I quickly recover from being ditched. After all, I enjoy being alone, and there's no better way to be alone than in a place like this. After straightening my pink wig, I walk through the bathroom door to where the music thumps even louder. The room is dark and the ceiling low. A dozen globes hang overhead, lighting up different colors. It reminds me of one of those Christmas houses that times the lights to the music, each strand taking its turn to shine.
The club, Havoc, is packed. Bodies pulse against one another and, as I pass them by, I am forgotten. It's a feeling like no other-to be present and invisible at once. I don't appreciate that the people are so close, that they are everywhere. But they don't see me so it's okay.
It doesn't take long for me to lose myself in the music. I dance alone, and in my head it feels like I'm normal, like all these people are my friends and they give me space, but they care about me, too. My head falls back, and I raise my arms into the air. Music injects my veins and rushes through my body. It takes me away, far away.
Until.
Until someone grows nearer than the others. An arm wraps around my waist and hips brush my rear.
"Back up," I yell, because there's no way he'd hear me otherwise.
He doesn't back up.
I spin around and the guy-tall, broad-shouldered, eyes that remind me of a Sunday school boy but I know better-pulls me tighter. He leans his head down to my ear and tells me I look sexy. Do I want to dance?
We're already dancing, and the answer is no. It's always no.
"Let go of me," I holler. "I won't say it again."
The guy grins so that I can see every tooth in his mouth. His cheeks are bright red, and his brow is covered in sweat. He isn't unattractive, but I can smell what's beneath his sweet cologne. He is ugly on the inside. And his hands are on me.
He spins me around and my stomach clenches.
I'm being pulled backward toward a corner and oh my God no one is seeing what he's doing. Or they see and don't mind. My heart beats so hard it aches, and my breathing comes fast. But I don't care about that. I care about what will happen if he keeps manhandling me.
I fear what I will do.
The guy pushes me against a wall so that my belly touches sheetrock painted black. His hands roam over my body, exploring the curveless shape of my torso. If he only knew. If he only knew he had an explosive in his grasp.
He runs a finger over my lips.
He pulls the clip off the grenade.
He pushes his mouth against the back of my neck.
He relishes the danger of the bomb in his hand.
His palm slides down the flat of my stomach.
Seconds left until detonation. Take cover!
Inside my head, I scream. Outside my head, I scream. I thrash against him but he uses my weakness to his advantage. I am shy of five feet tall, and I am built of bones.
He is built of steak dinners and whole milk.
His hands move lower and lower, and deep inside the recesses of my brain, something sinister yawns awake. No, no, no! Nothing to see here! Go back to sleep!
It's no use.
Wilson stretches tall and smiles to himself.
He looks around like he's amused by what's happening to us.
Hello, Domino, he says. It's been a while.
Chapter Four
Spray Paint Savant
I lift my legs off the ground and the guy holding me falters. His grip loosens, and I drop to the floor in a ball. I shoot under his legs and scramble backward, nearly losing my wig. Springing to my feet, I blast across the dance floor like a bullet from the barrel of a gun.
I spot Dizzy near the bar, raising an amber-colored bottle to his lips. Shoving people from my path as best I can, I get to Dizzy. Only then do I turn back to ensure Manhandler isn't following me.
He isn't.
But I'm still here, Wilson says. And I can help.
Shut up, shut up! I press into my temples as I lurch forward.
Dizzy notices my face. "Follow me," he orders.
I nod. I know this plan. We've done it a hundred times before when the going stops going, when a store clerk catches me lifting a Snickers bar, or when a fellow street rat harasses us, or when Wilson threatens to surface. Dizzy may not know about Wilson, but he knows I have demons, and he's always ready when they come crawling.
Fight or flight, that's what they say.
Dizzy and I fly. Always fly.
He tips his chin toward the front door, and we swim through the crowd like eels. Behind us, Black Beauty calls for Dizzy to come back. But he won't. We don't ever stand too close to each other. We don't ever ask personal questions. But when it's time to go, Dizzy and I are in the same flight formation.
He pushes through the heavy double doors and together we head toward the house. I walk fast and don't mind the ache my high heels cause my feet. I want the pain. I want that and more. Anything that will make me forget about what almost happened with the guy. But more importantly, anything that will make Wilson go back to sleep.