Page 10 of Pretty Broken Wings

The club is dark, with multicolored lights flashing all around, and the music pounds. The base settles deep in my chest, thumping away until it’s all I can feel. It’s peaceful in an overwhelming way.

There are a few guys here, so I settle into a seat on the other side of the room. There’s a dancer on stage in a bright pink bikini. She twists and turns in a way that makes my gaze lock onto her in fascination. The way she moves is… liquid. Can I do that?

The song switches, and the dance she does is slower. I watch her closely, trying to get down the moves she’s doing, but even the slow stuff is complicated.

Then, someone sits down next to me. I stiffen, immediately moving to the edge of my chair, then blink. It’s the guy from the bar’s bathroom. The one I had on his knees and then ran from.

Immediately, my mood sours.

“Hey.” The bathroom man gives me a bashful smile.

I stare at him. He looks even older and more worn in here.

Fucking nasty.

He slides a drink my way. “Sorry about the other night. I was pretty drunk.”

I just stare at the drink, then back at him.

He adjusts his tie. “I just thought… I don’t know…” His pupils are blown.

“Yeah, I don’t care.” I stare at the stage again, and out of the corner of my eye, I see him smile wider.

So he’s come back for more.

Pitiful.

However… I currently give zero fucks about anything. Degrading a shitty ass man might actually make me feel better.

I make Bathroom Man get me a new drink. He jumps to do my bidding, and I watch him closely the whole time. The way I see it, Satan has given me this chump in the form of a sorry-I-fucked-up-your-life-at-least-get-drunk sort of gift. And then, at the end of the night, I plan on pinching the change from his wallet. It’s the least he can do.

I down drink after drink, becoming more and more confident in the space. I could absolutely work here. Mr. Bathroom keeps pushing me to go to the bathroom with him, and I keep turning him down, partially because I want to keep watching the dancers and partially because it’s fun to watch his disappointment.

When he tries for a third time, the lights are spinning in circles in front of me, and I’m not sure if it’s from the alcohol or if they’re programmed to do that. I wave the annoying pest off.

I blame the alcohol for missing the way his gaze tightens with anger. Suddenly, his hand is on my arm, and he’s yanking me up roughly.

“You’re such a flirt.”

I’m falling into his body, and then we’re moving. Ah, there it is. He’s going to hurt me. He’s so predictable that it makes me want to laugh.

Are we moving? I’m drunk, and the world is spinning. He smells like sweat and yeast and beer.

“Fuck you.”

“I know you want this.”

I reel back, trying to yank myself out of his grip. “I’ll cut your nuts off, you disgusting fuck.”

We’re already almost off the main floor, and I pull away again, but the man’s grip is digging into my flesh.

“No.” But the word even sounds hollow to me. He won’t listen. Since when do men ever listen?

A bitter laugh makes its way through my chest. Anger wars with helplessness inside my chest.

Suddenly, the man dragging me stumbles. I fall partially forward with him; his grip loosens on my arm, and I yank away.

“Don’t think she wants to go with you,” a deep voice grumbles.