, setting them ablaze with a roar of heat.
“You want a drink?” I ask Sabrina.
“I want several drinks.”
We push our way over to the bar. Sabrina takes two shot glasses. Instead of passing one to me, she tosses the first down her throat, then the second, wiping her mouth on the back of her hand.
I grab my own drink, swallowing the liquor that burns all the way down my throat as if it were still aflame.
Then I seize Sabrina, gripping a handful of her hair and yanking her toward me, kissing her ferociously, tasting the liquor in her mouth.
Her lips are full and lush beneath mine. She doesn’t shrink beneath the kiss but opens her mouth, taking my tongue all the way inside.
I love the way she leans into me. I want her, and she wants more.
When we break apart, she says, “Gimmie another shot.”
I motion to the bartender.
Sabrina is looking the opposite direction, at the two girls standing on a raised platform at the corner of the bar, dressed in chaps and fringed bras, their liquor bottles in holsters on their hips.
The taller of the two, a redhead with a nose piercing and a tattoo of a bison skull on her thigh, crooks a finger at Sabrina, motioning her closer.
She crouches down. Sabrina bends backward over the girl’s knee, the back of her neck resting against the tattoo. The girl pours the shot directly into Sabrina’s mouth, then passes a slice of lime from her lips to Sabrina’s.
Sabrina whispers something in the redhead’s ear while she slips a folded bill into the girls’ bikini top.
