Vesper (15 page)

I honked right back, Megan's car making a pitiful gasping beep that would put fear into no man's chest.

The exit took me around an S-turn, dropping me off by the stadiums.

Struggling to remember the route we'd taken, I took a few right turns until I somehow7 ended up on the viaduct and finally knew where I was.

And there it was. The club.

It was next to the off-ramp, beneath a bridge that led who knows where.

The place was tinier than I remembered, but there was a line of attractive people out front and it had a cool sign: a close-up of a black-and-white-striped tiger, fangs bared.

The name of the place: Frenzy. I didn't know a thing about this club, but I didn't care—the name alone was enough for me to know this was exactly where I wanted to be.

There was a pay parking lot next to the club. I didn't have any money on me, so I didn't bother putting anything into the cash box by the street.

Clutching the car keys, I strode past the people waiting in line on the sidewalk and cut in front of a pair of college-age guys. I stood in front of the doorman and flashed him a sly smile. Through the dark open doorway I could see flashing lights and hear the
thumpa-thumpa-thumpa
of dance music.

"Hey there, can I come in?"

The door guy was a Schwarzenegger clone—tall, bulging chest, square face, military haircut. His nose was smashed like he'd been punched in the face a few times. He scanned me over, then crossed his arms. His giant biceps seemed about ready to tear apart the sleeves of his black T-shirt.

"ID and cover," he said to me. He had a nice, deep Vin Diesel voice.

I widened my eyes and formed my lips into a surprised O. "I totally forgot my bag in my car. You wouldn't make me walk all the way back to get it, would you?" He seemed the type to want to rescue a damsel in distress, so I scrunched in on myself, trying to come off all frail and helpless.

His expression didn't change. He pointed to a sign on the door. "ID and cover or no getting in. No exceptions."

"Hey, man," one of the guys behind me said. "Look at her, she's old enough. I'll pay her cover, it's cool."

I turned around and smiled at the guy. He was tall and lanky, his black hair whooshed up into a fauxhawk. He was smoking a cigarette, blowing the smoke up into the night sky. His friend next to him was shorter, his hair close-cropped, his tight shirt showing off an awesome body.

"Thanks, guys." Turning back to the bouncer, I patted his chest and started to walk in.

The bouncer put his arm out, blocking my way. "No ID, no entry. No-" "—

exceptions," I snapped. "I got it."

"Hurry up," a woman in the back of the line called. "It's cold out here."

I flashed the bouncer a smile. "Well, I guess I'll just have to go back and get my bag then."

The bouncer didn't say anything. Just stared at me, stone-faced.

I wanted to shove him aside, make him fall on his butt. I knew I could do it too. But I didn't want to call that kind of attention to myself—not yet, anyway.

I sauntered away down the sidewalk. As I passed, Fauxhawk brushed his hand against my arm. While his buddy showed his ID and paid the cover charge, Fauxhawk tossed his cigarette to the ground and stamped it out.

"Hey, I'll see you inside," he said. "I'm Blaze. You're...?"

I leaned in close and sniffed him. Cheap cologne and cigarettes. That other part of my mind whispered,
Not the one.
I shoved it back, once again resisting the urge to go back to the car, head home, and find the
right
guy.

"Call me Miss Webb," I said. "And I'd better see you on the dance floor”.

Smirking, he handed his ID and a twenty-dollar bill to the bouncer. "Don't keep me waiting," he said.

He disappeared inside, and I dropped my smile. Getting in was supposed to be simple. I rounded the corner into the parking lot. I didn't have an ID or any money, of course. I was going to have to get creative.

I wandered around the base of the club, trying to find some other way inside. The wall facing the parking lot was featureless save for a giant billboard. I ended up in back of the building, in an alley. A green Dumpster lay open, stinking of spoiled meat and alcohol.

But there was something else back there: a fire escape.

Holding Megan's car keys in my teeth, I spread my heeled feet apart, bunched my legs, felt my thigh muscles wind tight like a spring.

And I leaped.

I don't know how high I jumped—a story, at least, so maybe fifteen feet.

All I know is that it was as close to flying as I'd come, and the rush of wind through my hair, the feeling of liquid lightness, made my mind giddy. Then skin met steel, and I caught the rusted grating at the bottom of the catwalk, the thin strips of metal cutting into my fingers. Tensing my arms, I swung myself up over the railing and onto the fire escape. My heels dropped through the open grating, but I kept my balance.

From there it was easy going—stairs led up the next few stories to the roof.

I clambered up them, the steps quaking beneath me and my shoes clanging loudly. The distant
thumpa-thumpa-thumpa
of the music seeped through the walls.

Finally I reached the roof. I climbed a little ladder, pulled myself over the small brick wall, and found myself in the middle of some sort of private party. There were couches up there, fashionable yellow-patterned love seats and high-backed wicker chairs. I saw a pair of women, one with a boyish haircut and the other with a long braid, cuddling up in one of the love seats, murmuring sweet nothings in each other's ears while taking sips from glasses filled with some sort of neon blue alcoholic beverage. On an opposite seat, beneath a tall potted fern that shaded them from the yellow spotlights, a man and a woman made out and groped each other. I could smell the lust wafting off them.

Ignoring the two couples, I strode to the door leading inside the club. The short-haired woman gave me an appreciative leer as I passed, before a scowl from her date sent her back to murmuring sweet nothings.

Finally I was in.

Immediately the music enveloped me, the
thumpa-thumpa-thumpa
joined with a bright swirl of electronic notes and a wailing vocal. I followed a stylish spiral staircase down to the floor below. The place was packed, men in formatting shirts sprawled on couches next to women in outfits even more garish and revealing than my own. Whoever wasn't sitting was standing where they could find room, and everyone huddled together to talk and laugh. The music was so loud that I couldn't hear a thing anyone was saying.

I saw a flight of stairs against the front wall leading to the ground floor.

Taking the keys from my teeth and clenching them in my hand, I shoved through the milling twentysomethings, catching snippets of conversations, smelling the alcohol on their breaths. They gave off such heat, these people—

their bodies radiated with sexual tension.

Their energy was amazing, intoxicating. I could feel it seep into my pores, soaking into my blood. But there was something off about it. I knew I needed companionship, needed to be surrounded by others—but a new urge called out from the deep recesses of my brain that I hadn't fully explored.
Hide
from these,
it said. Find
your fellows.

The thought didn't make any sense. I bumped into dancing, laughing people, and I felt like this
must
be the place I needed to be, even if that stupid, instinct-driven side of me tried to say otherwise. I felt like I was constantly sniffing and searching for someone—or maybe it was several someones—who my body would decide fit me perfectly. That night I was irritated by that side, refused to give into it. Why couldn't it just leave me alone and let me be happy with whoever I decided for myself was "the one"?

Again, I shoved down the urges. Winding past the people milling on the stairs, I finally made it to the ground floor. If I thought the place had bee crowded upstairs, downstairs was even worse— people were everywhere on the dance floor, grinding against one another and raising their arms into the air, stomping to the beat of the music. Well, some of them were, anyway.

Others had a serious case of White People Dancing Syndrome and shuffled along as though they were hearing a completely different song.

How anyone danced at all I didn't know, because they were packed in so tight that they seemed to become one large, writhing mass of sweaty flesh. In the center of the dance floor two chubby girls danced around poles on a little platform, the DJ at his turntable behind them. Their girlfriends and some guys whooped it up as the two made a spectacle of themselves, with no one seeming to remotely care.

I sniffed the air—over the smell of sweat, of hormones, and of booze, the cheap cologne and cigarette smoke of Fauxhawk stood out. From my vantage point on the stairs, I caught sight of him. He sat at the bar on the opposite side of the room, sipping a clear drink that could have been water but most certainly wasn't, while his crop-haired friend occupied himself with a girl on his lap.

I shoved through the dancers. No one seemed to care in the least that I was squeezing past them, that our bodies were so wonderfully close.

Everyone here was as free as I felt, and I laughed, the sound lost to the endless
thumpa-thumpa-thumpa
and the stomping of feet. Glassy-eyed and slurring, people pawed at one another like animals. Their smells were flustering; scents that were usually kept secret flooded the air like a gas.

And yet... none of it was quite right.

I emerged from the crushing sea of people by the bar. Fauxhawk caught sight of me as I appeared, then smiled and waved me over.

He said something as I came close, but even with nighttime hearing I couldn't make it out.

"What?" I shouted near his ear.

"Hey there!" he shouted back over the music.

"Hey. Blaze, right?"

"Miss Webb?"

I nodded, then grabbed his hands. "Want to get tangled up in me?" I purred.

He laughed. "What if I burn you up?" "You're corny!" I shouted.

"So are you!" He winked. "But it's all good. I like that."

I pulled him off his stool by his hands and started to lead him toward the dance floor, but the keys were cutting into my palm. I should have brought a handbag.

Holding up my pointer finger to Fauxhawk, I shouted over at the bartender, "Hey, you got any string or anything?"

He leaned close. "What drink?" he shouted.

"String!" I shouted back. I held up the keys. "I want to hang this from my neck."

Nodding to show he understood, he grabbed a box from beneath the bar.

Bottles rattled inside, am it was held closed by twine. Using a pocketknife, he snipped free the twine and handed it over.

"Thanks, man. You rock!" I shouted at him.

He smiled blankly at me, then gestured to his ears to show he hadn't heard.

"Thanks. You—!" I shouted louder, then turned away. "Forget it."

Quickly stringing the key ring on the twine, I tied the makeshift necklace round my neck and tucked the keys under my dress. Then I grabbed Fauxhawk by the hand and led him to the edge of the dance floor. "Now let's dance!" I shouted at him.

He didn't hear me, but he didn't have to. The song changed to something that sounded remarkably similar to what had been playing when I came in, the lights flashed, the crowd cheered. I spun around and let the thumping beat take over, thrusting my hips and throwing my hands in the air, tossing my hair and sweating horribly, but not caring. Fauxhawk grabbed me by the hand and spun me, then put his hands on my waist and pulled me in close.

He ground his body into the back of mine, and I reached my arms back to wrap them around his neck.

Everything about this was something my normal daytime self would never do, even more so than drinking at the party. This was way better than the high school stuff, I decided. People here were looser, less self-conscious. No wonder so many other kids got fake IDs.

I could feel Fauxhawk's heartbeat against my back, could feel the hot lash of his breath against my neck. I was in complete and utter control of him, dominating and muddying his mind more than alcohol ever could. I could sense his rationality fading away as his want for me grew.

He spun me toward him and put his face close to mine. His stale cigarette breath filled my nostrils.

"So, baby, you want to come back with me?" he said into my ear. "Me and Bobby over there have our own place not too far, we could take the party there."'

I laughed. "No, no," I said. "I'm just here to dance." I tried to pull away from his grip, to get back to dancing. He wouldn't let go.

"Come on," he said. "You got me bad, Miss Webb. You got me all wrapped up here, got me squirming."

I sniffed him again. His stench was ordinary, stale, unappealing. Once more the urge to find the one with the right scent flushed over my skin. I'd been close enough to someone so damn perfect that his scent was now permanently etched in my brain. Someone cute but otherwise only serviceable—like this guy—couldn't compare. It was maddening, but it made my answer easy.

"I can't," I shouted into his ear. "You don't smell right."

He started breathing harder, faster, pulling me in close and putting his forehead to mine. "Don't play me, baby. You know what you're doing, but we all hate games...

God, this guy was repetitive. I dug my fingernails into his chest and shoved. Surprised by the force of my push, he tumbled backward against another dancing couple, then glared at me.

"What the hell!" he bellowed.

"I said
no thanks"
I rolled my shoulders back. "Besides, I'm only sixteen.

You'd totally get arrested."

His face went blank. "What?"

"It's true." I turned away, calling back, "I'm getting bored. I'm sure you can find someone else around here who's actually legal."

Leaving Fauxhawk standing there stunned, I shoved through the heaving bodies toward the stairs.

Back up on the top floor, I stretched my arms and legs in the relative roominess. The bass-filled music didn't seem quite as loud anymore and the people here were more subdued, off in their own private worlds.