Page 4 of The Second Sight (Wanderlust Emporium Presents, Season One)

Chapter

Three

KASI

The throbbing bass hit me before we even entered the club.

This was Brooklyn’s idea. She flashed her ID at the bouncer with practiced confidence while I fumbled for mine.

I was twenty-one officially. The driver’s license felt strange in my hand, like it belonged to someone else.

Someone who knew how to celebrate milestones without a mother.

“You’re holding up the line, birthday girl,” Brooklyn whispered, her voice cutting through the noise. She nudged me forward.

The bouncer was a mountain of a man with a neck thicker than my thigh. He barely glanced at my ID before waving us through. Just like that, I was inside the pulsing darkness of my first legal nightclub. This place didn’t have an underage night, so I’d never been inside.

Bodies packed the dance floor, gyrating under flashing strobe lights.

The DJ stood elevated on the far wall in something that looked like a tower.

His hands raised like a conductor orchestrating the synchronized chaos.

Sweat, perfume and alcohol mingled in the air, creating a scent that was intoxicating.

Brooklyn linked her arm through mine. “This is what twenty-one looks like, Kasinda, my best frienda! We’re legit now!” Her excitement should have been contagious. But I was more of the excited on the inside type of girl.

A wave of emotion struck me in the chest. What if my mother was dead?

What if I was out celebrating my birthday and she was gone for real?

What if someone made her write the note?

Maybe this Desmond Moreau guy showed up at our house and forced her to leave with him.

Had I been angry with my mother for all these years when she didn’t even have a choice?

Desmond Moreau, a name I Googled many times. A name I searched on Facebook, Twitter, IG and TikTok. I searched that name too many times to count, and there was no man’s face that matched the man I saw in my dream.

“Hey.” Brooklyn’s voice softened as she caught my expression. She leaned in close, her lips nearly touching my ear to be heard over the music. “I know what you’re thinking. Stop it. Tonight is about you, about fun.”

I nodded, not trusting my voice. Brooklyn was right. Six years of birthdays without a mother. Six years of my daddy trying his best to fill the gap with his awkward birthday presents and off-key birthday songs. I deserved one night without the weight of her absence crushing me. Fuck Theia!

“Come on!” Brooklyn tugged me toward the dance floor. “These shoes were expensive, and I’m going to get my wear out of them.”

I let her pull me into the swarm of gyrating bodies.

I was so happy we both pre-gamed before we arrived.

I had two shots of honey Jack before we left my house.

The music engulfed us like a physical force that made thinking impossible.

That was good. It was great. I didn’t want to think tonight. I wanted to dance the night away.

At first, I moved stiffly. I was self-conscious about how my body looked when I was dancing.

Hours of dancing in the mirror didn’t fix that flaw.

Brooklyn had no such reservations. She threw herself into the rhythm, her short black hair staying perfectly in place as she raised her arms above her head.

Several guys nearby turned to watch her, drawn by her uninhibited energy.

“Let go, Kasi!” she shouted over the music. “Nobody’s watching you!”

She was wrong, of course. We attracted attention wherever we went.

There was some man that was going to bother us when we were together.

It happened three times when we were out shopping earlier.

In a club this packed, everyone was watching everyone.

But maybe that was the point. We were all equally exposed, equally ridiculous, equally free to act a fool.

Maybe I would be able to blend in without getting too much attention.

The DJ dropped a new song. The pulsing beat grew faster and more insistent.

I closed my eyes, letting the vibration travel up through the soles of my feet, into my legs, and my hips.

My body began to move on its own. I found the rhythm without thinking of the moves.

It felt good, the mindless physical release, the heat of strangers pressing against me from all sides, the anonymity of being just another body dancing in the dark.

A song blended into another song, and then another song.

I lost track of time. My hair stuck to the back of my neck with sweat, and my feet ached in my heels, but I didn’t care.

For the first time in ages, I wasn’t thinking about anything deep.

I was just a normal Black girl, correction, woman, dancing in a club.

A hand touched my waist, and I spun around to find a guy grinning down at me. He was tall, chocolate, with close-cropped dark hair and a jawline sharp enough to cut glass. He moved with the confidence of someone who knew exactly how good-looking he was.

“Hey gorgeous!” he shouted over the music, leaning down so I could hear him. His breath smelled like mint and tequila.

I smiled back, surprising myself. “Hey!”

He laughed, his hand still on my waist, warm through the thin fabric of my tiny dress. “Can I buy you a drink?”

“Maybe later!” I called back, not ready to leave the dance floor yet. “I’m celebrating my birthday!”

His eyes widened with delight. “No way!”

“Yeah, today?”

“How old?” He asked. “May I ask?”

“Twenty-one?” I lifted my hands mid-dance and flashed two right fingers and one left finger.

“Oh, you grown, grown.” He grinned, showing me all his perfect teeth.

I nodded, and he spun me in a playful twirl that made me laugh out loud.

“That deserves a shot, at least!” he insisted.

“In a minute,” I promised, moving my hips in time with his. “I love this song.”

He leaned closer, his lips nearly brushing my ear. “I’m Darren. Find me at the bar when you’re ready for that shot, birthday girl.”

With a wink, he disappeared back into the crowd, leaving me slightly breathless and grinning like an idiot. I liked how he did that. Brooklyn materialized at my side almost immediately.

“Look at you, working that hottie ass body!” she complimented. “That brutha was fine.”

“He was right,” I replied, still smiling. The interaction, brief as it was, had left me feeling lighter, more confident. I hadn’t flirted back with anyone in months. I was never one to initiate flirting.

As Brooklyn and I continued to dance, something shifted in the atmosphere around me.

A prickling sensation crawled up my spine, the unmistakable feeling of being watched.

Not the casual glances of strangers on a dance floor, but something more intense, more focused.

I had a stalker once, and I was very in touch with my intuition and my senses.

I wasn’t psychic. I mean, not really, but I don’t know.

I just knew someone was laser-focused on me.

I scanned the club, trying to locate the source of my unease. That’s when I saw him.

Standing perfectly still amid the crowd near the far wall, a young White man stared directly at me.

Even from this distance, I could tell he was dangerous.

His platinum blonde hair was swept off his forehead, contrasting sharply with the black clothes that clung to his lean but muscular frame.

It was his eyes that held me captive. The club strobe lights made them flash the palest shade of bright blue.

I couldn’t believe I could see his eye color from such a far distance.

But through the darkness of the club, his eyes were like flickering flashlights.

The moment our gazes connected, everything else seemed to fade away.

There was no music, no crowd, and even Brooklyn dancing beside me seemed to diminish.

For just a moment, the outside world was reduced to nothing but those pale blue eyes watching me across the room.

I couldn’t read his expression, couldn’t tell if his interest was romantic or something else entirely.

All I knew was that his stare hit me in my belly and the sensation was traveling downward. I had to stop it.

I blinked, breaking the strange connection. When I looked again, he had disappeared, swallowed by the shifting mass of bodies.

“Kasi? You okay?” Brooklyn’s hand on my arm pulled me back to reality.

I nodded, trying to shake off the odd feeling. “Yeah, just... thought I saw someone.”

Brooklyn glanced in the direction I’d been staring. “Someone fine enough to fuck?”

“I don’t know,” I admitted, the truth of it settling uncomfortably in my stomach. “Just someone.” Now I was thinking I imagined him.

“Well, forget them,” she said, grabbing both my hands. “It’s your birthday, and this is your song!”

The DJ had switched to one of my favorite Glorilla songs, and I hadn’t even noticed. Brooklyn was right. This night was about celebrating, not obsessing over strange men with creepy sapphire eyes. I smiled and let myself be pulled back into the rhythm.

Even as I danced, I couldn’t shake the feeling that somewhere in the darkness, those pale eyes were still watching me. That man was real, and if he was watching, I was going to give him a show.

After what felt like hours of dancing, my throat was dry, and my legs wobbled beneath me. Brooklyn must have noticed because she grabbed my elbow, steering me toward the bar with the determination of someone who’d appointed herself my official birthday guardian.

The crowd reluctantly parted as we pushed our way through. The bodies pressing together formed a narrow pathway that led us from the dance floor. My skin was slick with sweat, my hair a wild mess, but I felt more alive than I had in months. Maybe years.

“Water first,” Brooklyn shouted over the music as we finally reached the bar.

She muscled her way between two guys in button-downs, creating just enough space for me to squeeze in beside her.

The bartender was a man with electric purple hair and tattoos.

He raised his eyebrows at us in silent question.

“Two waters and whatever she wants,” Brooklyn said, pointing at me. “Today is her twenty-first birthday.”

The bartender’s expression softened into a knowing smile. “Prove it.”

I couldn’t believe he was looking at me or even talking to me. I raised my little purse and placed it on the bar top. I quickly fished my ID out and turned it toward the bartender. “June seventh.” I said, although I was sure he knew what day it was.

“First legal drink is on the house, birthday girl. What’ll it be?”

I hesitated, overwhelmed by the sudden pressure of the decision. What did a twenty-one-year-old order? The question formed and dissolved in my mind, another reminder of her absence that I quickly pushed away.

“Something sweet,” I finally said. “Surprise me.”

“Marco loves to surprise.” He grinned.

The bartender nodded and turned away, his hands moving with practiced efficiency over bottles and mixers. Brooklyn leaned in close to my ear.

“Drink as much as you want, birthday girl. I’m going to make sure you get home safe.” She bumped my shoulder. “One night of being completely irresponsible won’t kill you. Get so litty you show a drunk man your muthafuckin’ titties.” She sang.

I smiled, grateful for her permission to let go.

But my titties were going to stay inside the fabric of this cheap-ass green mini dress that was made in China.

Brooklyn had been my safety net since sixth grade, the one person who knew all my secrets, well, most of them anyway.

She knew about the dreams but not about the golden blade or the man called Desmond.

Some things were too bizarre to share, even with your best friend.

The bartender returned with two bottles of water and a tall, vibrant pink concoction topped with a slice of pineapple and a tiny paper umbrella.

“Sex on the Beach,” he announced, sliding the colorful drink toward me.

“It's sweet, just for you, sweetheart, but it’ll still knock you on your ass if you’re not careful. ”

I took a tentative sip, trying to forget he called me sweetheart. My mother called me that. I literally hated that word. The fruity sweetness hit first, followed by the unmistakable burn of alcohol sliding down my throat. I coughed, caught off guard by the strength beneath the sugary disguise.

“Good?” Brooklyn asked, already knowing the answer from my expression.

“Let me take another sip,” I replied, taking another swig. This time I was ready for the burn. “Girl, it’s like drinking candy that fights back.”

Brooklyn laughed, her gruff voice carrying even over the pounding music. “Your drink got hands. Girl, you crazy.” She raised her water bottle. “To twenty-one. May it be better than twenty.”

“Anything is better than twenty,” I said, and clinked my cocktail glass against her simple water bottle.

Twenty had been a year of nightmares, literally.

The dreams about my mother had intensified, becoming more vivid, and more disturbing.

Dad’s depression had deepened. I’d switched majors twice.

I was lost. Or at least it felt that way.

Standing here with pink alcohol in a plastic cup warming my insides, and Brooklyn’s steady presence beside me, twenty-one suddenly seemed full of possibilities.