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The doorman.
Tall, shaved head, wearing all black.
With double-eight tattoos on one side of his neck, and double s’s on the other. Not even trying to hide his hatred from the rest of the world.
“ID,” he barked at me, like he had at the women before me. Likely so used to attractive women at his job that their appeal was all but lost on him as he took IDs and looked them over.
Why, I had no idea.
This place wasn’t legit.
But, I guess, if there was one way to get the law on your ass, it was to over-serve someone underaged, and piss off their parents who had to stand by while they got their stomachs pumped.
“Alright,” he said, handing it back as I took out the fifty, like everyone else did, and handed it to him.
I’d never wished so hard before that I had some convincing counterfeit cash as I did right then. Because handing him money felt a fuckuva lot like funding a terrorist organization.
But it had to be done, so I tried to push the thoughts away as I moved in the club, wincing at the sheer volume of the music, the way the electronic sounds seemed to pump through my veins and organs, immediately intensifying the feeling of anxiety that had already been pulsing through me.
The crowd was surprisingly big, and I found myself hoping that these peopledidn’tknow who owned this club, because the thought of this many people in my hometown area being that racist hurt my soul.
“Focus,” I hissed to myself as bodies knocked into me from all sides as I moved through the crowd.
Aware that there were probably cameras somewhere in the building, I tried to put on a show. Wiggling my hips, shaking my ass, throwing my hands up in the air.
“Hey, baby,” a voice called from behind me as hands grabbed my hips, yanking me backward by them until my ass was pressed up against his groin. And the guy had no shame, trying to grind me against his erection before I yanked away, putting a group of other people between us.
I was losing my sense of direction as the crowd pushed me around. That, along with the dark room illuminated only by the occasional eye-splittingly bright strobe lights, had me disoriented until, by pure fate alone, I found myself on the wall opposite the crowded bar.
There was a hall on this side.
Toward the left, it went toward the men’s room. To the right, the women’s.
There was a long line for the women’s, as there always was at any bar or club, thanks to them only ever having two or three stalls while the men had ten or more urinals lining one side of the room, allowing more people in and out quickly.
Luckily, the men’s line was nonexistent. Because that was the direction I needed to go in.
The lie if I was caught there was easy.
“The girls take too long!”
As if I planned to walk my ass into a men’s room at a club by myself, chancing God-knew what because bad things often happened when you found yourself in a closed room with a bunch of drunk, strange men. When that pack mentality kicked in, making monsters of men.
Just ten or so feet beyond the men’s room, though, was another, shorter, hall that broke off toward the back of the building.
That was where I was going.
From there, two doors down, then into the abandoned loading dock.
I’d be completely vulnerable there, easy to spot, to know I was where I wasn’t supposed to be.
If anyone was paying attention to that area, I would be seen.
The job would be lost.
And, likely, some of my respect in this very niche world I worked inside of.
Heart hammering so hard I no longer heard the music, I wrenched open the door, then rushed in, closing it behind me, and all but running across the long, open space.
