Tuesday & Max

31

I'M GOING IN FOR THE KILL

I'M DOING IT FOR A THRILL

OH, I'M HOPING YOU'LL UNDERSTAND

AND NOT LET GO OF MY HAND

CW: underage binge-drinking and drunken swearing

Tuesday buzzes like she's a glass bottle sat on a shelf above a washing machine on the fast spin. The music of the club is so loud, its beat so ferocious, that it fatigues her. There's no other word for it. An hour of dancing leaves her sagging against the bar, desperate for a place to sit, desperate for yet another drink.

She squints against a pink light beam gone awry, feeling her heart betray her as it vibrates to the music, and Albie appears beside her. He yells something at her. She does not hear it.

"What?"

"Where's Jack?" His voice finally reaches her, mouth pressed gummily against her right ear. She shudders, wipes it when he pulls away.

She wants to tell him that she hasn't got the foggiest idea, but he probably won't be able to hear her, so instead she shrugs.

Across the dancefloor, Emil and Daliyah dance together. Daliyah goes for it like she really means it, hair flying, her training evident. Emil bobs, lips on the straw peeking out of the end of his drink bottle.

She could buy herself three Jagerbombs with the last of her money from a shift at The Bean. She could neck them, fighting the vomit like a brave warrior. She could give in, join them on the dance floor, fit in as easily as she walked through the doors of the nightclub, past the doorman who accepted her identity as 'Stella' as if it were truth. She could. She could let this become her truth.

Or.

She could find out where Jack is.

Since they arrived, he's flitted around the club easily, as comfortable as he is anywhere else. Tuesday lost track of him around twenty minutes ago. She hasn't seen Naomi in a while either.

Where are they?

Her legs make the decision for her as she pushes away from the bar and skitters toward the smoking area. Jack doesn't smoke. Neither, as far as Tuesday is aware, does Naomi.

She sees it so clearly as she clumsily navigates the sea of people:

Naomi, back against the fence outside, black dress slipping down at the top. More room for Jack's hands. His tongue is in her mouth. Her hands are in his soft hair. It's familiar, it's easy. They've been doing it this entire time.

And Tuesday will finally witness it, finally walk away, finally go to Max's house and knock on the door and, when he opens it, give him the kiss he's been waiting for.

Her heart races as she trips out of the door. The air is foggy. She coughs as she nudges through packed, smoking people. 

Finally, she spots them.

For a fraction of a second, her mind stays true to its vision. They aren't against the fence, no, but isn't that Naomi's hand she can see on Jack's leg as they sit close on a low bench at the back of the area? Or are her hands in her own lap? Their heads are close because they've just come up for air, aren't they? Not just because they're talking intently. Tuesday can see a lipstick mark on Jack's cheek that matches the rim of Naomi's beer bottle, surely. Or is it a shadow?