Neon Girl

Scene 9 - Raise the Roof

Bass echoes through the walls of the Jungle Club elevator, and my body gyrates like ice in a blender as we ride to the top. Presley has a mega grip on my arm because she's halfway to drunkville, and Loki's incessant tugging on his beard tells me he's working on an ulcer. I'm betting neither of them make it to closing time.

One more floor to go and I've got my game face on, the one that says I didn't just cheat my way into a twenty-one and over club. The door slides open and pink and blue lights flash into the elevator. The dubstep beat drops at the same moment, hitting me like a tequila shot. Across the hallway, a second elevator opens, and a threesome of guys stumble through the door. They air toast us with their beers and we all melt into the crowd.

The dance floor is the source of the pink and blue lights. They're imbedded under a thick layer of polyurethane and reflect against the plexiglass wall that wraps around the roof. Despite the fall-to-your-death factor, it's freakin' awesome. I count three bars. One of them is placed strategically behind the deejay booth to discourage groupies from inviting themselves up. I don't recognize the deejay at the board, but he's got a sweet mix going.

"Group text at midnight!" Liza shouts at us. "Trevor and I are heading to the bar."

Liza slides her arm around Trevor's waist and says something into Presley's ear, probably warning her to lay off the minis, although she's the one who supplies Presley with alcohol. Scott trails after them, his green Mohawk bobbing to the infectious beat as if it had a mind of its own.

I search for security and locate a single guard, a pencil thin guy who looks like he was handed a gun and told to look important. Definitely a wannabe. But just in case he's a gung-ho wannabe, I stick out my chest to draw attention away from my face.

"What's Scott's deal?" I ask Presley.

"He's a friend of Trevor's. They're supposed to meet up with Scott's escort here. Let's hit the bar. I need mixers for my stash." She points to her purse, and I know she's talking about the liquor store she brought with her. The girl has no other purpose in life than to fuck-up her Saturdays.

I slip between a couple doing some kind of fist-pump Bernie maneuver and make my way to the bar via the dance floor. Loki and Presley avoid the flashing lights like the plague. How can people not dance when the music is literally shaking them? The bass drops and, just like that, I'm in the zone, shoulders jerking, ass bumping, utilizing every bit of the blinking, twelve-inch square I've claimed. It's not like I take up a lot of space.

I close my eyes, visualizing my moves as the beat commands me and my four-inch heels. The air is cool, thanks to the October breeze, and it chills my legs as they start to sweat. I feel the warmth of a body dancing close and smell the tang of cologne, triggering a vivid memory involving peaches and a perfectly chiseled chin. I open my eyes and my heart skids to a stop when I see who the warm body belongs to.

Batman.

He's swaying more than dancing, his Rocky Balboa eyes locked on my body like he knows exactly what we did in my shower. I'm vibrating so hard it's impossible to be nervous. Who needs alcohol when you can get high on the musical nectar? He makes his move, catching my hand and twirling me into his chest. I only have a moment to feel his pecs against my back before he spins me away. I use the momentum to circle him, which is easy, since a small perimeter of space has opened around us.

While I get funky, he weaves back and forth, like he's been fixed to the spot with super glue. Is he restraining himself or surrendering because he's having his junk handed to him? The beat drops another notch and the crowd gets low. I follow them down as far as Mom's boots will let me go. The air is electric. That's when the deejay announces he's DJ Superfly, prompting a collective whoop. But his voice is a buzzkill as far as I'm concerned, and it breaks the spell.