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Natalie can feel the bass rattle inside her chest as she sips on a coke.
There’s a soft thrum deep below her skin, not quite a buzz and not quite a high, somewhere between that makes her mind feel fuzzy and finally blank.
She takes a sip of her coke and holds it in her mouth, feeling the carbonation bubble and pop until it goes flat. She gulps it down, now lukewarm, and she holds back a gag, chasing it with another sip.
“I’d say I’m cutting you off, but there’s nothing to cut you off from,” the bartender says, leaning over the counter and looking at Natalie with pity.
“I don’t know,” she says, her words not slurred but uncharacteristically suave, “caffeine can kill you.”
“Unless you’ve been chugging espressos when I wasn’t looking, I don’t think that glass is gonna send you to an early grave.”
“Maybe I want it to,” she says, voice losing its confidence, just a hollow honesty.
The bartender’s look lingers, lips set in a frown. “Go home, kid.”
She scoffs into her glass, taking another sip. “It hasn’t been home for a long time.”
“Last one,” the bartender says.
She snorts. “So you are cutting me off?”
“If it gets you out, then that’s what I’ll do.”
Natalie rolls her eyes and turns her back to him, looking out at the crowd.
The club is filled with sweaty horny people desperate for a good high and a good fuck.
Natalie’s only here for one of those things and, well, she’s got it.
She sips slowly at her coke, knowing that the bartender will hold his promise.
She feels a hand slide down her back, settling low at the small. She glares at the man.
“Don’t try, dude,” she says. “The five to fifteen behind bars isn’t worth it.”
This doesn’t deter him though. He just grins, too many teeth, like a shark lured towards the scent of blood. “C’mon sweetheart. Don’t be like that.”
“Don’t call me sweetheart.”
“You don’t like that?” he leans in closer, nuzzling his nose where her neck meets her shoulder. “How about darling? Baby?” He trails up her neck. “Daddy’s good little girl.”
She stands, pushing him away. “Uh, yeah, no thanks.”
“Don’t be like that, baby.” He grabs her by the waist and pulls her close.
“Hey!” A deep voice roars. A freakishly tall guy with floppy brown hair flips the guy around, staring down at him with hardened eyes. “She said no.”
The guy must know what’s good for him because he skitters away, tail between his legs, not even a glance back at Natalie.
“You alright?” The new guy asks, looking at her with this worried puppy dog look and it’s too much like how Henry looks at her and she can’t stand to look at it any longer.
“You’re not really my type,” she says. “I’m not into the whole knight in shining armor thing. Oh, and you’re a little old for my taste.” She glances at him. “A lot a bit old.”
“I”m not— no, I wasn’t—”
“Chill out,” she says with a mirthless chuckle. “What’s a guy like you doing in a place like this?”
He cocks a brow. “What’s a kid like you doing in a place like this?”
“I’m not a kid,” she says petulantly, not helping her case at all.
“Sure,” he says. He points at the empty seat beside her. “This open?”
“Not anymore,” she replies, waving in a vaguely welcoming motion.
“I wasn’t kidding when I asked. What are you doing in here? I didn’t think they let kids in here.”
“Not a kid,” she repeats, the words mumbled. “You’d be surprised.”
“I am,” he says. “What are you drinking?”
“Rum and coke,” she says, holding her cup in a mock cheer. “Minus the rum.”
He huffs out a surprised laugh. “Well, at least they’ve got that going. Maybe my Yelp review will make it past a one star.”
“One star?” she asks with mock offense. “What about the atmosphere? Who doesn’t love sticky floors and even stickier walls? And,” she points up with a tilt of the head, “don’t forget about the melodious choice of music.”
“I don’t know,” he says. “If this is your type of music, I’m not sure I trust your judgment.”
Natalie’s cocky smile fades. “It’s not. Not really. It’s grown on me but I… I’m usually more into the oldies.”
“What, like Elvis?”
“Like Mozart,” She shakes her head as she takes another sip.
He looks at her like he’s searching her face for something. “What do you like about it?”
“Everything else went away when I was playing. Everything made sense. There were notes and rhythms and those didn’t change. In jazz, everything can fluctuate, swinging and riffing. There’s room for imperfection, improvisation. But classical? It has structure. It’s balanced, it’s nimble, there’s logic. But what does logic matter when nothing else makes sense?”
He takes in her words with a thoughtful silence. “What do you play?”
“Piano.” Her lips twist bitterly.
“You like it?”
“I did,” she says, the words holding more truth than she intended.
“Sam.” He holds out a hand.
She shakes it tentatively. “Natalie.”
She knows that he can feel the way her hand trembles and she tries to school her expression.
“You know,” he says. “I… I’m an addict too.”
Her eyes widen in surprise. He doesn’t look it at first, tall and broad. But when she looks closer she sees it. The sharpness of his features, not chiseled but cadaverous. His eyes set too deep, shadowed by dark bags. She bites the inside of her cheek, unsure of what to say.
“It’s never about the high,” he says, his words barely audible over the pounding techno beat. “It’s about the control. Because when everything is out of your control and you find a way to escape, a reprieve, a purpose, then you get addicted. And sure, the high is nice, but the feeling of having the one thing that’s yours, the one thing that isn’t fucked up that you can actually do something about, that’s what you really get addicted to.” Sam looks at her with a gaze that makes her feel stripped open and bare. “I know what it’s like to feel like nothing makes sense. My brother, he… he died a couple months ago. And I kinda just… lost it.”
Natalie’s head snapped up. “Your brother died?”
Sam meets her eyes. “You too?”
“When I was a kid,” she says. “I don’t even remember him. He was a baby. My mom didn’t forget though. If anything, I’m the one who she forgets.” She lets out a breath. “I know it’s not her fault. She’s schizophrenic. But sometimes I just… wish it was her fault, you know? I wish I could blame her without feeling like this self centered asshole mad at the sick grieving mother.”
“My mom died when I was a baby,” Sam says. “I never really got to meet her. And my dad didn’t get over her death. I spent my childhood jumping between motels while he tried to track down the man who killed her.” Sam looks away, jaw clenching. “I don’t think he ever really saw me as his son. I don’t think he ever could.”
“That’s fucked up.”
Sam laughs, punched out of him like it startled him. “Yeah. It is.”
“My dad’s just… he just wants everything to be fine. And it’s not. My mom obsesses and he ignores.” She huffs. “I don’t want to be fine. I want to be fucked up and I want someone to see that I’m fucked up.”
“I see you.”
She smiles sardonically. “Well, that’s because you’re fucked up too.”
“There’s really no one who sees you?”
She takes a deep breath. “There’s this guy. But I think I fucked up things before they could really become something.”
“I think you should give him a chance,” Sam says. “You never know. He might be exactly what you need.”
“Perfect for me,” she murmurs. She tosses back the final swig of coke. “Looks like I’m getting kicked out.” She chews at her lip. “Thanks, Sam. I hope things get less fucked up for you.”
“Same to you.” Sam smiles. “Take care of yourself, Natalie. Remember: one day, you’re not gonna be the one controlling the high. The high’s going to control you.”
And with that, Sam disappears into the crowd, somehow fading away despite his towering frame.
When Natalie goes home, Henry is waiting for her, asking her to the dance.
She knows that there’s so much out of her control, but this? This she has a choice.
So, she says yes.