Her eyes briefly widened and then her mouth dropped open as a hiss of air escaped. “Sounds… good. Real good.”
****
The club was filled with sweaty bodies grinding all up in each other’s business. It may have appeared to be my scene, but I was more of a classic rock type of guy, so hearing TI play over the loud speaker made me wince, but I tried to appear into it.
A techno track came on, the green lights started to flash with the pounding music.
“Wanna drink?” Cee-Cee asked.
Hey, at least I’d learned her name.
Even if I did kiss her first and then ask.
Not that she’d minded. She already had her legs spread when I got into the car with her — I didn’t take her up on that particular offer — at least not yet. I wasn’t drunk enough yet, not high enough, not pissed enough.
“Shots.” I licked my lips. “Let’s order shots.”
She shrugged and went over to the bartender while I just stood there and watched as people laughed and partied.
I used to party like that.
Hell, I used to laugh.
But after Wes’s surgery — things had changed. I’d been living a lie for half my life; how the hell did I somehow run out of strength to be the person I wanted people to see? It was like I was a burnt out actor, only it wasn’t a movie. It was my reality.
“Cheers.” Cee-Cee winked, her dark eyelashes fanning against her cheeks as we each did three shots without choking. She must be a regular. Most girls would be downing vodka sodas and asking about calorie content.
“Wanna dance?” She leaned in so close I could smell the vanilla perfume she wore. I fought the urge to push her away.
“Not really in the mood for dancing.” Instead of pushing her, I pulled her against me, ready to lose myself.
“What’s your story?” she asked above the noisy music.
“I don’t do the whole deep emotional talking and spilling my guts out onto the floor. so if you’re into that, screw off,” I snapped.
“Good.” She nodded in approval as she shoved her hands down the front of my jeans in front of everyone. “I don’t either.”
My body flared to life and I hated myself for it.
Without saying a word, I dragged her toward the back of the club.
“Wait.” She winked and then pulled a joint out of her slim black purse, “You want?”
“Aw, honey, you think I’m into that shit? I go big or go home.”
“I can tell.” She looked me up and down, her eyes settling on my arousal before she reached into her purse and pulled out a plastic bag full of white powder and a mirror. “You like?”
“Very much,” I lied and looked away. I knew how this scene would play out. I knew it like I knew the back of my hand.
I’d sneak her into the ba
throom, she’d line up the coke for me to snort, we’d get high, we’d drink, I’d take advantage of her, she’d smell like cheap perfume. Her sweat would be all over me and I’d be caught up in the same damn trap I’d been caught up in years ago.
The only difference now?
Now, I was too numb, too indifferent to care.
You know you’re in some deep shit when doing drugs doesn’t make you feel — I felt nothing. I was empty. I lacked the energy to pretend.