Chapter 4

Sophie Huntsberger

I drag myself heavily through the crowded club once more, everything moving and tipping like I’m at sea, disorientated and foggy, although I’m less drunk than I was. My phone is still glued to my ear, even though I seem to have lost Arrick and hear nothing but silence. Pulling my cell down to look at the blank screen I realize my battery has died and I just sigh in complete deflation. Fed up with how my life is turning out lately as nothing seems to go right anymore.

Taking a long deep breath to try to center myself into sobriety, my body sagging, drying my face halfheartedly with the back of my hand now that my tears have once again subsided, and my heart has resorted to numb emptiness. I don’t even care if my makeup is smeared or even cried off. Arrick has seen me worse so many times.

I let my cell drop in my hand, beside my body and hold it loosely, too disconnected to really feel anything but heavy fatigue from stupidly sobbing, swaying from being under the influence and bumping into things clumsily. I’m just empty and done, completely over my night and not caring that it isn’t even late enough to be bailing.

“Hey, sexy … wanna dance?” Some husky male voice assaults my senses as I try to fight my way through the heaving, dancing crowd, that is more like a sea of tar, shrugging by without a response and hoping he leaves me alone. He taps my shoulder as though I haven’t heard him, and the rise of hairs and goosebumps run across my skin in automatic response. That internal rearing ache in my stomach that happens anytime a guy touches me. I long ago identified it as repulsion. I shrug it off and keep going, eyes forward, not reacting in any way, body simmering with that restless cranky energy that seems to plague me of late.

My steps are labored, and off balance and I know that even if I take off my heels, I won’t be able to keep walking around before face planting the floor. Everything aches, legs like rubber, my feet are burning and sore in my new Jimmy Choos and now I’m irritated and nauseous beyond belief. Everything is surreal and yet shittily familiar. It’s fair to say my mood has seen better days and I really cannot be assed with this shit anymore.

A hot iron-gripped hand catches my upper arm, startling me and halting my progression through sweaty bodies; biting into my naked flesh and pulls me back ungracefully, so that I almost go over my heels. My heart jumps at the action.

“Hey, I was asking you a question!” He yells right into my ear to be heard above the thrum of noise, as he catches up and puts himself right against my ass, heat hitting me, accompanied by that familiar rising panic from deep within. The inner psycho bristling up to take on another sleazy asshole who thinks he has a right to touch me. I inwardly recoil at the unwanted contact.

Annoyed at the nerve of the creep and outraged at my near trip, I flash an angry glare his way over my shoulder and yank myself free. Responding into aggressive mode as rage spikes inside of me like a hot fiery spear. That inner fury, which always bubbles below the surface drunk, and has been ingrained since childhood, sparks up to take on the world. Shoving him hard in the chest with the flat of my palm, putting every ounce of strength into it and almost knocking myself off balance too. I want him to go away and leave me alone, shaking my hand to remove the sensation of his hot clammy body when I manage to gain the space I need.

He disappears into the crowd with the force of my assault and I move fast, knowing better than to stick around for him to come back, trying to get out of sight before he gets back to his original spot. Heart racing a little as adrenaline flows and sense tells me to duck and weave faster to the safety of the dark, back wall of the club.

Men in this club are known for being aggressive and perverted at the best of times, and I’ve been groped on more than one occasion to know it’s true. One weekend had seen too close a call with one hot-tempered asshole who wouldn’t take no for an answer. Arrick had shown up just in time and broken his nose when he had refused to back down. Arry my pro boxing hero.

“Leave me alone!” I yell back as an afterthought, almost coherently, to the general direction he’s fallen back; my slurring voice non-existent under the thumping house music and intent on just finding a quiet place to get off my tired legs to hide. I’m exhausted.

I wish Arry was here already and helping me out to his car, so I can lie down and go to sleep. The thought of him coming for me is all that is keeping me sane right now; alcohol and tears are never a good mix. I’m disheveled, out of place and vulnerable. I’m not sure if I should even tell him about why I’m upset this time, why I have been crying.

Arrick hates my friends, not that I can’t see why, as they’re all pretty pathetic and really just the crowd I fell into when I came here.

I can’t ever seem to form real friendships with people, no matter how hard I try, and I know it’s because I don’t ever let them past my outer wall. It’s the same with men I date. I hide who I really am behind that mask of party girl and reckless persona and attract the wrong kind. Arrick hates the men I date almost as much as I hate his girlfriend Natasha, and another sob story about how hard done to I am by one of them again, will just annoy him. I can’t say that I blame him; it annoys me too, that I’ve become this pathetic doormat that men wipe their feet on, and I let them.

My stomach churns like a washing machine, my throat aches, painfully parched. I sobbed for an hour before even calling him this time, letting the hazy flurry of booze clear a little so I didn’t slur as much on the phone to him, and it’s left me feeling raw and woozy.

I have no idea where my so-called friends are, and last time I saw my handbag it was in the hands of that slimy prick Terry. I left him to hold it for me when I’d gone to dance. Terry is the guy I’ve been dating, on and off, most recently, nothing serious. Just looking for that guy who may be different this time, maybe care more than the last.

Now very much off, due to the fact I ventured to the bathroom and walked right in on him snorting coke from that whore Dionne’s naked breasts while banging her up against a vanity. At first, the disbelief made me stand in open-mouthed silence, before shock, and then outrage hit me. Reacting like a crazy jealous bitch, I yanked him off her and reined a flurry of slaps and abuse at his upper shoulders and head, blinded by overwhelming black rage as my heart twisted itself into a contortion of pain.

They both scrambled for discarded clothes and belongings, before scurrying off like cowardly assholes, and I only realized my bag was with him after I slumped down on a closed toilet and cried my eyes out. Completely betrayed by two people I should have been able to trust, with more heartache to add to my ever-growing memory album. I sobbed until this numbness took effect and wiped me out, although I’m still feeling fragile, I’m mostly just empty.