Above Water ✔️

9 - neck beards

I love purple.

The club was flashing fluorescent purple lights above our heads to the beat of the thumping electronic remix of a Calvin Harris song. Everywhere I looked, I saw purple. Tens of twenties of bodies moved with mine in a united front, dancing like the world was burning.

I closed my eyes and relished in the feeling of someone's hands on me. It was probably a girl who didn't know I was very gay, but I didn't care.

With alcohol riding through my veins like an inner tube on a water slide, I felt the most relaxed I had since arriving in Clearwater. I threw my hands up, jumping up and down in the stream of purple. When I opened my eyes, I found the girl with flirty eyes smiling up at me, her body moving up and down in unison with mine.

In a state of bliss, I brushed off the hand on my arm, assuming it was just another dancer touching me. I stopped jumping but kept moving to the music, the girl's backside fully pressed to my front at this point.

"Meek."

I snapped out of it. My head turned quickly, though it felt like it was in slow motion. Erick was beside me, smiling widely.

"Hey, best friend," I managed to slur out.

"Okay, best friend, time to come back to the table," he giggled, sliding an arm around my waist to guide me off the dance floor. When I glanced at the girl apologetically, she frowned but moved on quickly. "I got us another round."

I gulped, knowing I was nearly at my limit, if not there already. My body was floating, my head was five paces behind my movements, and I felt my heartbeat in my chest. One more shot of straight liquor was sure to take me over the line.

But Momma didn't raise a bitch.

So I cheered along with my group of drunk friends, throwing back the shot of–gag–tequila. My throat closed up instinctively to hold back the urge of tossing cookies immediately. I looked around at the boys around me and felt my cheeks scrunching from the grin forming unintentionally.

Carlos and Chris had their arms around each other's shoulders, singing Low by Flo Rida at an alarming volume. Frasier sat in the booth, looking both drunk and amused. Scott and Erick were watching something on Erick's horizontally turned phone. And Dallas. Well.

Dallas was too fucking fine.

Honestly, people that attractive should be locked in a room somewhere with poor climate conditions so their hair frizzes or their skin breaks out. Just to humble them, or something? I was drunk. Brain weird.

"You okay?"

Fucking shit, I was staring at him. He had a cocky smile, his hair a bit mussed up, dirty blonde strands flying in directions they weren't intended. Did he . . . did he have dimples? Had I ever noticed them? Wow. Dimples. As if I wasn't already inferior to this man, dimples put him at the top of the pyramid. The pretty boy food chain. I was maybe in the second level from the bottom. Right above men with neck beards. Was I body shaming? Oops.

I giggled to myself. "Neck beards," I muttered under my breath.

"What?" Dallas asked, stepping so close I had a brief flash of an unholy thought. Gulp.

"Nothing," I said, still chuckling to myself.

I swayed a little bit to the right for no reason at all. My feet stayed planted but the entire rest of my body felt like gravity increased, but Dallas caught me before I could go down. His hand on my arm brought me back to reality–oh, there goes gravity–and I stood up straight, feeling a bit woozy.