Chapter 13
Mia
The bass hits me like a physical force, vibrating through my chest cavity and rattling my teeth.
Pulse isn't just the name of the club, it's a command my body is following against my will.
The music is so loud I can feel it in my internal organs, rearranging them with each thump.
I take another sip of my vodka cranberry, grimacing as the watered-down alcohol does absolutely nothing to dull the sensory assault or the growing certainty that I've made a terrible mistake by letting Laney drag me here.
"It'll be fun," she said. "You'll forget all about Dr. Frosty," she promised. What she failed to mention was that forgetting requires literal brain death, which this place might actually achieve with its deafening music and epilepsy-inducing strobe lights.
I tug self-consciously at the hem of the emerald green dress Laney insisted would make my eyes pop and my ass look phenomenal.
It's shorter than anything I've worn since med school, the fabric clinging to curves I usually hide beneath shapeless scrubs.
My hair—unleashed from its usual braid—cascades down my back in wild red curls that took an hour and half a can of product to achieve this ‘effortless’ look.
I feel exposed. Vulnerable. Like a woodland creature forced to parade through a predator convention.
"Stop fidgeting," Laney had commanded as she applied my makeup earlier. "You're hot as fuck, and it's time the world knew it."
The world—or at least the male portion of it in this club—seems to have gotten the memo.
Since we arrived, I've endured more lingering stares than a cadaver in first-year anatomy class.
A guy at the bar has been watching me for ten minutes straight, his eyes traveling up and down my body like he's mentally calculating the most efficient way to remove my dress.
Another one actually licked his lips when I walked past him to the bathroom. Classy.
"Special delivery." Laney's voice somehow pierces through the wall of sound as she slides back into our booth, precariously balancing four shot glasses between her fingers.
Her electric blue dress is even shorter than mine, her confidence radiating like a supernova as she gracefully drops onto the seat.
Not for the first time, I envy her ability to exist so comfortably in her own skin.
"Free tequila, courtesy of the hot bartender who couldn't take his eyes off your ass when we walked in. "
"Wonderful," I mutter, eyeing the clear liquid with suspicion. "Just what I need, more alcohol to help me forget I'm wearing dental floss disguised as a dress."
"It's Valentino, and it cost me three night shifts to buy it for your birthday, so shut up and take the compliment.
" She pushes two of the shots toward me, her smile infectious despite my determination to remain miserable.
"Come on, sunshine. One night without thinking about our jobs is exactly what the doctor ordered. "
I take the shot glass, clinking it against hers before tipping the burning liquid down my throat. The tequila blazes a fiery trail from my mouth to my stomach, momentarily distracting me from my discomfort. Laney whoops, already downing her second shot while I'm still wincing from the first.
"To not giving a fuck," she toasts, eyes sparkling with mischief.
"To not giving a fuck," I echo, forcing enthusiasm I don't feel as I knock back the second shot. The alcohol warms my blood, softening the edges of my anxiety without quite eliminating it.
"That's more like it." Laney bounces in her seat, surveying the crowded dance floor like a general planning battle strategy. "Ugh, I needed this. If I had to spend one more minute thinking about Mr. Peterson's exploding hemorrhoids, I was going to lose it."
I laugh despite myself. "Thanks for that mental image. Now I need ten more shots."
"That can be arranged." She winks, then leans closer, her voice dropping conspiratorially. "So, you forget all about Dr. Frosty yet?"
Just hearing his name sends an unwelcome flutter through my stomach. I take a too-large gulp of my vodka cranberry, buying time.
"Can we please, please not talk about him tonight?" I beg, gesturing vaguely at the club around us. "Isn't that the whole point of this excursion into auditory torture?"
Laney grins, mercifully letting the subject drop. "Fine. New mission, find you a hot stranger to dance with. Someone who can actually express what they want instead of—"
"If you say his name again, I will stab you with that little plastic sword," I threaten, pointing at the cocktail garnish.
She mimes zipping her lips, then suddenly straightens, her eyes focused on something, or someone, across the dance floor. "Are you freaking kidding me?"
"What?" I follow her gaze but see nothing but a churning mass of bodies under flashing lights.
"It's Alejandro." She's already half out of the booth, her eyes locked on some target I can't identify. "From orthopedics. The one with the hands."
I vaguely recall a tall surgeon with a dimple that made the nurses swoon. "The one you said could reset your bones anytime?"
"The very same." She's practically vibrating with excitement. "I'll be right back. I just need to say hi."
"Laney—" I start to protest, but she's already sliding out of the booth, turning back only to flash me a reassuring smile.
"Five minutes, I promise. Don't go anywhere." Then she's gone, her blue dress disappearing into the crowd like a tropical fish vanishing into coral.
And just like that, I'm alone. The thump of the bass seems to grow louder in her absence, pressing against my skull like an unwanted hand. My half-empty drink sits sweating on the table, as unappealing as the thought of remaining in this sensory hellscape for another minute.
I check my phone. It’s not even eleven yet.
Too early to justify calling it a night without Laney giving me endless shit about it tomorrow.
I scan the club, hoping to spot her blue dress, but the dance floor has become an impenetrable wall of bodies.
The guy from the bar is still watching me, now with a friend who's equally interested in what this dress doesn't cover.
Five minutes, she said. But in Laney time, that could mean anything from five actual minutes to five hours, especially if Alejandro lives up to his reputation.
The thought of sitting here alone, nursing watered-down vodka while fending off increasingly bold advances from liquid-couraged finance bros, makes my skin crawl.
No. This was a mistake. I can text Laney from the cab. She'll understand or at least, she'll forgive me after I bring her coffee and donuts tomorrow. I drain the last of my drink, and grab my small clutch purse. Freedom is just a crowded dance floor and one slimy bouncer away. I can do this.
I slide out of the booth, straighten my dress and take a deep breath. Just get to the exit. Don't make eye contact. Don't slow down. Don't think about how much Sebastian would hate this place, with its chaos and noise and lack of control. Don't think about Sebastian at all.
Dammit. Even here, in this temple to sensory overload and bad decisions, I can't escape thoughts of him. And that, more than anything, tells me it's definitely time to go home.
"Leaving so soon?" The voice is smooth, practiced, with that particular timber of confidence that comes from never being told no.
Its owner—tall, conventionally handsome in that finance-bro way—smiles down at me, white teeth gleaming under the club lights.
His dark hair is slicked back with enough product to qualify as an environmental hazard, and his watch probably costs more than my monthly rent. "The night's just getting started."
I stop short, clutching my purse closer like it might shield me from unwanted attention. "Just heading out," I say, already attempting to sidestep him.
He mirrors my movement with the casual grace of a man who's done this dance before.
"I'm Ryan," he offers, extending a hand that's clearly seen more manicures than manual labor.
His eyes travel from my face down to the hemline of my dress and back up again, lingering in places that make my skin prickle.
"And you're the most interesting thing I've seen all night. "
"Mia," I reply automatically, good manners overriding my instinct to keep moving. I accept his handshake briefly, then try again to step around him. "And I really need to—"
"One dance," he interrupts, his smile widening as he steps closer. He smells expensive—designer cologne with notes that probably have pretentious names like leather accord and midnight amber. "Just one dance before you disappear. What's the harm?"
I hesitate, mentally calculating my options.
The exit is still twenty feet away, through a crowd thick enough to qualify as a fire hazard.
Ryan is blocking my direct path, and I've already noticed the guy from the bar watching our interaction with interest. Maybe one dance is the path of least resistance—dance for two minutes, make an excuse, and slip away when he's distracted by the next woman in a short dress.
"Fine," I concede, not bothering to inject enthusiasm into my voice. "One dance."
His smile shifts to something triumphant as he places a hand at the small of my back, guiding me toward the dance floor.
The touch is light but proprietary in a way that immediately makes me regret my decision.
Still, I let him lead me into the mass of bodies, the music swallowing us whole as we find a small pocket of space.
The song is something bass-heavy with lyrics I can't distinguish, but the rhythm is easy enough to follow.
Ryan begins to move, his body a respectable distance from mine as we find our groove.
His dancing is actually decent—smooth, coordinated, and without the desperate grinding that many of the surrounding couples are engaged in.
For a moment, I allow myself to relax fractionally.
This isn't so bad. One song, then freedom.
"You're good at this," he says, leaning closer to be heard over the music, but not close enough to trigger my internal alarm system. "You come here often?"
I almost laugh at the clichéd line. "First time, actually."
"I knew it." He grins. "I'd have remembered you."
The line is cheesy but delivered with enough charm that I offer a small smile in return. See? This is fine. Normal. Just two adults dancing in a club. Maybe Laney was right, maybe I did need this.
The song shifts into something slower, more sensual, and Ryan takes it as an invitation to move closer.
His hands, which had been respectfully at his sides, now settle on my hips.
Not inappropriate, exactly, but definitely more familiar than I'm comfortable with from a stranger.
Still, I don't immediately pull away. This is what people do in clubs, right? This is normal.
"You're beautiful," he murmurs, his mouth too close to my ear. His breath is warm, tinged with expensive whiskey. "And that dress is incredible."
"Thanks," I reply, subtly increasing the distance between us as the song continues. My body feels stiff now, no longer moving with the easy rhythm of before.
Ryan doesn't take the hint. His hands slide lower, from my hips to the curve where my ass meets my thighs, pulling me against him with a sudden, deliberate movement. I feel the hard press of him against my stomach and immediately step back, removing his hands from my body.
"That's enough," I say firmly, no longer caring about politeness or the path of least resistance. "I'm going to go now."
His expression shifts, the charming smile replaced by something harder, more predatory. "Come on, don't be like that," he says, reaching for me again. "We're just getting to know each other."
I step back, but his fingers close around my wrist, tight enough to make my pulse jump against his thumb. "I said no," I repeat, my voice steady despite the adrenaline now flooding my system. "Let go of me."
"One more dance," he insists, tugging me closer, his other hand settling on my waist with fingers that dig into the thin fabric of my dress. "Stop playing hard to get."
My free hand curls into a fist as years of self-defense classes flash through my mind.
Groin, throat, eyes—the vulnerable points I could strike to break his hold.
I'm calculating the angle I'll need, mentally preparing for the scene that will follow—security, possible ejection from the club—when Ryan's suddenly body jerks backward.
For a split second, I think he's lost his balance.
Then I see the large hand gripping the back of his neck with controlled but unmistakable force.
My eyes travel up the arm attached to that hand, past broad shoulders and a familiar strong jawline, landing on a face I'd know anywhere, even in this dim, chaotic light.
Sebastian.