CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Whatever people are smoking outside is following them inside the nightclub, leaving a trail of fog that wraps around bodies and trickles over heads. I feel like I'm starting to get high off the secondhand fumes. Not high enough to be numb to a hand grabbing my ass as I continue to elbow my way in and out of the crowd. The first time, I chalked it up to the fact that it's too crowded to even hide under the stairs, but after two more times, I pretend to be intoxicated enough to "accidentally" fall back into the person and pierce their foot with the pointy bottom of my heel. I even throw in an airy laugh and high-pitched apology as I dig my weight into it, waiting for them to wince, before pushing forward again.
I would park myself by one of the bars, preferably the left one, like I usually do, but the line has been endless, one after another, after another, the same way the entrance and exits have been. I'm almost tempted to find a wall, slide down, and stop, drop, and roll out of here, but I'm afraid the floor is just as polluted as the air.
I cram my way up the stairs, waving my hand in front of my face as I go, because the air seems to only get the slightest bit heavier and the slightest bit thicker. It's only by throwing my upper body over the rail that I feel like I'm finally breathing in fresher air. It's still definitely borrowed air, but at least feels cleaner.
The dance floor looks more like a slow moving herd of cattle as people shuffle a little to one side and then over to the other without any true purpose nor any inclination for the beat pulsing out of the speakers.
My eyes dance around, looking for nothing particular, but it doesn't take long for my eyes to trail after a guy wearing a black button up dress shirt with bright pink flamingos on it. The pattern is stark against both the strobing lights as well as the shadows in between. If that's not enough, his dark hair is flopping around with each floppy step he takes as he ducks around and sidesteps through the crowd. When he reaches the edge of the dance floor, he flings his head back and looks up. Of course, he looks up. He's the only one that takes the time to glance up. I want to say that's because that's just what he does. He looks up because the glass is always half full, or at least the glass is never empty, but really, I'm only kidding myself because those eyes land right on me, like magnets, no lollygagging in between. Oh, and then there's that smile—that damn million dollar smile that breaks out across his face—even as his shoulders are bumped and shoved.
Of course, it also only takes another beat for him to turn and start heading towards the stairs. My eyes ping pong around for a second as I debate about ducking back into the crowd because it's been two weeks—a two week streak—and finals are coming up, and the semester is almost over, and I still have to finish my paper, and the last thing I need is Jack. The last thing I need is Jack to walk right up to me when the last time I saw him he was walking away. The last thing I need is another last time when I finally, sort of, not really, came to terms with the last time being the last time.
But of course, the crowd seems to part for him. I want to say it's because he's a guy, or the pattern of his shirt easily catches people's eyes, but I know it's also a lie. It's really just a downright annoying irony of life.
I go back go plan B, pulling myself away from the railing and backing up into the wall. I don't even check behind me. My eyes lock with his as he continues to stride forward, while I continue to slowly step back.
He's the one that ends up tripping, though, another irony, but it's one that I appreciate, as he stumbles over someone else's feet at first before just stumbling over his own. My eyebrows are raised when he looks back up. It's too bad that I forget to keep walking because all it takes is three more strides for him to finally reach me.
"Hey," he hums.
"Hey," I say but it comes out as more of question because he sways forward on his toes a little bit. My eyebrows raise again. "Nice shirt."
"Thanks." The red that's splotching his cheeks starts crawling up his neck, and he only adds to it as he begins dragging his nails over it. "I thought you—you"—He waves his pointer finger in a circle around my face— "would appreciate the pop of pink." He drops his finger, but I don't drop my eyebrows as his eyes now start repeating the circle around my face. "How've you been?" He sways forward again, too far this time, and he throws his hand up to steady himself. "Wait, I know." He throws up his finger. "You've been avoiding me."
I swallow but then try to swallow again when I seem to only taste the stench in the air. "And you've been drinking."
Jack chuckles, which only makes my blood boil some more, but that's the last thing I need since my black chiffon peplum tank top is already sticking to me.
"Laney," he hums as he takes a step forward.
"Jack." I try to step back, I really do, but the group of girls behind me forces me to only crane my neck.
"See." He pouts. "You are avoiding me."
"And you've been drinking." I almost laugh, almost, but instead my eyebrows furrow. "I thought you didn't like drinking."
He keeps the pout as he tilts his head. "Who told you that?"
I finally laugh. "You did."
"Oh." He tilts his head to the other side. "When?"
"A while ago." I laugh again. "You said you only come out to meet people."
"Well, I lied." He flicks his head like the lead singer of a boy band, and I go to roll my eyes, but stop when I notice his pointer finger hovering in the air again, only this time near my hips. He drags his finger up and gently traces along the billowing hem of my tank top. "I only come to see you."
My chest expands, but I feel like I don't get any air—I can't feel the air—just a slight burn in my chest. I try again, slowly inhaling through my nose because that's all I can seem to bring myself to do since my brain is suddenly just as blank as a whiteboard.
"Laney," he hums again.
"Jack." I all but gulp.
His converse slides the slightest bit closer to my sandal covered feet as his fingers slowly trail along the top of my jeans, skimming over my belt loops. His touch isn't weighted or pressured. It never is. Rather, deliberate, but tentative. As if he knows exactly what he wants and exactly what he's doing but is also still searching for all the right answers.
He leans down until his nose is almost touching mine. "Come home with me."
I'm tempted to say yes, I almost say yes, but instead I pass a glance back and am happy to find the group behind us dispersed. "I'm not in the mood." I force out another laugh as I take a step back.
"You mean, you're avoiding me." Jack stumbles again, but doesn't miss a beat, trailing right behind me as I make it to the wall and plan to start skimming my way to the exit. "But the question is," Jack says before he finally jumps back in front of me, blocking my path. "Why," he breathes.
Too bad that's the same question I've been asking myself these last two weeks. It started out as a tiny little match that I could easily wave out with my hand, only to grow into this fire I can no longer ignore. The longer you stare at the flames, the more you forget that you can't touch them—you shouldn't touch them—because you'll get burned, and yet you can't help but crave the heat.
"Laney." Jack reaches his hand out again, specifically, that damn point finger of his, gently skimming it down the soft inner skin of my forearm and making a circle inside my palm. His foot inches forward again. "Come home with me."
I breathe in again, trying to fill up my lungs as far as they will go, trying to regain control of my senses, even though they're already gone. They were gone the second I laid my eyes on him. "We shouldn't." I shake my head as I go to step away from the wall, but he steps in front of me again, planting his hands on the wall on either side of my head.
"I don't understand you," he whispers.
"Join the club." I almost roll my eyes, almost, but instead find my hands reaching up and flipping up the collar of his shirt because old habits die hard. The problem is, Jack isn't just any plain old habit. He's an addiction. Especially, when he steps forward and closes all the space left between us, pressing every inch of himself flat against every inch of me. "Oh god," I sigh because even as I try to move my head, I know damn well there's no getting out of this. There's no way I'd even want to.
"Yes," Jack sighs as he digs his hips into mine. "That's usually what you say when I take you to that perfect place."
"Jack!"
His hands slap the wall again. "You say that, too, and that's usually what drives me over the f*cking edge."
My shoulders shake a little in silent laughter as he skims his nose over mine before tilting his chin up and almost connecting our lips.
"You're drunk," I whisper the words against his mouth, gently bumping our lips together, but still don't make a move to initiate the kiss.
His forehead rubs against mine as he shakes his head. "Not that drunk."
Just like that I'm relapsing on my drug of choice.
Him.