The One For Me

“I need water!”

Kay yelled right into my face in the middle of the dancefloor. Her breath smelled like some sort of candy-coated cherry shot that she’d been drinking all night.

“Then go get water,” I yelled back, rolling my eyes at her and wiping hot, neon-colored sweat from my forehead. There were so many bodies on the floor, but I wasn’t about to make an exit for the bar—especially not when they were playing Chico Rose and Afrojack’s mix of “Sad”.

“Thirsty,” she screamed, dancing in a downright obnoxious manner and fanning herself dramatically. The glitter on her face flashed brightly under the neon strobes above us, and I watched her stick her tongue out as she were suffering through a heatwave.

“Fucking fine. But don’t be dancing with Roy.”

“But I love dancing with boys,” she giggled, throwing her arms up in the air and shaking her head.

“Not what I fucking said, but okay,” I sighed, knowing that she couldn’t hear me.

Kay and I had been friends for years, but being her friend was more of a chore than anything else in my life. Fuck, being her friend was like doing laundry. It was like putting the fitted sheet on the bed. No, it was like folding the fucking fitted sheet. It was bullshit. It was so much work. I could hardly tolerate it at times. To clarify, I could hardly tolerate her at times. She was a sloppy, trashy kind of drunk, and as much as I loved her, she was never honest about whether she’d taken anything. When we first met, we shared a love of EDM; we both loved dance, trance, house, trap—all of it. Oh, and we wubbed dubstep. But my agreement into a mutual EDM-loving partnership with Kay was this: that I was totally fine going to the raves, the festivals, the clubs—anywhere she wanted to go to enjoy the beats—but I was not fucking okay with the drugs. And there were drugs. So many fucking drugs. On this particular Friday night, I had no fucking idea whether she’d taken something or if this was just a standard overheat, so I barreled through the happy, euphoria-soaked crowd to the bar to get her some water. Oh, me? You want to know about me, too? Well, I’m not one for introductions usually, but since I’m still walking up to the bar—

Fuck. Someone almost spilled a drink on me. It looked like some hot, neon-colored, candy-coated cherry shot. I shook my head and yelled, “What the fuck, bro,” before walking up and leaning against the bar.

“Hey,” I said, feeling a little overheated myself as I leaned further and attempted to get the bartender’s attention. “Hey!” I yelled, finding that my voice was a little shot for the night.

“Louie!”

I tapped the small beads of sweat on my temples cautiously, looking next to me and giving a small, satisfactory nod to the guy who had called the bartender down in our direction. If it weren’t for him needing a drink, I would have been helpless. Totally unable to throw my voice with how fucking jacked those last few tracks were.

“This girl needs a drink,” he said, pointing to me when the bartender finally arrived. I parted my parched lips, a little shocked that he’d just called Louie down this end of the bar for me, but I could tell that the bartender was waiting on me, so I put up two fingers and yelled, “Water!” at him.

“Thank you,” I said, my voice about as exhausted as my tired feet. The stranger at the bar wasn’t much for yelling, and he leaned a little closer to me, his ass leaving the barstool just briefly so that he could get close to my ear.

“You’re welcome. It’s a little loud tonight,” he said. Up close, I liked his voice. Fuck, I liked anyone’s voice that close. My hot, sweaty skin turned silky and goosebump-covered in no time, and I slid my hands over my bare arms quickly to avoid being seen like that.

“It’s always loud in here,” I said, leaning close to his ear in return. That lean awarded me a smell of some type of expensive cologne that radiated from his skin through the neon-colored, euphoria-soaked air that surrounded us. “Ever been here before?”

I didn’t know why I was making conversation with him. Maybe it was because the wait for my waters was so long. Maybe it was because I was exhausted from fake-dancing. I was horrible at dancing, unlike Kay, so I typically fake-danced. Maybe it was because my feet needed a break. Maybe it was because my lungs needed air that didn’t reek of sweat and all that high coming from the crowd on the dancefloor. Fuck, maybe it was because I just wanted to talk to someone different.

“First time. New to Bedford,” he said, leaning close to me again. His breath tickled my neck a little, and I rolled my eyes because I was just a touch-starved girl who loved attention. Don’t we all? We all fucking do. Right? Am I right, or no? I giggled at his response. I didn’t know why I did, but I did. When the bartender returned with my waters, I slid some cash over the bar and gave him a quick thank-you nod. Then, I gave the new-to-Bedford guy a thank-you nod as well. I wondered for a moment how he remembered the bartender’s name when he’d never been here before.

“Have fun at the bar,” I laughed, giving him a shrug.

“Have fun on the floor,” he said, and as I looked out at the dancefloor while the bass of his voice hit my ear much heavier than the bass of the song, I saw Kay dancing with Roy Harding.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” I whispered. That little line was only meant to be heard by me, but the bar stranger could see that I was upset.

“Everything okay?” he asked, this time yelling because he was too concerned to take the time to lean in.

“I need a minute,” I said, shaking my head quickly. “I need some fresh air, I think.”

I left the bar abruptly, walking out through the lobby, stumbling hurriedly through the dark corridor, pushing angrily through the front doors, and leaning up against the graffiti-laden concrete wall outside of the club. I didn’t notice that he had followed me until he was at my side. I watched him light a cigarette, and he offered me a drag.

“No, thanks. I don’t smoke.”

“I can hear you much better out here,” he chuckled. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” I huffed, cracking open a bottle of water.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asked.

“To a stranger?” I questioned, furrowing my glitter-lined brow.

“Jade,” he said, blowing smoke outward at the sidewalk and turning to offer me his hand. I shook it, and our eyes met directly for the first time.

“Jade? That sounds like a girl’s name,” I said. “Sorry. I know that’s not PC or whatever.”

“Fuck being PC,” he laughed.

“Yeah, fuck that,” I agreed. “I’m Molly.”

“Molly?” he asked, pretending to be stunned for a second. “Isn’t that a girl’s name?”

“It is,” I said, and I felt myself blushing for some reason.

“So, Molly, what’s your damage?” he asked curiously.

“I haven’t heard that for a minute.”

“I haven’t heard ‘for a minute’ in a minute,” he chuckled.

“True,” I shrugged. “My best friend is out on the dancefloor dancing with the one guy I asked her not to dance with… if that makes any sense.”

“Because he’s off-limits?” he questioned.

“In a way, yeah.”

“Because he’s your… relative,” he said inquisitively, and I could tell that he was trying to make me laugh. My glittery cheeks got fired up, but I quickly dropped my smile once I gave him an approval laugh.

“He’s not.”

“Your close friend, then,” he assumed.

“Far from it.”

“Your boyfriend,” he guessed.

“I’m single,” I sighed.

“Oh, thank God.”

“What?” I laughed awkwardly.

“So, who is the off-limits guy?” he pressed.

“Roy Harding.”

“New to Bedford,” he reminded me. “Who is Roy Hard—”

“—He’s just this guy,” I blurted abruptly. “He’s just this fucking guy.”

“Okay,” he shrugged, exhaling smoke upward into the air this time.

“I’ve… I don’t know why I’m telling you this,” I laughed nervously. “I’ve liked him for a long time.”

“Liked? What are you, like, thirteen?” he chuckled.

“Fucking 31,” I sighed.

“Fucking 35,” he soothed, giving me an innocent shrug.

“Oh, thank God.”

“What?” he asked.

“It’s just—I’m glad that you’re older than me.”

“That’s offensive,” he laughed.

“It’s not meant to be. You’re more mature than, you know, guys my age,” I said, running my hands quickly over my arms.

“Are you cold?” he asked. “Here. Take my jacket.” Before I could protest, he was pulling his leather jacket from his shoulders and tossing it around mine. He held his cigarette between his lips while he ran his hands up and down the leather that covered my arms, using them to warm me. While he stood in front of me, I studied him for the first time: caramel eyes, a light brown fuckboy haircut, tattoos, nicely toned arms, nicely toned things that I couldn’t see but thought about imagining seeing. All-around stylish. All-around such a fucking bad boy. I do not need a Jade in my life, or whatever the fuck his name was. I laughed to myself, and he caught me in the act. “Didn’t mean to make you feel awkward.”

“I don’t feel awkward. Sorry, I was laughing about something.”

“About what?” he asked.

“I don’t know. Life,” I shrugged.

“So, tell me about Roy Harding. An ex of yours or something?”

“Not really. We’ve fucked around,” I confessed.

“And you don’t want your friend taking your leftovers, is that it?” he guessed.

“That’s not it. I am… like—” I paused for a moment, trying to talk myself out of admitting my secrets to a total club stranger who was new to Bedford. “I’m like super in love with Roy. I have been for years.”

“Oh, wow. And she’s dancing with him?”

“And I keep dancing on my own,” I pouted, trying to be playful about how depressed I was. They said life would be easy, peasy, lemon squeezy, but I’ve just been stressed, depressed, lemon zest.

“Teddy Cream did a—”

“—Great fucking mix,” I interrupted. “I fucking love that guy.”

“Me, too,” he said, smoke flowing from his lips freely as he spoke. “You want the truth, though?”

“About the song? Or what?” I asked, chugging the rest of my water.

“About all of it,” he said. I nodded, hoping he’d tell me his thoughts. “That’s a great song, an even greater mix, and an exceptionally greater artist, but your friend isn’t fucking great for dancing with Roy Harding.”

“I know that,” I said, grabbing the edges of black leather in my hands and hugging his jacket tightly around me.

“Want to know what else?” he asked.

“Sure.”

“I’d never let you dance on your own,” he said, looking away from me and out into the passing headlights on the busy street. I could tell that he was nervous, and I thought that was fucking cute. “That would be strictly fucking uncalled for.”

I was flattered. Really, I was. But I thought that I should tell him the truth: that there wasn’t a fucking chance because I had eyes for Roy Harding and Roy Harding only.

“Look, you should know—”

“—I know,” he chuckled hesitantly. I watched him flick some cigarette ash aside, and he burned out the butt and flicked it in the trashcan on the sidewalk. “But maybe we can help each other out.”