Three #2
“Oh come on, let the girls out to play for once, they get fed up being cooped up in boob prison!” she says, waving her hand at my breasts. “And you have great tits! It’s a shame to waste them.”
I roll my eyes and snatch the dress from her hands, stomping into my room to try it on.
“I have some killer heels that will look amazing with that dress,” Charlotte calls before I close my door.
THE CLUB IS CHAOS—loud, sticky, and about twenty degrees too hot.
It’s like somebody has cranked up the heat just to see how long it’d take before we all combusted.
Charlotte’s been itching to come here ever since it opened.
So here I am, sweating out my patience while nursing a cocktail that tastes like regret and cheap vodka.
I’m wearing her emerald green dress that should’ve stayed on the hanger.
It’s tight. Too tight. Like, one wrong move and I’m flashing the entire room tight.
I’m yanking it down every two minutes, trying to keep my dignity intact and praying the neckline doesn’t betray me by launching my boobs into orbit.
This thing is basically engineered for wardrobe malfunctions.
Charlotte, who also happens to be a hair genius, styled my thick brunette locks to perfection earlier, and I went full glam with a smoky eye because—well, why the hell not? But all that effort feels wasted in here. It’s like trying to look classy in a sauna.
Meanwhile, Charlotte looks like she walked straight off a red carpet, as usual.
She’s wearing this blood-red dress that’s somehow more low-cut than mine.
Her naturally large cleavage is a full-blown event.
I caught the cabbie sneaking glances in the rear view mirror, so I can only imagine what the guys in here are thinking.
Honestly, I’d probably look too if I wasn’t so busy praying my own dress doesn’t pull a disappearing act.
I glance over at Charlotte and shake my head. Of course, she’s thriving in this mess, while I’m just trying not to die of secondhand embarrassment and wardrobe-related anxiety.
Ugh, just kill me dead.
Charlotte and I snag the last booth like we’re claiming a lifeline. I glance at the dance floor. It’s a sweaty, pulsating sea of bodies. I cringe so hard my face might freeze that way if the wind changes direction. Or is that just a myth your mum tells you when you are a child?
There’s no way I’m getting on there sober. Nope. Not happening. If I’m going to embarrass myself, I’ll need at least three more cocktails and a shot of tequila first.
The music is so loud I can’t even hear Charlotte, and she’s sitting right across from me.
She’s probably saying something witty or profound, but it’s lost to the bass that’s vibrating my internal organs.
So, we do the only logical thing: drink.
And then drink some more. With each round, I feel the tipsy courage building until, finally, I hit that sweet spot between ‘I’m hilarious’ and ‘Let’s make questionable decisions. ’
That’s when I decide it’s time. I grab Charlotte’s hand and drag her onto the dance floor like a woman possessed. The second we hit the chaos, I let the music take over, moving like someone who doesn’t have a care in the world—or at least someone who’s forgotten the last few years of her life.
Charlotte was right: I needed this.
Several drinks, shots, and questionable dance moves later, I’m absolutely hammered. My words are slurring, my head is spinning, and I’m sticky with sweat and whatever suspicious liquids have been spilt on me by overly enthusiastic dancers. I smell like tequila and someone else’s vodka cranberry.
It’s not a good combo.
Charlotte and I keep dancing, hands in the air, hips swaying to the beat, like we’re in our own little bubble of bad decisions.
But it doesn’t take long to notice that most of the guys around us are not-so-subtly ogling Charlotte. She’s petite, stunning, and rocking that red dress like she owns the damn club. How could they not look at her?
Then he appears—Mr. Average. Tall-ish, bland, and clearly playing in a league that Charlotte was promoted from years ago.
He starts dancing toward us like he’s on a mission, zeroing in on Charlotte with the determination of a guy who doesn’t own a mirror.
Before I can intervene, he somehow slides between us like a drunk ninja and starts grinding on her like it’s his last night on Earth.
His hands are on her hips, and she’s too tipsy to notice—or care.
I watch the whole thing like it’s a train wreck I can’t look away from.
God help us all.
After being ditched by Charlotte—thanks, babe—I decide it’s time to make a dramatic exit.
Or at least head to the toilets before my face melts off entirely.
My cheeks are on fire, and I’m sweating like I just ran a marathon in heels.
A splash of cold water sounds like the bare minimum I deserve right now.
The toilets, of course, are on the other side of the room because life loves a challenge. I stumble my way through the crowds, dodging elbows, spilt drinks, and at least one guy who thinks winking at me is going to get him somewhere.
Finally, I make it to the stairs, and oh boy, they look steep. Like Mount Everest but for drunk people, steep.
I grab the handrail like it’s a lifeline and start the climb, one shaky step at a time. Slow and steady wins the race—or, in this case, doesn’t faceplant in front of a hundred strangers. Every step feels like an achievement, and I’m pretty sure I should get a medal when I reach the top.