Torn Asunder (Part 1 of 2) Read online

  We settle in at the bar, listening to the faint rhythm of the bass beat from the club upstairs. It’s less crowded down here, but there are still quite a few people sitting and socializing. Quinn snags us two stools and orders us shots.

  “I think clean would be a good start, ” Quinn complains as she breaks the shells off of a few peanuts, which are set up in tins along the bar. “I can’t help you if you won’t help yourself. I’ve been sending all the best choices your way.”

  “And I appreciate that, I really do. But I told you, I’m just not into it. Your matchmaker duties are done for the evening. You are relieved of duty.”

  “Fair enough. I won’t try to do it anymore,” she relents, and takes a shot right after two have been poured. “I probably wouldn’t like it if someone set me up, either, now that I think about it. I never have.”

  “Well, that’s our lesson for this evening.”

  I tip back my shot, feeling it burn down the back of my throat, and she assesses me through squinting, bloodshot eyes. “Why is it that you never get as drunk as me?”

  I bite the inside of my cheek and shrug. She’s right, though. Although I haven’t had much to drink, it still would have been enough to make a typical girl buzzed. I don’t feel anything.

  The bartender is pouring me another shot and he looks me over. “Oh no, she’s back,” he says as he grins at me. He’s pretty attractive, and I think his name is Matt. He’s usually a regular feature on Friday nights. He starts cleaning out his beer mugs with a rag.

  “Why does that deserve an, ‘oh no?’” asks a guy who is leaning on the bar next to us. He and his pack of friends have just walked up. “I’m pretty excited that you’re here,” he continues, and I barely resist rolling my eyes. The lines can get pretty cheesy this time of night.

  “Well thank you, we’re excited to be here,” Quinn says, and I pick up the hint of a slur.

  “I said that because I’ve never seen a girl put away as many shots as her and still be standing,” Maybe-Matt clarifies.

  I laugh softly and trace the napkin around the shot glass. “It’s no big deal, honestly. I think it’s just my metabolism. I don’t get drunk easily, the alcohol just goes right through me. And my partying days are kind of behind me.”

  “You sound like you’re turning forty this year instead of—” Quinn looks at the bartender and changes what she was going to say. “Twenty three.”

  Maybe-Matt ignores her and continues cleaning out his glass.

  “I can drink a whole bottle of wine in under ten minutes and barely feel it,” I admit.

  “I think we should put this little skill to the test,” the new guy says.

  I can’t resist a challenge, and this is starting to get a little interesting. “What kind of test?”

  “Fifty bucks says you can’t take eight shots of SoCo in a row and still be standing,” he says, his big, capped teeth gleaming. His bros knock him on the shoulder and tell him that’s too much for someone my size.

  No one ever believes me when I say that it takes a lot of alcohol to affect me. I warn them again that the bartender wasn’t exaggerating and he should know, but Quinn pinches me. A pinch that says shut up and take their money. It’s not the first time I’ve been on the lucrative side of one of these bets. Not even the tenth.

  “Are you paying for these shots?” I ask, raising one eyebrow.

  “Sure.”

  He doesn’t think I’m going to accept his challenge, but I stick out my hand. “It’s your money, bud. You’re on.”

  The bartender winks at me and pours the first shot. I down one after the other, lining the little empty glasses upside down on the bar until I reach eight. Although the strong, syrupy taste makes my eyes water, by the time I’m finished I’m only slightly buzzed. The guy who made the bet stands there with his mouth open, clutching his little wad of cash.

  “Okay, so you’re standing, I’ll admit that’s impressive,” he concedes, recovering for a moment. “But how about you say the alphabet backwards?”

  I recite the entire alphabet backwards twice without slipping. His bros laugh heartily and slap him on the back again.

  “Are you girls tricking me?” he asks, his eyes shooting suspiciously from the bartender to Quinn and me. “Was that ginger ale or something, Matt?”

  He shakes his head. “No way. She beat you. It’s not like you weren’t warned. Multiple times.”

  I pluck the money from his fingers and smile triumphantly at him. I feel a fleeting sense of victory, even though it was just a silly, pointless bet. “I think it’s time to go dancing, wouldn’t you say, Quinn?”

  “Definitely.”

  I reach out and grab her hand and we head for the stairs. But the guy who lost the bet follows us and stops me, touching my shoulder. I turn around as Quinn waits a few steps up.

  “Mind if I come up with you?” he asks. “Maybe I could test out your reflexes.” He’s perfectly okay looking in a generic way—cropped hair, decent face, Polo shirt with sunglasses tucked into the pocket. But I can tell exactly what he wants from me by the way his eyes never quite leave my cleavage.

  “You seem nice, but we’re having a girl’s night tonight,” I say quickly. “Have a good evening.”

  I hear him mutter, “Enjoy my money,” as we hike up the stairs.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  UP ON THE top floor, strobe lights bounce and illuminate the shifting mass of people moving to the beat. I can feel the music in my chest as the singer croons about getting lucky. We wind our way through the sweaty, packed crowd and start dancing.

  Feeling free now that I don’t have the pressure of hooking up, I close my eyes and lose myself in the song, shifting my hips and bouncing my head back and forth, my hair cascading across my shoulders. I move my limbs without worrying who’s watching, and slit my eyes open to watch the strobes.

  Dancing is one of the few escapes that still works. I let go of my hold on my body and all my little worries, which seem so huge any other time, don’t exist anymore.

  When I open my eyes again, the flickering, deceptive lights illuminate Quinn, who has moved on into the center of a group of men. She picks one and grinds up against him, her hair spilling over his shoulder. He’s probably getting lipstick marks on his cheek, but he doesn’t seem to mind as he fondles her body.

  The shots that I drank have worked a little effervescent magic. and I twist away in the crowd, blending in, trying to go invisible. I shift away from anyone who wants to join me, and shut my eyes again, the music commanding the movements of my body as I undulate my hips.

  I notice someone is watching me across the dance floor. At least, I think he is. I look closer, still moving to the intense beat of the song. He’s tilted in my direction and his eyes seem to be following my every move. It’s not easy to see in here, but between the lights and shadows, he appears to be extremely, almost unsettlingly handsome, like a character out of a movie. His features look like they’re cut out of stone.

  My heart throbs out a hard, excited beat. And I’m now sure he’s watching me, because as I move, so does he. I can make out the lines of a straight nose and high cheekbones, dark hair, and a tall, slender, chiseled body. I wonder why he’s not coming over to me, and realize I must be making more of the situation than it is.

  Then my imagination takes over and I decide to play the fantasy. I’m guessing that the SoCo in my bloodstream is finally doing its job, because the idea of him watching me excites me to an almost absurd level. I imagine his hands on me as I tip my head back, gyrating my hips. I blush, but check to see if he’s still watching. He is, standing still now despite the fact that there are girls all around him, his expression hungry. His skin changes colors under the lights, hiding his face in the shadows.

  I blink and he seems to disappear, swallowed up by the crowd of club-goers. I feel a moment of disappointment, but the game was fun while it lasted. Thirst gnaws at the back of my dry throat and I decide it’s time to get something to drink that doesn
’t have an alcohol content.

  It’s close to last call, so the bar is emptying out. I order a Coke and scan the people standing around, playing pool and watching a rerun of a game on the big flat screens. I wonder if Quinn’s getting tired yet. After the excitement of my little fantasy, I’m ready to head home.

  I set my drink down and turn just as someone grasps my hand. It’s the mystery man, the one who I was dancing for, and I swallow hard and stare up at him. This close up, his looks are even more arresting—almost flawless but still boyish, with a confident smirk that doesn’t come across as too arrogant. If I had to guess I would place him around twenty-two, twenty-three, but he gives off a more mature vibe.

  “Where did you come from?” I ask, my voice sounding ridiculously breathy.

  He shrugs, grinning at me. “Upstairs. I was wondering where you escaped to.”

  “Oh. I was thirsty,” is all I can muster. I’m still staring at him, intimidated by how attractive he is.

  “Dance with me.” The voice commanding is gentle and low but insistent, and he’s already leading me toward the stairs, holding hand to my elbow. He’s only touching me with the tips of his fingers, but every nerve in my arm zones in on that spot. Instead of protesting, I find myself walking with him. My brain starts to replay the thoughts I was having earlier.

  “What makes you think I want to dance with you?” I challenge weakly, but somehow I can’t help but smile. His muscular, carefully defined arms stick out underneath the sleeves of his simple, black cotton shirt paired with jeans.

  “You can tell me no,” he says. “I’m not going to force you to. But I don’t think I have to, after the little show you gave me.” A cute little grin is tucked in the corner of his mouth. He’s just as tall as I gauged back when we were dancing, but not so much that he’s towering over me. “So are you going to tell me no?”

  I know if I try to speak right now, all the words will come out funny. So I nod instead and follow him back up to the music, where he guides me to a spot in the middle of the thinning crowd.

  He pulls me close, every movement taking great care, and I watch the lights change the color of his face again. It’s impossible to look away from him and I have to struggle to make my shallow breath deeper. Handsome isn’t a strong enough word, but perfect might be getting close.

  He moves his hips against mine, resting his hands on my waist. Chills shoot up my body, and I can’t believe how I’m reacting. It’s like he’s come along tonight just to prove me wrong. My makeup is probably melting, but he’s looking at me like I’m the sexiest thing he’s seen in weeks. He turns me around so that my back is to him, and rubs my shoulders for a moment. It shouldn’t be so erotic, but his slow, kneading pressure makes my eyes flutter. His hands caress my arms on the way back down to my waist.

  Our movements are perfectly synchronized with no effort, just like my fantasy. I’ve never been so turned on in my life. I clasp my arms around his strong neck and his hands migrate from my waist to the curve of my hips, his fingers pressing gently into the fabric of my skirt. They stay there, the insistent reality making the muscles in my stomach clench. The scent of his cologne pleasantly fills my nose, not too strong, reminding me of the ocean.

  His fingers gently find their way to the gap between my top and my skirt, and brush against my lower back, setting fire to my skin. His easy smile is gone and he’s serious now, looking at me with the same hungry expression he was when I was dancing by myself.

  An intense, anxious feeling blazes through me, and what had been so pleasant just seconds before completely shifts. The lights go out and hide his features, and all I can make out is the intensity of his stare. As the song changes to a dark dubstep, waves of fear wash over me, making my face hot and my knees weak. Panic sets in, coming out of nowhere.

  “Are you okay?” he mouths, his expression concerned as he loosens his hold on me and steps back. I try to respond, but my throat and mouth have gone dry. The music is suddenly far too loud and hurting my ears, and my heart thuds hard and painful in my chest. In my mind, memories are starting to float to the surface, and now my stressed pulse starts to pound wildly.

  I can’t let the memories happen. I can’t remember here.

  “Sorry. I need to go,” I mouth back to him, and don’t wait for his response as I thread my way back to the stairs and to the bar. I find Quinn, who seems to have sobered up quite a bit and its chatting with her earlier dance partner, who does have a faint lipstick print on his cheek.

  “Are you ready to go?” I ask her, having a hard time staying still.

  She nods her head in the direction of her partner. “I was going to stay and chat until the bar closes.” We have a code, that if one of us (always her) finds a guy that she wants to go home with, the other takes care of herself, so I’m already prepared. But she finally gets the chance to really look at my face and frowns.

  “Are you okay? You look like you’re spooked.”

  “I’m fine, just tired,” I insist, aware that the memory, whatever it is, is still coming. Hands clasping together as pain shoots through my skin. Feeling something tear inside me. I squeeze my fists together so hard I feel the nails dig into my palm. She insists that I text her when I get home, and then I’m practically running for the exit.

  I don’t stop sprinting until I’m outside, the cool air chilling my sheen of sweat. The buildings and lights swirl, dazzling me, and I reach down and grab my knees as I get to the sidewalk. Sights and smells and sounds bombard my head. Bile rises in my throat and I swallow hard as my chest gets tight.

  I take deliberate, slow breaths, not standing up, and to my relief, the panic begins to fade. I’ve had panic attacks before, but none this strong in a long time. The bubble of the memory pops and there’s nothing there. I’m still bent over, gripping my knees for dear life.

  “You gonna blow chunks, sweetie?” a man calls from the group clustered at the door. I finally get to my feet and brush myself off, feeling a little ashamed. For once, I was actually feeling something with a guy, even if it was just physical, and my body had to go and blow it.

  I raise my hand, ready to hail a cab, when someone grasps my upper arm. I gasp in surprise and turn around, only to be face to face with my dance partner again.

  “You ran out of there awfully fast,” he says. I’m struck by how pleasant his voice sounds, warm and rich, without others to drown it out. “Did you really have to go somewhere or did I do something wrong? I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

  I must still look pale because his face twists in concern, his brow wrinkling. I see under the faint street light that his eyes are pale blue, with small crinkles around the edges that make me think he laughs a lot.

  “I’m okay. I just needed to get some air.” That’s true, at least, but I don’t feel like telling all my secrets to this stranger, no matter how handsome. Especially how handsome. “I just think I’m done for the night.”

  “I have a car,” he says, gesturing to the parking lot with his thumbs. “I can drive you.”

  He edges closer, but I don’t want him to come any closer. Not because he freaks me out, because now out in the light and away from the fantasy inside, I see that he’s just a normal, albeit gorgeous, guy. But I don’t trust my body’s reaction to him. I’m pretty sure I’m blushing and I’m definitely sweating, and I’m not used to being cast in the role of lovesick girl. I’m usually pretty confident and don’t get intimidated by good looks.

  “No offense, I’m sure you’re nice. But I don’t get into cars with guys that I just met,” I clarify.

  “Good policy. And we haven’t officially met. I’m James Cain.”

  “Remy Wade.” This is probably the part where we should exchange a handshake or something but now we’re acting oddly shy, considering his hands were all over my body ten minutes ago. He keeps them hanging at his side and stares at me. He doesn’t seem like the shy type, and yet I think—or I imagine—that he’s just as flustered as me.

 
We stand, watching each other awkwardly, for a bit too long. He sighs and runs his hand through his curly, brown hair, and I think for a second about how it might feel to run my own fingers through it. Snap out of it, I yell in my head, and clench my fingers tightly. If the side effect of fireworks is turning into a socially awkward, nervous ball of goo, then fireworks are definitely overrated.

  “Anyway, thanks for the offer of a ride home, but I don’t live far.”

  He holds his hands up. “I understand. I’m not trying to come off as a creeper.”

  “You’re not creepy,” I say. “Far from it. It’s just that I’m not looking for a hook up.”

  “Okay,” he grins at me and I feel foolish. I have enough time to feel another pang of embarrassment when he leans forward and peers into my face. I arch back and frown, wondering what he’s seeing.

  “What—” I begin, but I’m distracted from continuing. The hair on the back of my neck and on my arms suddenly stands up straight, and my eyes are drawn to the sky. A bright, golden flash lights up the sky a few blocks to the west. It’s over in seconds, with no sound.

  “Did you just see that?” he asks excitedly, and I nod. “That looked like it was really close.”

  “What do you think it was?” I ask, still staring at the sky.

  He sticks out his bottom lip in a frown, appearing shocked, like he’s forgotten whatever ideas he might of had of me coming home with him. “I have no idea. Did anybody else see it?”

  We turn around and study the people filing out of the club, but none of them seem to have noticed the light in the sky. Whatever buzz I had is completely gone, and I feel stone cold sober and worried again for the second time tonight.

  “Are you sure I can’t convince you into a ride home?” James asks. So he didn’t forget, he was just sidetracked. “Who knows, maybe that was an asteroid? Crazier things have happened.”

  A yellow cab pulls up to the curb. “No, thanks. But I appreciate your company tonight.”

  I slam the door on any of his further words. I’m not trying to be rude, but between the panic attack and that strange light I don’t feel like myself. I twist around in the seat and peer out the back window. James is still standing at the curb, watching my cab pull away, his hands in the pockets of his dark jeans.