Three #3
When I finally make it to the landing, I stop for a minute to catch my breath and survey the chaos below.
The whole club is a blur of flashing lights, sweaty bodies, and questionable dance moves.
There are groups of friends laughing, a couple of Hen Parties taking drunken selfies, and way too many couples grinding on each other like their lives depend on it.
For some reason, in my tipsy haze, it’s kind of beautiful.
Everyone’s having a good time, and for a moment, I forget about my dress, my sweat, and Charlotte’s new dance partner. I just stand there, smiling like an idiot, soaking it all in.
I push open the door to the ladies’ toilets and practically trip over my own feet on the way to the sinks.
Classic me.
Once I get there, I fumble for the tap, splashing cold water onto my face like it’s some magical potion that’ll make me feel less drunk and less like a human puddle.
Spoiler: it doesn’t.
Next to me, a couple of women are touching up their lipstick with the precision of surgeons. They’re mid-rant about their boyfriends, voices dripping with irritation. It’s the usual stuff—He never listens, he’s useless, he thinks Xbox is a personality.
As I half-listen, my brain latches onto a single thought: At least they’ve got someone to complain about. I’m standing here, dripping water onto my chest and smelling faintly of tequila, while these women have the luxury of rolling their eyes at men who actually care enough to text back.
Sure, their boyfriends might be idiots, but at least they’re their idiots.
I sigh, giving my reflection a tired smile. Lucky them. Meanwhile, my date for the night is me, myself, and whatever dignity I’ve got left.
Spoiler alert again: not much.
I make my way down the stairs, fueled by the overwhelming need for another drink.
Immediately.
My nerves are fried, my buzz is wearing off, and my patience is thinner than my heels.
I scan the room for Charlotte but, surprise surprise, she’s nowhere to be found.
Typical.
The bar it is, then. I order a mojito—because I deserve minty, limey perfection—and clutch it like it’s a life preserver. Once served, I weave my way through the sweaty crowd and onto the dance floor.
The music thumps through me, and I let it take over. For a moment, it’s just me, the beat, and a desperate attempt to shake off everything weighing me down.
I lose myself in the rhythm, dancing alone and not giving a shit.
But then, out of nowhere, I feel hands wrapping around my waist. Rough, hairy hands.
My body tenses instantly, a jolt of panic shooting through me.
But before I can fully react, the alcohol numbs my mind, coaxing me to relax, to sink into it.
Big mistake.
Suddenly, I’m spun around, and there he is—late thirties, bald, eyebrow piercing. He’s the walking embodiment of a midlife crisis, and I’m the unfortunate victim of his desperation. My drunken haze clears just enough for the alarm bells to start ringing in my head.
I don’t want this. I don’t want him.
His hands move lower, grazing the small of my back, and that’s when I feel it—my dress has ridden up just enough to expose the beginnings of my bum cheeks. Heat rushes to my face, equal parts humiliation and anger.
He moves his hands further down, grabbing my backside, and I freeze. Every muscle in my body locks up. I’m a statue, rooted to the spot, panic flooding me.
“Please stop,” I mouth, barely able to find my voice.
But he doesn’t notice—or care. Instead, he leans in, his dry, flaking lips coming closer. I tilt my head back, trying to dodge the horror show approaching my face.
“Come on, darlin’. Kiss me. You know you want to,” he slurs, his breath reeking of cheap beer.
“Please. Stop,” I manage to shout over the music. “No. I don’t want to.” I shove at his chest, trying to create some space between us, but it’s no use.
And then, like a scene out of a movie, I hear it—a voice, strong and familiar.
“Take your hands off her,” Austin growls, appearing out of nowhere like some kind of avenging Knight in shining armour. His jaw is tight, his teeth gritted, and his glare could cut glass.
The bald creep glances at him, smirking. “What are you, her boyfriend?” he sneers, and I can’t see Austin’s reaction, but I feel the anger radiating off him.
The creep, either bold or stupid (probably both), pinches me again, and that’s when Austin snaps.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see his fist—tight, powerful, and flying past me like a missile. It connects with the man’s jaw in a glorious crunch, sending him crashing to the floor and releasing me from his grip.
Before I can even process what’s happened, I turn and fling myself into Austin’s arms, nearly knocking him over. His arms wrap around me, strong and steady, and suddenly I feel safe.
Safe and ridiculously aware of just how solid he is.
The bald creep groans from the floor, rubbing his face. “Man, she’s not worth it anyway,” he mutters before scrambling to his feet and disappearing into the crowd like the cockroach he is.
I look up at Austin, my heart still pounding. “Thank you. You saved me.”
He looks down at me, his eyes warm and filled with something I can’t quite name. “You’re welcome, Jameson.” he says softly.