“Boys,” I say as I push Arabelle deeper into a spruced-up bar with live salsa music. Their gazes peel off my tits long enough to catch the back side of my ass when we walk by.
Curious eyes turn on me and the look of a woman who wants to have fun but needs a push morphs the soft lines of my friend’s expression with worry.
I wink at Arabelle and flash my best “let’s party” smile. “Thismamacitaneeds a drink and a hot guy. And so do you. Just for tonight, stop thinking and just feel. Tomorrow we both can go back to the real world, okay?”
Or so goes the plan. I don’t know if I will actually have the balls to go through with what I want to do tonight. Reclaiming my power sounded a lot better back in my psychologist’s office. When he said I needed to find my balance in the world I am pretty sure he didn’t mean a one-night stand.
I turn a pleading eye on my friend and make it nearly impossible for her to chicken out. Our fingers link so I don’t listen to my gut and run, too.
“Okay, what the hell. Why not!”
“That’s my girl.”
Two
Laila
Ipush us through a throng of people at the entrance to a club that looks bursting from the seam. A steady stream of locals and tourists alike mingle among the acid green and flamingo pink lights.
Over top the name flashes in reds and yellows: Dante’s Circle.
Fingers of trepidation play over the bumps and ridges of my spine. I’m all too familiar with hell and its circles. In the loud surroundings I just barely hear the cries of demons wanting out but I shove those fuckers back into the darkness as I steer my friend toward the crowded bar. Seeking a man to help me break through a few barriers on my way out of hell in a place with Dante’s as the name is irony working overtime.
Smells of spicy masculine cologne and sweet-smelling tequila pull me into the moment. Sultry perfume and swaying bodies do too.
The streets of this town at night carry a certain energy. A cool, calm, and zesty vibe that speaks to a part of me I buried under four years of college and childhood nightmares.
I briefly squeeze my eyes shut. Here, I can let it all just melt away. My heart pulses and my veins fill with heated excitement amplified by the sheer amount of people in such a small place. Their arousal is intoxicating.
Beside me, my friend catches on to the rhythm of the beating drums and horns.
“Look at you. Those hips can’t help themselves, can they? Let’s find you a hotpapito use that red lipstick on.”
“Sounds good to me.”
I throw Arabelle a saucy wink and pull her in behind me. The bar takes up nearly the entire left side of the club with its typical worn slab of polished wood, a wall of mirrors, and all the usual multi-colored bottles on display. Lightbulbs line the large display giving the place a sensual vibe that works in hand with the music. A few moments later I shove a watered-down version of Don Julio into Arabelle’s hands and raise one of my own.
“Salud, amiga.” She smiles at my attempt to speak her native language. I’m pretty fluent, but the accent will never go away.
“Salud y amor, amiga.” Health and love, friend. We raise our shot glasses higher and throw back the light gold liquid.
Everyone thinks partying is my style. Truth is, I only play the bad girl to keep the bad guys at bay. If they think you’re a bitch they usually don’t want anything to do with you.
As far as plans go, it’s not as foolproof as I would like but it’s better than nothing.
Tables take up the far left and back wall. Bodies bump into mine and I hardly get a glance much less an apology from the dancers taking up the vast majority of the middle.
I raise my voice over the music. “Ok, Club Sin can happen next time. There’s nothing there we can’t find here for a night of fun if we look hard enough. And believe me,” I wave my hand over the crowd. “We are looking for a good time.” I jerk my head toward a darkened corner of the bar where a group of three men are speaking around a table.
I’m not sure why my attention has honed in on them out of at least ten possibilities standing right here at the bar. It could be their aura of controlled power. I know men like them ooze dominance. It’s in the way they sit, the watches pinned to their wrists, and the two-hundred-dollar haircuts. They are men who take control.
Masculine. Dominating. I know if I do this, I don’t want a man who will fuck me, get off an leave me wanting. I want a man who knows how to pleasure women. I need someone who can make me feel. Make me forget.
And those three do not give off the vibe of bump and dump. They take their time and appreciate the finer things in life. It’s why they are in this bar instead of the one next door. This one has expensive chandeliers, elegant color schemes, and newly refurbished hardwood floors instead of cement and fluorescent tubes.
Or I could be in way over my head here. I wonder what it says about me that I’ve opted for the most complex situation I can when all I want is simple in and out. But three seems like a lucky number. I’m bound to find one of them wanting to take me to bed. Right?
My doctor would call it self-sabotage.