“This is like déjà vu, bro. So bad. The song, the Red Bull, the club. I can't stop thinking of Naomi. Maybe it was a bad idea to come here?” Ronnie and I exchange a glance, and I step back, taking a spot on Turner's right while Ronnie heads up the left. I stand there and rub his back in circles while Ronnie tries to comfort him enough that we can be sure he won't run off and OD in the bathroom. Or grab one of the many eager faces around us for a quick little naughty. Not that I really think he'd do that, but sometimes people act weird when their life's in turmoil.
“She's going to make it, Turner. You gotta stay positive and fight through this. If the club's too much, we can have one of the vans take you back to the house.” Turner shakes his head and snatches the next shot that our bartender places on the counter. He downs it as I reach for my own and follow suit. Perfection. Tastes like a chocolate covered cherry. Brilliant. Ronnie grabs his own shot and drinks, giving me a look over his friend's back.
“Nah, I'm cool.” Turner reaches into his back pocket and comes up with a plastic bag filled with the powdery white perfection of blow. Shit. I force my gaze away, back towards the heaving crowd. It's almost as crazy in here as it is during one of our concerts. Almost. “I've got Snow White to keep me company.” He tosses the bag on the counter and nobody blinks. Two seats down from me, there's a girl with a fucking needle in her arm. I guess the boys in blue overlook this club, probably with a lot of gentle, green persuasion. I wonder who owns the place?
“Turner, you're a big fucking boy, so I'm not going to try to tell you what to do, but,” Ronnie puts his hand on the plastic bag, “if you're going to do this, do it, but please don't take it so far that I have to call an ambulance. Don't pull any Romeo and Juliet shit on me and pass out right when Naomi wakes the fuck up, you got it?” Turner rolls his eyes, but I can tell he's listening.
“Yeah. Whatever. Look, I had the best night of my life a few weeks ago, and it all started in this fucking club. Go play with Lola while you have the chance.” Turner pauses, and I can tell he feels like the mood's getting too serious. “She'll probably be pregnant soon enough anyway, and you'll lose your chance.” Ronnie smacks his friend in the back of the head and then steps away, holding out a hand for me.
“Sorry about that,” he whispers into my ear, his lips moving against my skin, breath warm as it stirs my hair. “I've just never … seen him like this before. I don't want Turner to lose his happiness. I know how that feels.” Ronnie exhales deeply and then stands straight, sliding his hands down my side. His mouth twitches, and I can tell he wants to ask if I'm okay, but he bites back the question, listening to my body as I start to move against him, letting the beat work its way into my blood.
“No worries, Ronnie. You know I like the fuck out of your face,” I say, poking him in the nose and then sliding an arm around his neck as our bodies start to sway with the wave of the crowd.
“I love the fuck out of yours,” he tells me, and my body goes hot from head to toe. Our mouths connect, and I do my best to make him forget about the broken condom. I have a feeling that if he fixates on it, I won't get laid again for another two weeks. Ugh. These nice guys and all their silly morals and obligations.
I slide my tongue against his, tasting the sweetness of the shot, feeling the burn of alcohol in my limbs, swimming straight up to my brain. We kiss, even as the crowd begins to hop to another pop song. Our bodies move along with the mass of people until our mouths break apart with the motion and we dance with the group, letting the collective whole of the souls around us decide what movements we should make. As long as we're together, that's all that matters.
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch sight of Sydney and Dax. She's moving with the music, gyrating and spinning, blonde hair tinted blue from the flickering lights overhead. Dax moves with her, but I can tell he's off his guts, totally fried. Poor guy.
I turn my attention back to Ronnie, just enjoying his company, the touch of his hands on my hips, the sweat dripping down his forehead. We manage to make it through three songs before the bar calls and we end up on either side of Turner again, ordering another round of drinks – buttery nipples this time, baby. After we finish these, I get us all blow jobs and no, I don't mean the usual dick sucking kind. These little bites of perfection are made with Bailey's Irish Cream, Kahlúa, and a squirt of bright white whipped cream on the top.
“Doesn't taste half as good as you did this afternoon,” I shout at Ronnie and laugh as Turner shakes his head in disgust and lays out two lines of coke, snorting them up in quick succession. He offers both Ronnie and me some, but we exchange a look and decide to pass. I know my limits. I can drink recreationally, sure, but if I start on the other stuff, I won't make it a week before I'm back in the bathroom with a little crystal to keep me company. “You want to dance with me?” I ask Turner, but he shakes his head, waving Ronnie and me off again.