Chapter 1
CHAPTER ONE
PRESENT DAY
This place has a lot more wangs than I’m used to.
Which isn’t saying much, considering the last time I saw anyone naked. Hell, I don’t even look at myself naked every day.
Then again, if I had an eight-pack and a giant prosthetic tentacle shlong, maybe I would change my tune?
“What are we doing here?” My sweetheart best friend cringes, hiding behind the hand cupped around the side of her model-gorgeous face.
Capri is so pretty, most people don’t notice much else about her. But after living together for the better part of eight years, I hardly notice her striking features or glossy black hair. Tonight, I only see the charcoal smudges on her wrist and the shadows under her eyes.
Not to mention, the mortification plastered all over her face. A perfect match to my own, I’m sure.
Given our way, Capri and I would 100% be anywhere else on Earth. Instead, we’re here. In this… nightclub?
I suppose it’s a cross between a disco and a strip joint. The sort of place that feels a bit like a fever dream—only much too vivid and insane to be a figment of my piss-poor imagination.
I mean, seriously. Who the hell thinks of something like this?
I glance around as we pick our way through the crowd, trying to absorb our surroundings. The walls are covered in dingy zebra-print paper, up-lit with magenta strobes. I wince against the flare of syrupy light, feeling as if someone injected liquid candy into my eyeballs.
The whole establishment is an infusion of sickly-sweet, doused in the kind of limp-dick energy most strip clubs ooze on principle.
I hate it.
But, hey. It isn’t my birthday.
Addy, our princess for the night, chose this venue. And, God help me, I have to at least pretend to be happy about it.
It’s useless, though. My best friends won’t buy my act for one second. They know me too well—so they both know that inside? I’m rolling my eyes so hard, I can practically see out the back of my head.
Honestly, it wouldn’t have mattered which location Addy chose. I’ve never been a fan of clubs. Or dancing. Actually, I’m less and less sure about people, in general.
The older I get, the more bitterness seems like a fitting lifestyle choice. I may only be twenty-eight, but I’ve seen enough to know where I stand in the grand scheme of things. And I’m definitely not projecting Main Character Energy like Addy—or Darling Damsel vibes like Capri.
Still, for being so utterly ordinary, I probably have no right to be this cynical. Not compared to what a lot of other people go through. In fact, with the cards I was dealt, I’ve actually done well.
Ish.
Alright, alright. So I used AfterPay to order a burrito last week.
And the job I’ll use to pay off my Chipotle loans is about three meaningless stacks of paperwork away from violating the Geneva Convention’s rules for torture.
And, yes, I racked up enough student loan debt to finance a small single-family home, only to wind up with a “career” as a corporate cog.
But still.
It could be worse.
I could have a fake monster dick glued to my pubes.
Keeping my comments to myself, I weave behind Addy and Capri until we reach the sticky high-top with a chipped silver “reserved” sign on it.
Knowing it was our buxom, bubbly redhead’s dearest birthday wish, Capri and I sprung for the whole “celebration package” at this place. Hence my need to finance guacamole.
Within half an hour, we find that our grand night out includes a bottomless well of test tube shots and a clear view of the stage. On it, scantily clad men and women perform stripteases in various erotic alien costumes
I mean, I guess they’re erotic. If you’re into that sort of thing.
Addy definitely is. She giggles and whistles, bouncing up and down with excitement for every single performer.
The T-shirts we’re all wearing were her idea, too.
But I can’t even talk about that at the moment.
Instead, I focus on downing as many day-glow test tube shots as I can, snorting behind my hand at every guy who gyrates on the stage.
You just know these men with tentacles where their dicks should be are actually normal dudes named, like, Chet or Brad or John. They probably eat granola bars and argue about crypto backstage.
I might never stop laughing.
Which really isn’t fair, given the hot-pink fabric stretched over my chest and the stupid design branded there. Though I’d argue that’s Addy’s fault, too.
She leans over the cocktail table wedged between the three of us, shouting something over the pulsing music.
Her words are fuzzy, almost as if I’m outside our conversation, listening through a partially broken speaker.
It picks up some house remix of a Grimes song, but not whatever my roommates say to each other.
Capri grimaces in reply, wrinkling her delicate nose and casting wide, worried eyes down to her bubblegum-pink top. Clearly, it bothers her as much as it disturbs me.
Because, yeah. We’re all wearing spaceships shaped like penises. With three words scrawled underneath, in pretty purple cursive.
Abduct me, Daddy.
Truly, how on Earth did Addy convince me to leave the house in this? For anyone or anything else, I quite simply would never.
But, apparently, I’m a sucker for my besties.
Addy grins as the song changes, reaching out to sling her arms around my shoulders and Capri’s. “You guys are the absolute best! Greatest night ever.”
I can’t quite fight the smile pulling at my lips. You know what? Fuck it. Life is depressing, and it’s Addy’s night. Hand me another test tube full of neon God-knows-what.
The colorful strobes blur with the endless parade of shots and monstrous ding-a-lings. We laugh and dance, and then laugh some more. By the time we finally stumble to the ladies’ room, I’m seeing double, and my phone looks like it says 12:40:12:40.
Shit. We all have work tomorrow.
A prick of sadness stings my middle, followed by a wave of dread. They slosh together, filling me with a familiar wistfulness.
Why does this basic stuff always feel so hard? It doesn’t make any sense.
I want to slap myself across the face. This is dumb, and I know it. There’s no reason for me to feel so out of place, moving through the world like every other person alive. It’s silly to be so upset about having a job and responsibilities.
No one will take care of me if I don’t provide for myself. And that’s okay.
Normal.
Totally fine.
I swallow my wayward emotions, mentally shaking myself. Clearly, all these drinks have made me maudlin—even a smidge pathetic.
As we stagger to the end of a very long restroom line, I force myself back into my usual role as our most practical roommate. The one who remembers when trash day is and knows our Wi-Fi login by heart.
I’m also the Keeper of the Uber App and designated Let’s Get the Hell Out of Here alarm.
“I’m calling us a ride!” I shout over the latest EDM song.
Capri squeezes my arm, nodding with near-frantic eagerness. Addy pouts, then flashes her killer smile. “Thanks, Mom.”
Scowling, I swipe into the correct app, blinking to refocus my bleary eyes while I try to use my vodka-drenched brain. I barely make it to the bathroom before my phone buzzes, alerting me to the car’s arrival.
Oh shit. Hurrying to pull up my pants and untuck my gaudy pink T-shirt, I scramble out of the stall and speed-wash my hands.“Ride’s here!” I shout. “I’ll go grab it and meet you guys out front!”
My best friends chime in with their gratitude, and I dart out of the ladies’ room. Just in time to run face-first into a blinding flash of white light.