Mated to the Mafioso

[ 6 ] - At the Club

"C'mon, Andrea! We're gonna be late. The line's gonna get super long!" Preethi knocks on my door, sighing. I can hear her shifting her weight between her heels. "My friends are almost there! And they pregamed. Unlike us."

"Yeah—I'm coming! I'm so, so sorry I don't drink a lot...I'm on medication!" I sigh sarcastically. "And my client ran late!" That's less sarcastic. Standardized prep test for college; the kid ran late because of some sports meet. That was fair.

I haven't spoken to Charlie since the night of the attack. He seemed to get the context; he's heard my raving on Luci's Coffee. He didn't even ask for the essay.

Maybe he thinks I'm dead.

But I still need to get paid for the session. With overtime.

I look over my closet, biting the edge of my gum. A club. Okay. Clubbing outfit. Preethi's called my wardrobe 'business dull chic'—mostly neutrals; black pants and some gray-gradient shirt. Or earth tones.

I pull out a cocktail dress that's buried in the back of the closet. It's dusty; I brush it down. A rare spot of color—but even that is duller, darker. Wine red dress, slit up the side, V-neck, long sleeves. I stuff myself into it, with black tights, a simple black jacket, and boots because I have little interest in sliding in gross, days-old city slush. How Preethi is wearing heels is beyond me.

I apply makeup—smoky eye fading out to slight red. Neutral mahogany lipstick. It's transformative, in a way—I look like a different person in color, in makeup, with fresh, day-one hair. Black and red looks good.

And then comes the rush of panic. Maybe it's too soon. Maybe—

Preethi opens the door. "Girl, y—oh! You're done."

I'm embarrassed to be looking at myself in the mirror—I just give her an awkward smile. Preethi groans, grabs my bag, then me, and tugs me out of the apartment. The elevator rattles.

"I'm paying for a cab, because I look way too good to be taking the train." She sizes me up, raising a brow. "We look too good to be on the train. You clean up well. And look at that! Color. But boots? No heels?"

"Correct. Maybe I like being under most people's line of vision...and more importantly, not catch a bacterial infection from dirty snow." I deadpan, walking ahead. Preethi's tall, slim; dancer-like. Perpetually, frustratingly, graceful. Me? None of the above.

She runs ahead, stopping at the curb. Almost immediately, a taxi screeches to a halt beside her, lights.

"After you, madame," Preethi laughs, opening the back door. I chuckle and step in.

***

The line at The Club is long. Preethi paces, complains, chats with everyone near us. The duo behind us—two men, one of whom Preethi already flirted with—bring up the attack. That it's ridiculous. Paras need to get their shit together.

I grit my teeth and wait, the nighttime cold cutting deeper into my bones. The door looms ahead, bouncers checking everyone's bags. I suck in a breath.

"You're good to go." The bouncer points in. "Enjoy."

Preethi grabs me once more and rushes forward. Immediately, sensory overload. It's too much, all at once: loud, bass-heavy music; flashing kaleidoscopic lights; shifting, dancing bodies; the smell of saccharine cosmos and sharp shots and stale beer. The light machines twist, spin; there's silver walls, twisted funhouse mirrors, giant crystal balls, reflective streamers. Dance floor center, glowing panels below; bar off to the side, different seating spaces around. Modern, minimalist couches—mostly pink, purple, and white. This place's a neon, dizzying expanse. My body's abuzz. I'm shaking. Not from the music.