Fake the Date

The Deal

Ra Ra Ra is probably one of the most popular and hottest nightclubs in town. I used to go all the time with Mike and a couple of his buddies, as well as the few friends I had back in college. These were the moments I made mistakes, had fun, and where I'd drink away all the sorrows that needed to be gone.

It's still pretty early, probably around 7:30 I think. And clubs around here don't really start waking up until around nine, so the line is pretty much empty as I make my way out the car.

"I-D," the gruff bodyguard at the door demands once I make my way down. He has a large pair of black sunglasses and a clean shaven buzz cut. His arms alone probably weigh tons. Of course, I'm not of age just yet. I still have a couple more months to go before I turn the big 21. And after I got my job at the high school, I threw away my fake ID because I didn't want to set a bad example for the kids. I also didn't want to end up losing my job. So I pull out a twenty dollar bill from the money Clara gave me and hand it to him. He lowers his sunglasses to look over the top of his lenses, then he slyly pushes them back up and takes the money from my hand before putting it in his own pocket.

"You may enter," he says stepping aside.

I give him a knowing smile before storming into the building. The first thing I see when I step in is nothing. The room is first completely black, forcing me to avoid tripping over my own two feet before finding another door. Yes, the place was a bit complex, but that's why I love it. Going in wasn't bad, it was coming out that was trickier. Why? Because I usually came in sober and left drunk off my tail.

Flashing lights of different colors greet me once I'm inside, as well as the deafening sound of party music. I'm blinded at first since it's been awhile since I last came. The last time I was here was the day Mike broke up with me. And let's just say that's a day I'd rather not want to be forced to recall.

I plop down on one of the stools at the counter and call the bartender over.

"Yo, Bartender! Over here," I shout.

The Bartender is wearing a white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up. An array of tattoos ranging in different colors travels up the entire length of his arm. I'd like to say his arms are stern and buff, but frankly, they're as thin as chicken legs. Hell, he's just skinny in general. Tall, but still very skinny. He has long dark hair that sits messily on his shoulders. The front of his hair is pinned back, showing off his smooth forehead. Man does it look soft. Like a baby's butt. Multiple piercings arrange themselves along his ears and on his chest is a gold name tag with the word TED engraved on its surface. I see him give a slight eye roll before he makes his way over, but I don't care. Right now I'm pissed and I've decided to be responsible by drinking away all my problems rather than punch holes through the walls. That's just what adults do.

"What do you need ma'am?" he asks me as he throws a white rag over his shoulder.

"Just give me a shot of the strongest thing you have . . . actually, make that two shots." I originally decided I was going to go ham on the money Clara gave me, but after some serious contemplation, I realized it wasn't in my best interest. I dig through my purse and pull out ten bucks. "I need the change back."

"What, no tip?" he jokes.

"Sorry, I'm broke," I respond, not a single scent of humor found in my voice as he hands me back my change. I wait anxiously on the other side of the counter as he finishes making my drinks. As soon as the drinks are in my possession I chug them down. The liquid burns my throat and I can already feel a bubbly sensation explode inside of me. I slap the change I'd gotten on the table and say to the bartender, "More."