Page 10 of The Second Sight
Brooklyn’s expression shifted to one of gentle caution. “Maybe we should get some food in your drunk ass?”
“I’m fine,” I insisted, though the room had taken on a pleasant spinning quality. “It’s my birthday. I’m allowed to be a little sad and tipsy about my mother abandoning me.”
“Girl, don’t be a depressing drunk. Be a happy drunk.” Brooklyn frowned.
“You’re right,” I said quickly. “But those dreams I used to have. They are back.”
Before she could press further, I spotted him again, the platinum blonde man with the mesmerizing blue eyes. He stood at the opposite end of the bar, a glass of brown liquid untouched before him. Like before, he wasn’t trying to hide his interest in me. His gaze was direct, intense, like he was trying to read something written on my soul.
“That guy is staring at you,” Brooklyn said, following my line of sight. “The blonde one. He has been lurking all night.”
“You noticed too?” I turned back to her, relieved I wasn’t imagining things. He was real. She could see him too.
“Hard not to. He keeps showing up wherever you are. He’s been eye-fucking you from all directions.” She narrowed her eyes in his path. “Want me to tell him to back off?”
I glanced back toward him, but he had vanished again. “No, it’s okay. He’s just looking. He’s White, he’s never going to approach me.”
“Yeah, but he doesn’t seem like a regular White man. He seems a little swaggy.” Brooklyn didn’t seem convinced he was just looking, but he dropped it when the bartender appeared with a round of shots I didn’t remember ordering.
“Courtesy of the gentleman at the end of the bar,” he explained, setting the small glasses in front of us.
I looked down the bar, expecting to see the blonde stranger, but instead found Darren, the guy I’d danced with earlier. He raised his own shot glass in a silent toast, grinning broadly.
“Look ah there? Normal male attention,” Brooklyn said, clearly relieved. She picked up her shot. “To Darren, for not being a creepy stalker.”
We clinked glasses and downed the shots. The liquor burned a fiery path down my throat, making my eyes water. The warmththat followed was pleasant, wrapping around me like a heated blanket.
Time became fluid after that. Brooklyn and I returned to the dance floor, my movements now looser, less coordinated but somehow more confident. I danced with Darren again. His hands were respectfully placed on my waist as we moved together in perfect rhythm. He seemed nice. The only thing he did that annoyed me was ask if my eyes were real. Why do people always think I’m wearing colored contacts?
The music pounded through me, becoming part of me. All the while, from various corners of the club, I felt those pale eyes tracking my every move. Dude was really acting like a stalker.
Hours passed in a blur of dancing, drinking, and laughter. By the time Brooklyn suggested we think about heading home, the club had thinned considerably. My feet ached, my makeup had surely melted off, and my head swam pleasantly with the combined effects of alcohol and exhaustion.
“I’ll close out the tab,” I announced, fumbling in my purse for my wallet. “My birthday, my treat.”
Brooklyn steadied me with a hand on my shoulder. “You sure?”
“Girl, you bought me all those clothes. You took me to lunch. I got the drinks.”
“Fine. It’s time to go. You’re pretty fucked up, Kasi.”
“I’m perfectly—” I paused, searching for the right word. “Functional. I’m perfectly functional.” The words came out more slurred than I intended, making Brooklyn snort with laughter.
“Right, girl, functional.” She stepped back and raised her hands in surrender. “Go ahead then, birthday girl. I’ll wait right here.”
I nodded with exaggerated seriousness and made my way back to the bar, concentrating hard on walking in a straight line. The room tilted slightly with each step, the lights overheadleaving trails in my vision. I reached the bar and leaned against it for support, grateful for its solid presence.
“Closing out,” I told the purple-haired bartender.
“Tab name, birthday girl?” he asked, already turning to her computer screen.
“Bacchar,” I replied. “Kasinda Bacchar.”
He nodded and began typing, then slid a receipt across the counter toward me. “That’ll be it. You can add a tip below the total.”
I squinted at the paper, but the dim lighting of the club combined with my alcohol-blurred vision made the numbers swim before my eyes. I blinked hard, trying to force my vision to clear up, but the figures remained illegible. I could only make out the three letters at the top of the receipt, F.O.Y.
That’s when I remembered the glasses. The adorable golden reading glasses from that Emporium place were in my purse, wrapped in delicate tissue paper. Perfect timing, I thought, as I reached for them. My fingers closed around the small package, a birthday gift to myself.
