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TALOFA

L ater that evening

We get ready and head to Timmy’s friend’s club. It’s been years since I’ve set foot in a nightclub, let alone an EDM one. Back on the East Coast, I’d only gone to a couple, and even then, the relentless bass, the swirling lights, and the pulsating crowd felt overwhelming. But I’m in Timmy’s world now, and I’m willing to give it a go.

On the way over, Timmy brags about the club owner, Romeo—a supposed childhood friend turned prominent drug dealer and nightlife kingpin of Sunset Cay. The whole story feels off. From what I’ve gathered, Romeo is at least ten or fifteen years older than Timmy, making it hard to imagine them as schoolmates. I brush it off for now, though—the way Timmy talks, half of what he says sounds like it’s been exaggerated or warped into legend.

He tells me, with unsettling pride, how he has access to an endless supply of drugs through Romeo. “Everyone in the club knows me,” he says, puffing his chest out. “I’ve even danced so long that once I dragged a couch onto the dancefloor and slept right there. People just danced around me—and when I woke up, a bunch of people were stroking my body. ”

I laugh awkwardly, not knowing whether to be amused or disturbed. He takes it further, though.

“And I’ve always got to jerk off, like, three times before I go to the club. Otherwise, I’ll, like, come in my pants on the dance floor. It’s so stimulating. All the girls in their rave outfits.”

That part makes me squirm, and I can’t even hide it. “That’s… a lot, Timmy. Why would you say that to me?”

He just shrugs, like over-sharing is second nature to him. “Girls there all want me, but I’ve never taken any of them home. It’s just dancing. It’s a vibe. They’re all going to be so jealous of you.” I guess I feel relieved that he’s not known for taking all the girls home.

By the time we pull up to the club—an unmarked building hidden down a nondescript side street—I’m not sure what I’ve gotten myself into. The place looks nothing like a nightclub from the outside, designed to look more like a storage facility or some kind of office. A group of bouncers loiter near the entrance, adjusting their earpieces and sharing low conversations as they prepare for the night.

Without missing a beat, Timmy marches straight toward them, radiating the confidence of someone who thinks he’s royalty. “Let’s go,” he says, tugging my hand.

The lead bouncer, a broad guy with tattooed arms, steps in front of him. “Whoa, slow down. We’re not open yet, man. You can’t come in.”

Timmy puffs up, his posture almost comically self-important. “I know Romeo. I’m good.”

The bouncers exchange glances, one of them visibly rolling his eyes. “Okay, buddy. Still not open.”

Timmy scowls and pulls out his phone, shooting me an annoyed look, as if this minor inconvenience is a personal attack. “I’ll call Romeo.”

I stand there awkwardly while Timmy dials, feeling the heavy weight of the bouncers’ judgment. I’m starting to wonder if Timmy even knows Romeo that well—or if this whole thing is just another one of his exaggerated tales. But to my surprise, after a brief phone exchange, Timmy hands the phone over to one of the security guys.

After a few terse words with Romeo, the bouncer hands the phone back, muttering, “Alright, you’re in.”

Timmy shoots me a triumphant grin, but it’s clear the bouncers are not impressed. The tension between them and Timmy lingers in the air like a bad smell.

I notice one of the bouncers is wearing a cap from a Samoan clothing brand I recognize. The bad vibes between Timmy and the bouncers need defusing, so I step forward.

“Are you Samoan?” I ask, nodding toward his cap.

He gives me a curious glance, taking in my accent. “Yep.”

“Oh nice! Talofa! I’m from New Zealand.”

His face brightens, and just like that, the energy shifts. We chat for a moment, exchanging friendly words about home, and the heaviness between us dissolves. The other bouncers relax a little, more smiles now, and we slip inside, finally past the awkwardness.

The interior of the club is surprisingly cool. It’s a cavernous, industrial space, with murals painted across the walls—giant, surreal figures outlined with neon, their features glowing under the black lights. It feels otherworldly, like stepping into a different dimension.

Timmy, still basking in his self-appointed VIP status, leads me by the hand through the dimly lit room. The DJ is setting up, testing some beats that pulse through the space like an electric heartbeat.

“This is my spot,” Timmy says with a grin, looking around like he owns the place. “I’m, like, a legend here.”

He breaks away from me to start dancing, slipping easily into a shuffle dance that’s surprisingly good. I drop onto one of the couches along the wall and watch him. He’s fully in his element, spinning, gliding, and twisting with a grin plastered across his face, the whole dance floor to himself. And even though I want to roll my eyes at how self-important he’s been all night, I can’t help but smile. There’s something charming about how much fun he’s having.

As people start to trickle in, the space slowly fills with energy. The music grows louder, the bass deeper, and the lights flash in hypnotic patterns.

I relax a little, reassured by the fact that Timmy’s not seeking out drugs, or even alcohol, just enjoying his dancing and the ability to share this part of his life with me. The vibe is fun and light, and I start to think maybe I’ve been too judgmental. Maybe Timmy’s world isn’t as sketchy as it seemed.

When we finally get back to my apartment, Timmy grabs his giant stuffed caterpillar—one of the many items he’s moved over to my place from Matty’s—and starts wiggling it from one end, making it ripple like a battle rope at the gym. I burst out laughing, the sight so absurd that I can’t help myself.

My laugh echoes through the room, loud and unfiltered, but not that loud. Or at least, I didn’t think so. But just a few minutes later, there’s a knock at the door.

I open it to find the concierge standing there, an apologetic look on his face. “I’m sorry, but we got a noise complaint.”

It’s the third noise complaint we’ve had this week. I’ve never had noise complaints anywhere I’ve lived, and I honestly don’t think we’ve been very loud at all.

I stare at him, stunned. “For laughing ? We’re not even listening to music.”

He shrugs helplessly. “Apparently so.”

I feel so deflated, like a schoolgirl being told off for something trivial. This building is starting to suck, with all these petty complaints—and they always seem to come from the leasing agent next door. She’s had it out for me from day one, and it’s starting to feel personal. So weird, considering she insisted I take the apartment beside her, not that I knew it at the time.

Timmy, now draped over the bed with the caterpillar on his chest, gives me a lazy grin. “Damn, babe. Your laugh is so powerful it causes complaints. That’s kinda hot. ”

I roll my eyes but can’t help smiling. It’s ridiculous. All of it. But at least the night was fun—well, mostly.

As I sit back down, though, a flicker of unease returns. Timmy’s world—this club scene, these strange connections—it feels exciting, sure, but there’s also an edge to it. Like I’m brushing up against something dark, and I don’t quite belong.

He behaved himself tonight, but his stories, his connections, his reckless confidence—it all hints at a life I’m not sure I can keep up with. It’s fun, but it feels dangerous, too. Like I’m teetering on the edge of something I don’t fully understand.

Maybe I’m overthinking it. Maybe I just need to relax, go with the flow.

But as I look at Timmy sprawled across my bed, grinning like the world is his playground, that nagging sense of being out of my depth lingers like a shadow I can’t quite shake.