And my mind continued conjuring flashes of neon lights and sweaty bodies.
“Scarlett DuBois, you are an idiot,” I said.
My self-condemnation lingered before dissolving into air.
Then I got up, walked to my room, and riffled through my closet for an appropriate outfit to wear to the city’s most exclusive nightclub.
What am I doing here?
I stared at the scene before me, my heels cutting into my feet, my skin sticky with summer heat and regrets.
I’d forgotten how chaotic London clubs were. Neon’s deceptively simple exterior, fronted by a brick wall and a black metal door, didn’t deter everyone under the age of thirty from wanting that magic entry stamp on their hand.
I was tempted to take the next taxi home and crawl back into bed, but I’d spent an hour getting ready and shelled out an exorbitant sum for taxi fare. I didn’t want that to go to waste.
Asher said he’d put my and Carina’s names on the list, but did he mean the list for the club or the list for the party inside the club? Or both?
I eyed the queue snaking down the pavement and around the corner. The thought of waiting an hour or more in heels made me want to die, but how humiliating would it be if I walked up to the bouncer and my name wasn’t on the list? I’d get banished to the back of the queue while dozens of strangers judged me during my walk of shame.
If Carina were here, she’d charge up to the door and check for us. Since she wasn’t, I was forced to text Asher for clarification. I should’ve done so on my way here, but I hadn’t been thinking.
Me: Hi! I changed my mind about the party after all! Can you confirm whether I’m on the list for the club or the party inside? Ty!
I winced at the overly peppy tone (so many exclamation marks!), but I hit send anyway. The sooner he responded, the sooner I could move from my awkward spot by the curb.
I felt like everyone at the front of the queue was staring at me—what is that loser doing standing there by herself?—so I scrolled through my phone in an attempt to look busy.
My regrets compounded by the second. I really should’ve stayed home. This was what I got for trying to pretend I had a “normal” social life instead of one wonderful but currently busy best friend and an overreliance on fictional worlds.
Five minutes later, my inbox remained empty. Perhaps I should join the queue while—
“You bitch!”
My head snapped up and to the left. A guy was doubled over, his face red and his hands clutching his groin, while a petite blond stared down at him with satisfaction.
They were in the alley around the corner from the club, so security couldn’t see them.
“Next time, don’t grab a woman’s ass without their consent,” she said. “Be glad I kneed you instead of kicking you with my heel. That would’ve hurt.”
I would’ve smiled at her gumption—the guy was at least double her size—had it not been for the second interloper sneaking up behind her.
The areas around nightclubs were always hotspots for pickpocketing and petty crime. Distracted crowds, heavy alcohol, and lowered inhibitions meant big paydays for those looking to score some extra cash, like the skinny teenager reaching for the blond’s clutch.
“Hey!” I shouted. “Look out behind you!”
The blond had the fastest reflexes I’d ever seen because the words had barely left my mouth before she whirled and smacked the wannabe thief right in the face with her bag.
He cursed and scampered off, obviously not looking for a real fight, but the man she’d kneed had recovered enough to lurch toward her.
My instincts kicked into action before reason did. I ran over (even though these heels were not made for running) and pushed him before he made contact. The distraction gave the blond enough time to turn and realize what was happening.
She raised her bag again. Like the thief, the guy was too much of a coward to confront her face-to-face, especially now that she had backup. He ran off, leaving a trail of shouted insults in his wake.
“Ugh.” The blond blew out a sigh and stared at his retreating back. “I wish I’d gotten one good hit in first. How disappointing.”
A surprised laugh bubbled up my throat.
For someone who’d gotten harassed and almost mugged, she appeared remarkably unfazed.
She faced me, her frown melting into a grateful smile. “Thanks for your help. You totally didn’t have to do that.” She stuck out her hand. I shook it, bemused by her formality. “I’m Brooklyn.”
Her accent sounded American, but there was just enough of a British lilt to throw me off.
“Scarlett. And you’re welcome. Both those wankers had it coming.”
Between the Angry Boar and this, I was on a roll. I hardly recognized myself, but I didn’t hate the person I was today (minus my questionable decision to come out in the first place).
“They did, didn’t they?” The blond’s grin widened. She was lean and athletic-looking, with hair the color of a lion’s mane and the healthy tan of someone who spent most of their days outdoors. A faint constellation of freckles dotted her nose and cheeks. “Are you here by yourself?”
“I’m meeting a friend inside,” I said.
“Great. Me too.” Brooklyn hooked her arm through mine. “Come on.”
Before I could protest, she pulled me around the corner and straight to the entrance. “Hey, Timmy. How’s it going?”
Timmy? This giant’s name was Timmy?
