LUCY
"Absolutely fucking not!" Amara snaps before I can even finish the excuse I have concocted in the seconds it took me to walk from my bedroom to the front door.
"You can do all that later. You can do that tomorrow. Tonight, girl, we party… and not even you can stop it!"
I open my mouth to further insist on the seriousness of a faux personal project our professor had supposedly assigned for tomorrow morning, but Vera beats me to it.
"You know I'm all for academic excellence, Lucy, but I think Professor Basten will understand if you tell him tonight is your birthday and ask for the leniency of an extra day."
I see my escape falling apart. My attempt to heed the phantom's warning is crumbling, especially when Harlen agrees with a firm nod. But of course, the fucker will agree with whatever Amara says, even if she claims the sky is neon yellow!
"But—"
"But, but, but…" Amara singsongs, leaving me in the living room and heading toward my bedroom, probably to grab my purse.
I start to call her back, to tell her not to go in there, but then I remember the phantom is gone. I exhale shakily, crossing my arms over my chest as the woman's words replay in my mind like a broken record.
Stay at home for a week.
A week surely isn't possible, but tonight… I lick my lower lip. I think tonight can be okay. Then, from tomorrow, I can—
"What are you thinking about? You have that crease right there," Harlen says, pointing at the center of my brows. "Whenever you're worried or deep in thought…"
"She's probably thinking, for the hundredth time, why she agreed to follow us to the club," Vera says, smiling. "But you don't have to worry, Lucy, because everything will be fine. It's your day! You have to cheer up and enjoy it. Well… we'll make sure you do."
She adds a playful wink. "You're welcome. That's what friends do."
I snort softly, my eyes snagging on Amara as she returns with the emerald-green purse I had left on the bed.
"Alright then, let's go before Lucy gives another excuse."
I catch the purse she tosses my way and inhale deeply as they stroll past me toward the door. I clutch the bag tight, hesitating for a second, a war raging within me.
Phantoms are no joke; they don't deliver messages for the fun of it. It means I really might be in danger. Why would she lie?
But I need to be out tonight. I need to celebrate.
"Lucy!" Amara's threatening voice makes the choice for me.
Whispering a silent prayer to whoever might be listening up there, I straighten my shoulders, pat my dress, and take another deep breath.
Then, I follow my friends out.
—
The club is a living, breathing thing.
The air is thick with the scent of expensive perfume, sweat, and spilled gin. Lights in shades of violet and electric blue cut through the haze, illuminating a sea of moving bodies.
On the raised platforms, pole dancers move with a fluid, hypnotic grace, while at the far end of the room—cloaked in shadows—the local elite sit in leather booths, their faces obscured by the darkness. In the center, the 'normal' people are a chaotic blur of dancing, drinking, and blatant flirting.
I clink my glass against my friends' for the second time and down the liquid Harlen promised was a strong alcohol. It burns my throat, though the sensation is less jarring than the first shot, and a pleasant warmth begins to bloom in my belly.
I decide it isn't a bad thing, even as Amara orders a third round.
"Do you think it's a good idea to get high already?" Vera asks, eyeing the bartender as he moves to fulfill Amara's request.
"Of course! How else are we going to enjoy the night?"
I laugh—a high, free note—and I know I'm well on my way to being drunk. Or high. Especially because I suddenly feel like dancing.
"Let's take to the floor!"
Gods, even my tongue is looser.
Harlen cusses under his breath as he watches me. "She has a light brain."
I scrunch my face, hating that fact. I seem to be weak in everything, even in something as human as alcohol tolerance. Biting down on my lower lip, I drag Harlen toward the dance floor while the girls laugh behind us.
"Lucy…"
Harlen's voice is a raspy whisper as I move against him. My fingers trail over his arm, his chest, and his neck, shadows of touches that tease the skin.
I laugh when he lets out a low growl and catches my wandering hands.
"Maybe this way, you can secure Amara's attention? I think she isn't laughing anymore… don't look!"
Harlen swallows hard and cocks a brow at me.
I nod, confirming the observation. Only then does lover-boy let go of my hands and slide his own around my waist, pulling me closer to his toned body.
I hear snatches of his ragged breath as I turn and press my back against him, feeling safe enough to do so. I don't mind the stares I'm beginning to garner; I'm lost in a dance I've tried so many times with… Doyle.
I push the thought away as I drop low, my knees bunching as I move up and down. When I hear whistles and Harlen muttering, "God help me," I laugh and dance a space away from him so I don't overdo it.
But in doing so, I'm suddenly aware of being watched.
Yes, everyone is watching me—but this is different. The hairs on my neck stand up again, and the phantom's words roar back into my mind. Inhaling shakily, I stumble off the dance floor toward my friends.
"Girl! You didn't tell us you had the moves!" Amara says.
Even though I notice her voice is a bit off-pitch, I'm too concerned about the feeling of eyes on me to smile at Harlen's small win.
Instead, my eyes rove the club, but I see nothing out of the ordinary.
Yet… that negative feeling stays.
"I'm coming, guys… need some fresh air." I say, my breath struggling to stay smooth.
Amara and Vera exchange wry glances, but they nod. I pat their arms gently and weave through the crowded bodies toward the front door.
Front door because I'll be safe in the crowd of people outside the front lot.
I just need to breathe.