taste like money when I speak

ty to mhrnreza for the constant encouragement and pestering and rainbowsraging for the beta!!

Kirstie holds her drink like it's a grenade, and while Mitch tries not to do the same, he can't help but wrinkle his nose at the wet glass as he touches it. His Margielas are sticking to the floor. This place is disgusting, and he's having a hard time remembering why he ever wanted to come here.

"This is gross," Kirstie murmurs to him, and though Mitch agrees, he's disinclined to say so aloud. He downs half his drink like he's not bothered and shrugs one shoulder. Kirstie scoffs and says, "Can we at least get away from this bar? I think my skin has adhered to it."

They retreat to huddle around a cramped table by the wall. It's just as sticky and wet with spilled... something, but at least they're not standing out like a sore thumb in the middle of the bar. At least, Mitch hopes they aren't. They both dressed down for this little adventure, but Mitch has quickly realized that their version of dressing down is not at all what these people consider casual club attire.

The crowd is loud and pushy, and Mitch wants to try out the dance floor—he wants that experience with all his heart—but his knowledge is limited to a tasteful waltz, and no matter how much he dances around his bedroom, he would look like a fool if he tried to join in with these people. There are already enough fools out there, grinding sloppily against each other.

Suddenly, the atmosphere in the club changes, like a shockwave passing through the room. Mitch stands tall to see over Kirstie's head and spots a group of people coming in like they own the place. The way the crowd parts for them, he guesses they must be regulars. There are maybe ten or twelve people in the group, a mix of men and women, striding arrogantly toward the bar. They're loud when they order, shouting at each other and the bartenders, and though they're clearly in good spirits, Mitch recoils at the obnoxious scene they make. Two tall men, a ridiculously muscled black guy and a blond with a sleeve of dark tattoos, seem to be the leaders, and they take shots and jeer at each other. Mitch's brow creases and he rolls his eyes at their lack of manners, but there's something so entrancing about them that he can't look away.

Kirstie wrinkles her nose and crosses her arms over her chest. She doesn't even have to speak to make herself clear: she's more than ready to leave.

Three different guys hit on her in the space of the next five minutes. They're crude and pushy and all of them smell terrible, like sweat and cheap beer and five dollar body spray, and after she shoves the third guy away, she turns to Mitch and says, "Are you done with this little experiment yet?"

Mitch's eyes drift to the dance floor of their own accord, and he stares at the tall blond asshole grinding against some other generic pretty boy's ass. Part of Mitch still wishes he could be one of them, unashamed and loud and filthy with sweat, but the reality of this club is far less appealing than the idea of it. Everything smells and it's hot and humid and sticky everywhere, and it's too loud to hear himself think, much less carry on an intelligent conversation. Maybe that's why they communicate in rude gestures and furious shouts. Mitch is about ready to give up.

He sighs and tells Kirstie he'll be back in a minute, then heads to the bathroom to wash his hands of whatever substance is making him feel so gross. Except there's not even any soap, and the faucet of the sink is so grimy Mitch instantly regrets touching it.

The bathroom door opens and shuts and the lock clicks, and Mitch is ready to snap at whoever just entered, but the words die on his lips when he turns around. He's faced with the tattooed blond, in all his tattered glory. His scruffy beard is cut short but it's unkempt, and his hair is thick and wavy, unstyled and sweaty. His clothes are ripped to shreds, more holes than fabric, and sure, maybe it's an aesthetic choice, and Mitch appreciates all the bared skin, but it looks like the man just got into a fight with a weed wacker.