Free Fall (Harry Styles)

Chapter Five

N/A: buckle up, its a long one.

The thumping bass of the music reverberated through the walls of the London nightclub, drowning out any conversation that was not shouted directly into someone's ear. The dimly lit room was packed with people, each moving to the beat of the music in their own way. The dance floor was the center of the action, with bodies swaying, jumping, and gyrating in a sea of flashing lights and smoke machines. A DJ stood on a raised platform, skillfully mixing tracks to keep the energy high.

The air was thick with the scent of perfume, sweat, and alcohol as waiters and bartenders weaved their way through the crowds, delivering drinks and snacks to thirsty patrons. The bar was a hub of activity, with people jostling for positions to place their orders, their voices raised above the music.

"Marley, where the fuck are we?!" I scream into my best friend's ear, the bass bumping so loudly that I can't even hear myself. "Mahiki, baby!!!!" Marley screams back into my ear.

At the back of the club, private booths offered a more intimate space for groups to chat and drink away from the chaos of the dance floor. Before I knew it, Marley was grabbing onto my arm, pushing our way through the crowd of sweaty bodies as I trailed behind her like a lost puppy. We make our way to the back, and there's a set of stairs that twisted around the corner, making it so you cannot see where they lead to. In front of the stairs is a man, more like a fucking army tank, dressed in all black with sunglasses on. Before we approach him, Marley turns to me.

"Babe, you need to have some fun tonight; you owe it to yourself," although the lights in the club are flashing on and off, and everything is going a million miles per second; I look into her eyes and suddenly feel reassured. "I know, I know...." I reply hesitantly. I mean, I feel reassured not that a fucking miracle happened.

"C'mon, let's go take some shots with the rich and famous!" Marley exclaims as she throws her head back in a fit of laughter and drags me to the man at the stairs. Well, she must be pretty drunk already because, Marley, I love you, but that wasn't that funny. Can you tell I'm sober and nervous? And maybe a bit of a pessimist at the moment?

We approach the man in front of the stairs, who is so large that the clipboard in his hand looks comically small. "Hi! My name is Marley Elise; I'm with Goldstone Entertainment, and this is my plus one! I love the all-black fit! Super mysterious." Marley smiles up at the man. God, she is so charismatic. It's something I envy and admire her for. A small smile cracks out onto the hardened face of this man; only Marley could make some big scary bouncer smile. I reach for my purse to hand him my I.D., and he waves me off with a chuckle. "Go right ahead, girls and Marley, behave yourself!" He grumbles with a deep British accent as he unlatches the velvet rope and motions for us to go up the stairs. "If I get too drunk, I hope you're the one to escort me out, Robby!" Marley shoots back, and we begin to walk up the stairs. I give her a look, "I'm a regular, babes," Marley laughs as we ascend up the daunting staircase.

Maybe I'm just really fucking lazy and need to work out, or that staircase was a hike and a half because, by the time we reach the top, I am out of breath. Or maybe it's the fucking heels. I. hate. Heels. Not even in a "I'm-not-like-other-girls" way because, trust me, heels look hot as fuck, especially on women with confidence, but for me, they 1) look stupid and clunky, 2) they're so uncomfortable, 3) I walk like a wombat with four left feet. When we reach the top, there's a double set of blacked-out doors, and this time, there are four bouncers, bigger than the man named Robby, who was downstairs. There's also a long line, one that wraps around the corner. Marley marches up to the front of the line, and I once again give her a look. What kind of second life does my best friend lead while I'm home with Fenway? As I follow her, I immediately become self-conscious. I look down at what I'm wearing: a little black dress that cuts off mid-thigh; it has sheer cutouts on the side that are lined with small diamonds that meet in the middle and go up my chest, meeting at the straps. I also note my wobbling legs and my newfound height. I wanted to opt for my Doc Martens, but Marley convinced me to wear a pair of black stilettos. I push my insecurities aside; it doesn't matter what I'm wearing or how I look because I'm already here. As I follow Marley up to the front of the line, I remind myself that everyone here is drunk and in their own little worlds and could not possibly care about what I'm doing or what I'm wearing. Everyone is here to have a good time, not to judge me, although my anxiety tells me otherwise. Marley whispers something to one of the bouncers, and he glances down at the clipboard in his hands, putting his hand up to the wire in his ear, and says something that I cannot hear over the loud music that is flowing upstairs from the main dance floor below us.