Page 17 of Hostile Rival
Heavy beats thrum in my ears. Through the darkness, slices of neon green lead me to the main bar. People are everywhere. Some knock back shots and others dance in small groups.
Across the sea of people, the VIP zone is packed. Rich assholes sit in pin-tucked booths, partying because they’ve nothing better to waste their money on other than a good time.
My ideal customer.
I was surprised how easy it was to get inside the club with a stash of coke tucked inside my padded bra. The door man gave me a once over, then took a second look, his eyes lingering on my high-rise daisy dukes and tucked in plain t-shirt.
A timeless choice for every occasion, and the same outfit I’ve worn hundreds of times. Anyway, I’m not here to fit in. I have to sell as much of this shit as I can.
If I had the spare cash to buy liquor, I’d take a double vodka to settle my nerves. A glass of water is as good as it gets tonight.
I take my time to scan the room and profile the people around me. Several are here for the DJ, others are socializing,whereas some want to get fucked up. They either need to forget who they are or they’re pretending to be someone they’re not. And that applies to the pretty girls lingering next to the VIP ropes, hoping a wealthy asshole would invite them into their group for what, exactly? Sex…drugs…an STD.
It's pathetic.
I’ve already set my sights on three party girls. Two are dolled up blondes and a naturally pretty brunette. Their dresses look pricey, and their shoes are something else. I, myself, couldn’t walk a step in those strappy sandals.
Taking my time to observe, I watch them pop the cork on a bottle of champagne and take turns visiting the washrooms.
Bingo.
Ready to search out my customer, I follow the tall, dark-haired woman on her fourth trip. I let her push ahead through the crowd with her purse held close to her hip. By the time I’m in the tunnel-like washrooms, lit only by the mirrors over the long line of basins, she’s in one of the many cubicles.
The music has faded into the background, making it easier to hear drunken, bullshit chatter. From lipstick swapping to boyfriend trouble. I hear it all and don’t care about any of it.
I stare at my make-up free complexion and long brown hair in the mirror, hating the way it starts to kink in the heat.
Thankfully, no one can see the nerves jumping in my stomach or feel the waves of nausea crashing over me. Brain dead people do this all the time, I tell myself, inwardly making it out as no big deal. And they make a fortune.
My chest tightens, unconvinced by my pep talk. What if the girl I’m waiting on is an undercover cop? I’d end up in prison where they’d shave off my pubes and stick them to my chin to make fun of me.
After a few minutes of pretending to fix my hair, the woman I’ve targeted appears at the basin beside me. Damn,she’s attractive up close. I find myself wishing to be her, from the form fitting dress that shows off her shapely curves to the glossy hair skimming her shoulders. She’s everything I’m not—rich, elegant, and untroubled.
“You, okay?” her voice snaps me back into the room and I find her inquisitive gaze in the mirror. “You zoned out.” Her bold red lips widen into a friendly smile. “Too much for you?”
“Too much?” I frown, flicking on the faucet and washing my hands for something to do.
“Yeah…of whatever you’ve taken.”
“Oh…uh…I haven’t taken anything yet. I’m not in the mood.”
“Not in the mood for a line?” She laughs. “Jeez, it must be bad.”
I shake out my hands and reach for a paper towel. “My mother died,” I tell her truthfully, ignoring the fact I’m using her death to my advantage. “Yesterday…and I thought I’d buy a few bags of coke, hit up a nightclub on my own and party. But––”
“But you can’t hide from it, right?” She looks away and I think I’ve lost her. “I hope your night gets better.”
“If you need more, you could buy it from me?” I say quickly. “I wasn’t thinking straight and bought too much. I was trying to block everything out, but what I should have done was put the money towards her funeral instead.”
Fuck, I’m such a bad person.
Opening her purse, she peers inside. “I have enough to keep me going,” she declares, then her expression darkens. “My mommy died last year…so I know how you’re feeling.”
“Lost?” I ask.
“Yeah, lost.” Soft brown eyes meet mine. “That’s the best way to put it.”
From behind her, I recognize the other two women she was with as they advance, drinks and cell phones in their hands.
