Devil You Know(47)

It takes me a full song to find a spot in the crowd that’s close to Malice, but with enough room to move. The pulse of the music deep in my bones, and the freedom I find with the help of my little buddy alcohol, makes me forget how I ended up here—makes me forget my earlier panic at ‘hearing’ Dylan.

For a little while, at least.

The realization that I’ve left Dylan, and am now dancing at a bar, accompanied by a man I want to know as more than a friend, hits me like a storm. The alcohol rams full-force with my insecurities—the two going head to head like a couple of weather fronts colliding. The result is a hurricane of panic that rips through me, tearing away any scrap of normalcy I was under the illusion I had.

My head spins, and the joy I’d had for dancing is long gone. Survival instincts kick in; I need to find somewhere dark, and quiet.

I head back to Malice—fake smile in place. He offers me a refill of whatever that sickly thing was, and eager for the numbness I’m told accompanies being blind drunk to envelop me, I knock it back in one go. My hand doesn’t leave the stem of the glass until it’s safely atop the table.

“I’m thinking I shouldn’t have let Bronx buy you that,” Malice says.

“Come on, bro. She’s having fun. Aren’t you, love?”

I steer my vision in the general direction of Bronx’s voice, but the dim lighting leaves me working out which blur I should be addressing. “Yeah, sure.”

A tickle on my arm has me look down to find Malice’s hand at my elbow. “Are you sure you’re okay?” He starts to stand.

“Nothing to worry about.” I try to wave him off, but end up hooking my nails under his jaw as I pass by a little too close for comfort.

He frowns, and my ebbing panic flows back in for the seventh wave; this time, the shit’s going to crest the shore.

“I’m going to the ladies.” My eyes burn from the concentration I’ve got them under. “I don’t feel so flash anymore.”

Malice says something, but I can’t stick around to find out what it was. People part like the red sea with a single look at my pale face. I get to the bathrooms in record time—which is where my master plan comes to an abrupt halt. The queue extends out the door. Fuck. My saliva has doubled, and a slow burn is inching up my esophagus. The line shifts far too slow for me to make it. To the dislike of the other ‘ladies in waiting’, I barge past them to beeline for the basins. My hands grip the edge with seconds to spare.

Burning drink pours out of me, and the smell sets me off for a second round. I heave into the basin to a symphony of ‘eew’, and ‘gross’. Not that I care. At this moment of utter rock bottom, my world consists of the basin, my vomit, and the shaky legs that are stopping me finishing this on the floor.

A cubicle comes free, and I fend off the approaching woman like a well-trained line backer. She curses something at me, but the ringing in my ears makes it hard to comprehend. I slam the cubicle door, screw my eyes shut, and fall to a heap against the wall.

The mixture of intoxication, and panic coursing inside of me make for a deadly recipe. Lava surges through my veins, whilst my gut churns acid. My head pounds, and my ears ring. I can’t catch a breath.

Past caring who sees me, or what they may say, I spread out on the floor. With my knees bent, I can fit in the space the cubicle provides. Ignoring how disgusting the floor more than likely is, I reach over my head, and wrap my hands around the back of the toilet. The cool porcelain feels like heaven on my burning skin. I press my wrists hard to the cold surface, seeking a fast recovery from this mess.

Somebody pounds against the door. “Are you okay in there?”

I gurgle something out that must come off as sufficient, because the heels tap away from me.

Toilets flush, water runs, and women gossip. The world goes on around me while I retreat into my three-by-five space, and find comfort in the half-solitude of it.

I could fall asleep. I know I’d feel a truckload better if I did. Maybe just for five minutes, I mean, who’s to know? Really?

The gossip in the queue dies off, and a distinctly masculine voice grows nearer. Whoever they are, they sound pretty darn pissed off. I smile in my inebriated state, lying on the floor. Somebody’s gonna get it!

“You can’t come in here,” a repulsed, female voice states.

“You going to stop me?”

Shit that sounds familiar. Dylan? Has Dylan come to take me home?

I teeter on the edge of sleep—the sensation of slipping into unconsciousness heavenly on my overworked senses.

“Hey!”

“Just hold it there, woman.”

Wow. It’s going down out there . . .