Page 2 of Finding New Dreams

“Will you? You’re supposed to be relaxing, getting your mojo back, doing your sister’s thing.”

“Her wedding?”

“Yeah, that.” Words like “wedding,” “love,” and “babies” gave Oz the willies like “moist” did to some people.

“I’ll do all that. I promise.” The lie scratched my throat, so I cleared it once.

Ozzy’s sigh filled my ear. “Flynn…this client—”

“I know, okay? I’ll figure it out. I always do. I’ll get my head on straight. Take a break. Then I’ll create a piece of art so stunning that guy will want to hand over double your commission fee.”

The clink of ice in a glass came over the phone.

I smiled. “Do us both a favor, Oz? Go drink that mojito on a beach somewhere without cell service.”

Ozzy barked a short laugh. “Maybe. But I’ll be keeping tabs on you. Don’t forget.” Then he cut the call without a goodbye. It was the Ozzy way. No hello, no goodbye, always in the middle of a conversation.

I tossed my phone into the passenger seat and focused on finding a spot in a parking garage near the club.

After I tucked my parking stub in my pocket, I flipped down the visor to do a quick appearance check. The deep tan I’d gotten while partying at the beach mostly hid the bags under my eyes. I’d showered and shaved before the flight, so I didn’t smell too bad. I released my dark brown hair from its short ponytail and used my fingers to comb it back into its easy waves.

My favorite black pleather jacket, a white t-shirt, dark jeans, and black boots weren’t anything fancy, but I didn’t feel like changing in the car. Plus, I had no idea what the vibe of this club was. But, knowing Cal, it was two things: fun and loud.

Delicious adrenaline flooded my veins, the beginning of that euphoria I was always chasing.

It carried me out of the fluorescent lighting of the garage to the orange and white lights of the city and finally to the blue, green, and purple of the club sign.

Laser Therapy.

After waiting in line, flirting with a group of girls wearing skin-tight minidresses and texting Cal that I’d arrived, I hurried inside to find him on the “purple balcony.”

But I stopped dead at the edge of the main pit.

Heavy bass throbbed through my body like the heartbeat of a giant. Lasers of every color flashed in a blinding array, making the entire club feel like it was in motion on every plane. Writhing dancers lost themselves in the music and light and…the paint.

Cal had neglected to mention this was a paint club. The kind where glow-in-the-dark paint spattered the dancers from above, giving them an almost alien appearance.

I loved it.

I left my jacket in the coat check, made sure my valuables were tucked safely in my pockets, then slid onto the dance floor. Immediately, droplets of paint dotted my glowing white t-shirt. I laughed as I lifted my face to the ceiling and let a few drops fall to my face.

Then I started dancing. I slid between the bodies, mimicking their movements until I was part of the mass.

Moments slipped by in flashing, dazzling glory. But time didn’t exist in here. Just warm bodies, stroking fingers, glowing smiles, and the rush of the music.

Eventually, a balcony lit up in streaks of purple paint caught my eye, and I remembered Cal.

Gently extricating myself from the cluster of women I’d happily found myself in, I weaved my way up to the balcony.

Painted people lounged on S-shaped booths scattered around the second floor. I spotted Cal almost immediately. He’d forgone his shirt completely. Streaks of different-colored paint coated his skin. His arms were draped over two women who were laughing with him. A few men stood nearby, drinking and talking.

As soon as he saw me, Cal stood up with a shout.

I strode toward him with a grin. He gave me a manly hug, smelling like sweat, paint, and cologne.

Through shouts and hand gestures, we caught up on the past ten years. We’d known each other since middle school, but hadn’t seen much of each other since graduation sixteen years ago. Fortunately, Cal was one of those people who never ended friendships—simply paused them. I found out he ran the club, which was suitably impressive to a party boy like myself. He asked me about L.A., and I gave him the shortest answer possible.

“Working the art scene. It’s great,” I shouted.

---