Page 7 of Delta

Hands find my waist and a chest pushes against my back—I go with it for a few minutes, reach up and behind me to clutch a slick, sweaty neck. When his hands get handsy, I shrug out of his grip and vanish into the fray.

I wish I didn’t have to count the minutes, I wish I could stay here all night. Just dance, drink, and forget everything.

I get another drink—thirty minutes left.

I don't want to cut it too close and miss my ride, as I know for a fact that the driver will bounce with my money and my clothes after two hours on the dot, so I decide to visit the bathroom before I make my exit.

I take care of my business and wash my hands. A pair of girls about my age are primping at the mirrors—one of them does a double-take.

"Are you Bryn Harris?"

I grin, shake her hand. "Hi, yeah."

"Can we take a selfie with you?"

I hesitate. "Okay, but you cannot post it until tomorrow. I don't want anyone to know where I am right now."

They agree, and we take the selfie…or ten. You know how it goes: you gotta take a dozen to get one good one. They each want a hug as well, and I'm finally exiting the bathroom. I'll never shake the imposter syndrome that comes from being famous—sort of—for nothing more than being my parents' kid. I mean, there've been big studio movies, indie films, streaming limited series, and even a short-lived weekly cable series based on Mom’s and Dad's and Aunt Key’s and Uncle Val’s adventures before I was born. Shit, there's even talk about a limited series sequel being made about Rin's whole thing with Apollo.

I didn't do shit. I haven’t done shit. I probably won't ever do shit to become famous. I'm just famous because of other people. Yet I have to pose for selfies with strangers in a club bathroom and then ask them not to post those selfsame selfies.

It's just a weird thing, and it's hard to know how to feel about it.

I leave the bathroom in a weird mood; the shine has rubbed off my little solo adventure. Time to head back to the hotel.

I hear a scuffle—the bathrooms in this club are located at the front of a long, dark hallway. At the end of the hallway is an illuminated exit sign casting a ghostly red glow on the silver of the emergency exit's crash-bar.

I peer, squinting; strobe lights flash from the dance floor, slicing stripes of sudden light, casting shadows—moving shadows.

A pair of large male figures wrestle with the smaller shape of a female. One has his hand around her mouth and is trying to subdue her arms, while the other struggles with her legs.

One of them barks something in a low growl, in a Slavic language of some sort. Or German? I don't know. A language I don't recognize, is the point. But to me, the tone of voice communicates a statement like, “Grab her legs, you idiot."

The other one responds with what I imagine to be: "I'm trying, asshole, she's very strong."

Fuck this shit.

Not on my watch, jackasses.

I creep down the hallway, pull my gun. Assume a nice solid Isosceles stance like I've been taught my whole life. Finger in the trigger guard but not on the trigger, yet.

"HEY!" I shout. "LET HER GO!"

In my mind, what will happen is very simple. I'll shout my challenge, and they'll see the gun and my imposing six-foot-tall frame and my adorable pink compact 9mm, and be so startled and afraid that they'll drop the girl and bolt out the exit, and I’ll be a hero. The end. Cue the ticker tape parade. See my agent, Netflix.

The reality is a little different.

At my challenge, the ogre manhandling the girl's feet drops her kicking, writhing legs and stalks toward me, reaching behind his back.

Um, fuck.

Panic hits like a Mack truck, freezing me in place. Mom's words, Dad's words, Sasha's words, Uncle Duke's words all ring through my skull: "Never pull a gun on someone unless you're mentally prepared to pull the trigger and end a life. If you pull a gun and then freeze, you're fucked."

I've heard variations on that theme a billion times in my life. And I always thought to myself, "I won't freeze. Look who my parents are. Badassery runs in my veins."

Turns out I'm a coward. Or, at least, someone who freezes the first time the shit hits the fan.

The hulking ape-man is mere feet away from me, and I still have time to shoot. Or run. But my hand shakes. My finger simply will not curl around the trigger. The barrel wavers.