Chapter Twelve #2
I suck down the rest of my drink in a manner that’s unfortunately comically loud—I have to deepen my scowl to keep from laughing, but Wesley doesn’t hide his, which only furrows my brow further.
I forcefully set down my empty cup on the nearest high-top, pluck Mona’s drink from Wesley’s hand, and march out to where the girls dance in the center of the floor.
Mona’s squeal of delight is louder than the music blasting through the speakers, though I can’t tell if it’s my arrival or the beginning chords of a popular Chappell Roan song that has her excited.
Maybe both, it doesn’t matter—the timing is perfect.
I offer her the drink, but she shakes her head with an already tipsy smile. I smirk and claim it for myself.
The rest of the world begins to fuzz around the edges, and I lose myself in the pulse of the lights and the music.
“I’m ready to leave,” Mona announces. Her smile is blissfully happy, but she’s so tired she can barely keep her eyes open.
For the last hour or so, she’s been a trooper, dancing to every song and not sitting down a single time.
Wesley joined from time to time, sometimes to belt along to the lyrics with the rest of us, sometimes just to stand as a barrier between us and the crowd as the evening grew wilder.
Half blinded by the flashing lights on the dance floor, I wonder if I imagined the way his gaze would linger on me as I swayed with the beat, or how his hand would hover just barely over my waist. At some point, he retreated to secure a table for us, but when I look for him now, I see it’s empty.
“Oh,” I say. “I can—”
“No, don’t worry,” Shay interrupts. “I’ve got her.”
I glance to Shay’s empty glass, and her smile fades as her lips press into a thin line. “I ordered an Uber,” she says, some defensiveness in her tone.
I frown and pull out my phone. “I’ll just walk you out, then,” I say, drumming out a text to Wesley to let him know it’s time to go.
Outside, it takes fifteen minutes for the traffic-cone-orange Subaru Crosstrek to arrive and whisk Mona and Shay away.
Wrapping my arms tightly around myself hardly makes up for the fact that the thin fabric of my shirt offers no warmth from the brittle wind.
What’s taking him so long?
When I wander back into Wizardry, it feels somehow darker and more crowded, and I push myself past the bodies and back toward our table.
The music has shifted from bubblegum pop hits to faster-paced electric house music with a stronger bass; I can feel the beat buzzing behind my eyes.
Sweat-slicked skin brushes against mine as I shoulder my way across the dance floor, and like it does most every weekend, the temptation to lose myself in this chaos tugs at me.
I think about how easy it would be to meet the eyes of the dark-haired man whose gaze has followed me since I stepped back into the bar, or to twine my fingers with those of the redheaded woman sitting in the corner and invite her to dance.
Perhaps I could find someone already out here who could match me beat for beat until the lines between us blur.
But tonight, they’re not who I’m looking for.
Wesley’s not at the high-top anymore; instead, it’s been claimed by a boisterous group of college kids.
I search everywhere for his sandy hair and maroon button-up: the long line at the bar, the packed dance floor, the narrow hallway leading toward the bathrooms, the small deck out back.
I convinced myself he would be out there for sure—I remember how crowds aren’t always his thing.
I’m walking through the small lounge area with its cozy couches and dim lighting, on my way to check the dance floor again, when a hand closes around my wrist.
I’m about to swat it away angrily—it wouldn’t be the first time—but then I recognize the person it’s attached to.
Leaning against the wall next to a tall table, Wesley looks up at me from under the sweep of his unruly hair.
The strands at his temples and behind his ears are darker than the rest with sweat, and the flashing strobe lights turn his brown eyes different colors.
“You came back,” he says, sounding surprised.
“I never left.”
“No?”
“No, I texted you.”
He checks his phone, then laughs. “Oh shit. I didn’t realize you were ready to go.
” He nods toward the table, where two full drinks sit, sparkling with condensation.
By the sunny yellow color of one of them, I suspect he ordered me the same thing again.
“But it was last call, and then someone took our table, and…well. I wouldn’t have got them if I’d realized. ”
I purse my lips. Consider. This is dangerous, I think.
But instead, I say, “I wouldn’t mind one more.”
Wesley smiles and clinks his glass against mine.
After a few sips—it is the same drink—I turn toward him.
We both stand near the wall, making room as people continue to weave between the different sections of the bar.
With my heeled boots, we’re the same height tonight.
“Tell me, then,” I say. “If you’re so confident, tell me what your game’s about. ”
Wesley tilts his head to the side until it rests against the velvet-draped wall. “Will you return the favor?”
I shrug.
He watches me for a long moment, and eventually, I assume he’s decided to keep his secrets—which would, of course, be well within his rights. But then he says, “It’s a game about Vadrien, actually.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. In the game, you play as him, and the story starts years before our campaign, right after he was turned into a vampire. It’s a stealth game, mostly—you have to sneak around to hunt, and balance consuming enough blood to increase your power with the risk of losing yourself to the temptation of the curse and becoming feral.
I’m calling it Blood Pact. It’s got a lot of his backstory, too, and—what’s so funny? ”