Chapter 4 - Bianca
We get inside almost instantaneously thanks to Giorgia, who seems to know most of the club owners in the area on a first name basis. The shift from crisp night air to the stuffiness of the humid air is immediate, and I feel droplets of sweat forming on my brow. The stairs leading to the dance floor and bar downstairs are wide but steep, though still more preferable to the space where I find myself squashed like a bug immediately upon entry. Thick and dense, the crowds are filled to the brim with masses of undulating and sweaty swaying bodies.
I reach out for Giorgia’s hand in fear of losing her to the crowd, squeezing it as soon as I make contact to alert her to my presence. This was a preventative measure tried and tested during my club days back when I was a student—an attempt to not get lost from the people I’m with in the first few minutes upon entering. The cell service is usually so poor that even if we text each other once lost, it’s practically impossible to get in contact until after we both leave the underground space.
I look up to Giorgia’s auburn ponytail, swinging side to side as she stops midway in her pursuit towards the bar. She glances back up at me with an apologetic smile, looking all the otherworldly beauty she is. She resembles a work of art—like she doesn’t belong in here with her photo-ready appearance and perfect face.
It’s then I notice the man standing next to her, insanely pretty and looking around her age, his figure already bent over to whisper something in her ear. She then leans back, fluttering her lashes at me prettily. Here we go again. She perfected her lash fluttering technique back when she was a child, those pretty eyes of hers granting her anything she wished for. Unfortunately for me—and despite knowing its effects—I fall prey to it each time.
“Biaaa,” she drawls, whisper-shouting into my ear so I hear her. “I just bumped into a friend of a friend. Would you get drinks for us? Pretty please .” Another flutter of her lashes.
I roll my eyes, genuinely annoyed but also unable to find it in me to deny her. I smile to let her know I am only half-serious and nod my head.
“The usual?” I ask, already knowing the answer. When she shakes her head, I refocus my eyes back on the bar, steeling myself for the mission ahead. I noticed a while ago that whenever she makes her way through the crowds—or when people glance at her—they let her through with a smile. I, however, the slightly chubbier one, don’t get the same treatment. It’s not her fault, and I don’t blame her for it, though it always frustrates me to realize how different the treatment is between the two of us whenever we go out together. It reminds me that despite my frequent attempts at affirming my beauty, I’ll always be reminded to stay in my lane.
Step after step, I maneuver around, kissing strangers and larger groups until I find myself outside the crowd. The restroom sign right next to the bar glows a faint red, flickering a few times. Feeling the need to recompose myself already, I quickly make my way towards it, feeling someone bump into me from behind. I get faster.
Once I push the door and get inside, I’m surprised to find it empty, the stalls all kicked open. I grasp at the fake granite counter with the sink at my side, staring at the wide-eyed stranger in the reflection. I need to breathe , I remind myself. My hands shake slightly as I look through my bag, looking for the rose lipstick I’m about to reapply. Reapplying lipstick always helps to calm me down, a trick I discovered when first attending parties in my early twenties.
I look cute, I think, in my purple embroidered corset top and black flares. It’s one of the few pieces of clothing that I own that is usually stashed deep in my closet, reserved specifically for nights when Giorgia drags me out with her. A bit more daring than what I usually go for, I glance at the generous cleavage this top reveals. It’s pretty, but I can’t help but feel somewhat self-conscious. I need a drink.
I stopped going out after I realized how they looked at me. I loved it at first, especially going out with my girlfriends at the time, but the stares from men eventually became too much. I hated how my fuller curves meant they acted like they were entitled to my body yet simultaneously acted disgusted when I was next to a thinner friend. I never faulted my friends for it—they weren’t responsible for the appalling behavior of the strangers, though at some point, I had enough of it. I loved my body, but it was hard to feel good about myself when I was simultaneously sexualized and demeaned.
I was around twenty-two when I decided there would be ramifications for anyone who decided to mistreat me, and that’s when I started taking self-defense classes. Eventually, I learned to dress for myself—whether that meant my more modest, day-to-day style or a more revealing one when I went out. Today, though, I felt like that freshly turned twenty-one-year-old who felt the weight of the judgmental gazes around her. It was okay, you’re here for Giorgia today. She was the only person who managed to bring me out of my shell, with her rambunctious personality and devil-may-care attitude, my little sister grew into my inspiration over the years.
After a few minutes of dabbing the lipstick onto my lips, I feel calm enough to re-emerge. I give myself one last look over in the mirror, offering a small smile of encouragement to my reflection before pushing the heavy door open.
I manage to find a less populated part of the main bar where the attending bartender chews his gum with what appears to be mild annoyance, eyes darting from one group of wasted clubgoers dancing to the other. Glancing up at me from the counter he is wiping, he leans in towards me to catch my order. Once I list off the shot and water I wanted with Giorgia’s usual metropolitan, I shuffle somewhat awkwardly before deciding to plop down on a worn wooden stool.
Sometimes, it feels like Giorgia has an inbuilt sensor somewhere in her, appearing right at the moment the drinks are pushed in front of me. She grabs at the metropolitan in front of her, propping herself on a stool next to mine, eyeing me with a mischievous smile. I can sense that today is not one of those days where I can just sit through whatever it is my storm of a little sister plans for me and get out easy. She insists on another shot, followed by another, and I find myself on our fourth one before I first notice her looking away.
Without thinking about it, I twist my head in the direction she’s looking in and spot the same boy from before, brown hair tousled and sticking to his sweaty forehead. He’s staring straight at her like he could just eat her. I begin squirming a bit, feeling like I’m intruding on their private moment despite us being in a club full of people. She apologizes to me hastily, but I can tell she doesn’t really mean it. And it’s okay. She’s young and wants to enjoy her life as much as she can. It does, however, leave me sitting on a stool next to the bar again, alone.
My little moment of self-pity is interrupted by the same irritated bartender from before, shoving a drink I didn’t order in my direction. My tolerance is not that low, and I only feel a little tipsy. I stare it down for a moment, praying I’m not that drunk and not realizing it. The mystery reveals itself in the form of a tall blonde man approaching, body language obviously betraying that he wants to talk. Not feeling like socializing after a grueling day at work, I reconsider once a pang of alcohol-induced sadness hits my chest.
“Been a rough day, huh?” He smiles at me, his eyes wrinkling and giving them a caring quality. “This one’s on me, for you.” He pushes the drink closer to me, and despite usually being careful with drinks from strangers, I decide to accept his offering and take a small sip.
When my face involuntarily scrunches up at the strong bitterness of the alcohol, he laughs. “It’s got a bit of a kick to it, but once you take a few more sips, it’ll begin to taste good. I promise,” he assures me, and I laugh too.
“What’s your name?” I ask, genuinely curious. Now that I look at him more closely, he looks very sweet. Not conventionally handsome but rather like someone who carries with him a very strong charm and sweetness. His blonde hair is cut short, but it still doesn’t take away from the softness present in his face.
“Luke,” he begins, and I find that my tipsy state has made me lose my manners as I interject before he continues.
“Thanks, Luke.” I slur my words a little, “that was sweet. Had a long day, so thank you.” So maybe I am as drunk as I feared.
“Right,” he starts. “So, I saw you with another girl here. You know her?” His eyes carry a somewhat known glint to me, but I shove the realization of that aside, deciding to give him the benefit of the doubt.
“That was my sister,” I state plainly, though I force a smile to not make it sound too bitter. It isn’t bitterness towards Giorgia—no—it is rather the growing suspicion that Luke decided to strike up a conversation as a means to an end. He isn’t talking to me because he wants to but because he wants to get something out of it. The brief magic of what I thought is an act of kindness is swiftly replaced by annoyance. The fact that he didn’t approach her directly annoys me even further. His next words confirm my suspicions, and I have to fight an audible groan fighting its way out of me.
“So, uuuuh . How do I put this? Might be a little awk—“ he stops his rambling midway, shaking his head. He then runs a hand through his hair nervously. “What I’m trying to say is if you could introduce me, that’d be pretty dope.”
I scoff at his admission, and despite my tipsiness, I notice him shamelessly checking me out. While he’s asking my help in pursuing my own goddamn sister.
I don’t meet his gaze as I answer, very irritated. It’s at him—of course—but also at myself that I didn’t see it coming. So much for hoping to make friends in a nightclub. “Go talk to her yourself, Luke ,” I hiss, pushing away the drink he tried to bribe me with, walking towards the far end of the dance floor. I don’t look at him as I walk away, but if he reacts the same way most guys did when I figure out their stupid strategy, there’s probably not a flicker of self-reflection in him.
There is a corridor that I now take note of, leading to a second dancefloor, this one smaller and more intimate but nonetheless still packed with people. The beats are slower, the sound is more melodic and smoother. I smile, remembering this was the genre of music I loved dancing to.
Now, admittedly with quite a bit of alcohol in my system, I find myself more inclined to dance some time away in hopes that Giorgia will pop up somewhere and we’d go home soon. I push in between sweaty bodies, this time completely ignoring the people staring daggers. I loved to dance, taking classes in my teenage years, and continuing well into my college days. I lost the time for it once I graduated and needed to dedicate more time to work.
Finding the steady thump of the R&B track currently blasting reverberating throughout my body, I slowly begin to sway my hips from side to side. My eyes flicker shut as I begin to delve deeper into the beat, head tilted upwards and hair swinging about the place. It’s the first time this night I’m enjoying myself. My hands wander over my top in soft motions as I change up my dancing a little, accommodating the growing tempo of the song.
Then I feel it. A hard, warm body pressed against my back. I keep my eyes closed, recognizing that the person is pressing against me with their chest, intentional with the way they’re positioned. I assume the person is a he from the height difference, he is much taller than I am at my humble 5’4. My eyes are still closed, reveling in the proximity of the other warm body. Despite finding the heat inside the club overwhelming at first, the warmth seeping from him seems to have the opposite effect.
Maybe a little emboldened and just a tiny bit intoxicated by the alcohol and by his synchronous movement to mine, I turn around and wrap my hands around his neck. I stand up, leaning on my tiptoes to reach his ear with my mouth.
“Is this okay?” I huff out unceremoniously, not wanting to make the stranger uncomfortable.
Then I glance at his face, realizing I didn’t get a good look—any look—at him before. He’s maybe in his forties, looking all mature and very hot. He’s in a tight black shirt, accentuating the swell tautness of his muscles, a singular tattoo of a dagger running down his forearm. His forearms are thick and veiny, and I can feel myself gulping.
The man is positively delicious —he’s tall, and I can feel the rigid outline of his muscles press into my body, where I lean into him for support. I almost feel sober for a few seconds with how taken aback I am, silently praying in my drunken mind that I’m not staring. And he’s not just attractive—he's gorgeous, like a model taken from a shoot somewhere and placed into this dingy, sweaty club. I feel the hardness of his shoulder muscles under my forearms, which is, I realize with another gulp, contrasting his very slim waist.
“Eyes up here, princess,” he lets out a gruff reply. His calloused hands grip onto my waist, squeezing it before moving them side to side so we’re once again dancing in tandem.
His short brown hair perfectly frames his chiseled features, his coffee-brown eyes staring me down intently. As we sway to the beat, I can’t help but feel our bodies pressing against each other more and more, causing a pool of heat to start forming between my legs. His lips are the color of pomegranate, and I catch myself staring at them too long.
What a night.