No Such Thing As Love [ON HOLD]

3: Adam

LA clubs were absolutely ridiculous. They were dark and dingy, the only lights being strobe lights that caused seizure-inducing headaches. There were too many bodies grinding up on one another, half purposefully and half by accident because it was so crowded. The air was always hot and thick with the smell of sweat, alcohol, and sex. And lastly, the music was always so loud that it was pointless to even attempt to have a conversation with anyone. 

Which is why LA clubs were also perfect. 

They were the perfect place to completely lose yourself, to stop thinking and just have fun. LA clubs were great for becoming someone else, whether by choice or by alcohol. They gave you the confidence to do outrageous things that you would never normally do. And that's why they were perfect. They were an escape.

Currently, I was by the bar, trying to make conversation with a very attractive blonde girl whose name I had yet to ask for. She was scantily dressed, as the majority of the girls in this club were, and she was clearly drunk out of her mind. I was acutely aware of the fact that she had white dust on her black dress and I was almost certain that it wasn't glitter with the way she was acting. 

"So what do you do for a living?" she asked, hiccuping as she downed another drink sloppily. From up close, I could see that her false eyelashes were starting to fall off her eyelids. 

Classy.

"I write books," I replied, sipping at my own drink. 

"Oooohhhh! Mista Smarty-Pants over hereeeee," she drawled. I chuckled, pretending to humor her. What I needed was a way out of this ridiculous conversation. I glanced around the bar area, trying to scope out my next move. 

"Now ask what I do for a living," she said, batting her fake eyelashes at me and running a long fingernail over my blazer. 

"You're probably a stripper," I mumbled under my breath.

"What?" she asked, shouting over the loudness of the music. 

"Huh? Nothing. I didn't say anything," I replied, taking another sip of my drink. She laughed, although I didn't understand why; I didn't say anything funny.

I set my now empty glass of bourbon on the bar countertop and gestured for the bar tender to get me another and glanced at the blonde sitting next to me. She was now aware of the the white dust on her dress and was taking care to pat her breasts to get it off. She wiped some off with her finger and brought it to her mouth. She looked up when she saw me watching her and then giggled.

"I have something on my dress. Be right back," she said, batting her eyelashes. She got up from the barstool that she was occupying and stumbled off to find the bathrooms. 

Thank God that was over with.

I thanked the bar tender for my drink and then turned around, scanning the crowd.

One of the qualities that I prized myself in was that I was very observant. Whether this was a good or bad thing, I wasn't sure, but I did find it to be more helpful than not. I attributed this characteristic of mine to the fact that I was a writer. In my world and in my eyes, everything was a potential plot line. My eyes could look at a simple thing like the way the clouds moved on a hazy summer day and my mind would take that scene and turn it into a story. Who is watching the clouds? Why are they watching the clouds? Where are they? What are they doing?

Who, what, where, when, why, and how. Those were my favorite words. 

It was this observant quality of mine, then, that I blamed for what happened for the remainder of the night. 

As I was scanning the crowd, decidng if I wanted to talk up a girl or dance or listen to the live band that was playing, someone caught my attention.