“Line starts at the back, sweetheart!” a guy yells near the front.
“Shut up, Trent. Maybe she’s lost,” a girl rebuts.
I clear my throat as the bouncer eyes my suitcase. “I’m Thora. Thora James. Camila’s…” Friend? Couch-surfer makes more sense, but I don’t know if he’ll understand.
“ID,” the bouncer says gruffly, a clipboard beneath his armpit.
I fish out my wallet from a pocket of my suitcase and pass him my license, hot sweat glistening my forehead. I wipe it with my forearm and peek at the door behind him, the unknown tossing my stomach.
The bouncer crosses my name off his list, and then pushes the large black door open.
Groans fill the air. “You’ve got to be shitting me,” Trent complains. “I’ve been waiting for over an hour. You better be a fucking dancer or something!”
He has to shout that last bit because I’m already headed inside the hallway. The door closes behind me, plunging me into darkness. The faint sound of a thumping bass fills the otherwise silent room. I guess there are curtains somewhere for an entrance.
I take a few cautious steps forward and notice the outline of fabric, shielding my view of the club. The music grows as I walk closer, and when my hand brushes against the soft velvet curtain, pulling it aside, I finally see The Red Death in all its glory.
Flashing red lights illuminate the packed bar in the back left. Everything else is in near complete darkness. Except for the glow necklaces. Every person wears one, brightening their faces. Red. Blue. Green.
“Are you single?!”
I jump at the voice on my left. A young woman in a slim, tight-fitted purple dress mans a podium. She wears a green glow necklace, her arms layered with neon bracelets.
“Are you single?!” she screams at me again, trying to be heard over the electronic beats.
I can’t make sense of this question. Is it a weird cover charge? Instead of cash, I have to tell her my relationship status? The longer I take to respond, the more her brows knot in aggravation.
“Yeah…” I say, not loud enough. Her eyes widen like what was that? “I’m single!” I scream it. And she passes me a blue glow necklace.
More people start to push through the curtains, easily snatching a necklace from the hostess. So I take mine without question and hightail it to the crowded bar. My heart drills into my ribcage. I hate looking lost, like a tourist—or worse, a goldfish slowly flapping and gasping for air outside of its bowl.
I don’t want to be a water-starved goldfish.
So I stand taller, straighter. No more curved shoulders. And I roll my suitcase like I have important places to be. Like I’m an important person altogether. I march straight to the crowded bar. I’ve memorized Camila Ruiz’s features on her Facebook profile: curly brown hair, caramel skin, and honey-colored eyes.
My suitcase bumps into a dancing couple. “Sorry,” I tell them. Important people can still apologize.
The girl gives me a royal stink-eye. I wonder if my RBF is flaring up.
I scoot near the bar, unable to reach the stools just yet. I crane my neck and scope out the bartenders. Within a couple minutes, my anxiety pops. I spot her loose braid, her green glow necklace on her mane of pretty curls, like a crown. Her lips are bright yellow with pink eye shadow just as bold.
I haven’t been catfished.
I take this moment to text Shay: She’s a girl. And pretty cool from what I can tell.
In seconds, he replies: Still, keep your guards up. Stay safe. – Shay
I kind of wish he just said I’m glad and left it at that.
By the time I squeeze to the bar, she’s pouring shots for a couple girls on the other end. I try and fail to scoot my suitcase closer to me. The hard frame hits a guy in the ass. He gives me a world-class glower for the accidental assault.
“Sorry,” I say.
He makes a grunting noise and mutters under his breath.
I notice his blue necklace before I turn away. “Camila!” I shout over the music. She slides the shots to the girls and then grins widely as she sees me.
“Hey, Thora!” she yells back and starts pouring another shot. Then she slips closer to my end. She doesn’t bat an eye at my wardrobe. She merely says, “We’ll swap! Give me your suitcase and you can have this.” She already passes me the shot of vodka.
I stare between my giant, hefty suitcase and the bottles of expensive liquor on the bar. I imagine tossing her the suitcase and knocking over all of them. This sounds like a strategy made from hell.
She reads my features and nods to the guy next to me, the one my suitcase most definitely struck. “Hey, John.” She leans forward on her forearms. “If you can hand me my friend’s suitcase without breaking any of this.” She motions to the bottles of liquor. “I’ll give you a free shot.”
He wears an unamused smile. “Three shots.”
She snorts. “This isn’t a negotiation, cuz. If you don’t like the price, I can find someone else who does.” I try to find the family resemblance, but it’s hard in the dark.
“You just gave her a free shot for showing up.” He’s already standing off the stool. “Pardon me for trying to barter a better deal.” He grunts as he hoists the heavy suitcase. Much taller than me, he’s able to pass it to Camila and avoid any collisions with breakables.
In her possession, she drops the suitcase on the ground, not able to hold it for long. I watch as she stores it underneath the bar.
John gives me a weird look. “You know, you could have just left that with concierge.”
I shift my weight uneasily. “They do that here?” Now I feel strange. Like that dry goldfish. I need to put myself back in water. But honestly, I’m not sure how.
Camila mouths to him, stop. And then she says to me. “He shouldn’t be bitching. He just got two free shots.”
“Oh two free shots?” John wears mock enthusiasm. “My cousin, the real giver.”
“I am a giver. What do you call this?” She waves towards me.
“Crazy,” John says flatly. His honey-brown eyes meet mine again. “Are you a lunatic or a sociopath?”
Uhh…
“Hey.” Camila snaps her fingers at him.
“What?” He steals my free shot and sips it innocently. “Can I not be concerned for my little cousin? You’re letting some stranger crash on your couch, who could very well murder you in your sleep.” He makes a slashing motion across his neck.
Okay. At least the worry works both ways when it comes to couch-surfing.
Camila plants her hands on the bar. “Are you a sociopath, Thora?” Her lips twitch into a smile, finding it way more entertaining than John.
“No. I’m normal, I guess.”
“See, she’s normal,” Camila says.
“She guesses,” John retorts. He downs his shot and says to her, “The longevity of your life dwindles each day I talk to you, Camila.”
“And your pessimism, cynicism and general attitude is going to turn you into a big dark raincloud that vacuums all your energy like a vortex.” She inhales deeply like she’s sucking out his soul.
He doesn’t disagree. He just sits back on his stool and spins to me, outstretching his hand. “John Ruiz.”
“Thora James.” I shake his hand, his grip firm. Not surprising, since he was able to lift my fifty-pound suitcase with relative ease. Closer to him, I now notice his darker features: the caramel skin, an unshaven jaw, and pieces of wavy dark brown hair hanging along his forehead.