The Wright Way

Chapter 7 - The Wright Way

"Ethan!"

The excited voice gets to me through the loud music, and then someone's hand grabs my arm. I jerk away instinctively and bump into an unfamiliar guy, causing him to spill some of his beer. I mutter an apology and stumble back, where the hand grabs me again, this time clearly to prevent me from running into more people.

"Boy, you sure have had enough tonight!"

I finally regain my balance and turn to meet Mike's smiling gaze.

My heart sinks. It did cross my mind that I could meet him here but somehow, I assumed that in such a crowd it was unlikely. After all, he said he only came here a couple times a month.

"Sorry! The boy just can't drink!" he yells over the music to the guy with the beer who's still frowning at us. "Ethan, holy crap!" He focuses on me, grinning as if he's just won a lottery. "I didn't believe you'd ever dare to come!"

I shouldn't have, that much is clear. I swallow hard, racking my brain as to how to make him understand why I'm here, that it has nothing to do with what he's thinking about, that it was just the combination of a free ticket, a lonely evening and the desire to –

"Came to see the princess?" he yells in my ear. He's let go of my hand, but now his face is uncomfortably close to mine. "Isn't he gorgeous?"

My eyes drift back to the stage and fix once again on the figure under the spotlights in the middle of it. There are musicians in the background, but the figure with the mic draws all the attention of the sparse but enthusiastic crowd. Clad in black and sparkling material, he's like a singing, dancing piece of starry night shaped like a human, and his voice... Well, the voice was the reason I haven't left the moment I walked in, seeing all the men by the tables and on the dance floor. I heard the voice and I had to see.

The posters by the entrance promised disco night on Fridays and trance parties on Saturdays, but today is Tuesday, and the live performance of their home star, Joshua Hill. So, there's not much dancing going on, most people just standing and nodding to the music. Some of them hug, some of them drink, others sit by the tables or by the bar farther away, trying to eat and talk despite the noise. Yet most of them watch, and all of them listen.

He has the crowd in his grip, and the effortless grace with which he moves only adds to the power of the music. His made-up face is like that of a porcelain doll, his eyes outlined with dark shadows shaped like birds' feathers. There's something about the way he holds himself that says—I own this place, and while you're here, I own you, too.

The crowd seems only too glad to obey the unspoken message, judging by the staring eyes and the upturned faces and the tapping feet and the cheers at the end of each song.

"Gorgeous," repeats Mike, his lips close to my ear, his chin almost touching my shoulder. I move away, this time careful not to step on anyone, and turn to him.

"Look, I'm not...I didn't intend to come," I say.

"Want to have a drink?" he says.

"No."

He frowns a bit, then reaches out and puts his hand on my cheek.

"Are you okay?"

"Stop touching me," I say, batting his hand away. This comes out ruder than I intended, and he seems taken aback for a moment, before raising both hands in a pacifying gesture.

"Look, we work together, okay? I'm not hitting on you or anything." He pauses. "You just look like...like you're about to faint or something."

I force myself to take a deep breath. He might not be wrong.