that’ll be perfect. Seriously though, if we start hanging at the Vault every night we’re gonna have to get you some new threads.”
“We’ll see.” I took a seat beside him.
“Speaking of . . . ooooh, what’s this?” He reached out, taking the pendant of my necklace in his hands, examining it from every angle. “I like it. It’s so not you and yet so you.” He leaned back to get the full effect.
“I know, right? It’s from Joan. Birthday gift.” My fingers ran over the smooth ridges of the wing. I could only imagine what Joan would say if she knew I was even entertaining the idea of going to a club.
We waited until a respectable hour—which according to Dante was about eleven o’clock—to launch ourselves into the revelry of the Vault, killing time in my room, while Lance took a nap in theirs. Dante had crept in earlier, while Lance was sprawled fast asleep—his glasses still on—on the bottom of their bunk beds, and procured his promised belt. It was a thick and worn chocolate-brown leather piece adorned with a clunky buckle bearing DANTE in rhinestones.
“Really?” I said as he suited me up, looping it into my jeans.
“It’s fierce,” he assured me.
On him, yes, but on me, it didn’t quite pack the same fashionable ferocity. “I feel like this is one of those tags: ‘If lost please return to . . .’”
“Well, you told me not to abandon you, didn’t you?” He laughed back, taking great pleasure that this wasn’t quite my style. “Love it.”
When the time came to get Lance, I hovered while Dante poked him in the arm, getting in a few good jabs before he woke with a start, arms flailing, and rolled right out of bed landing at our feet. We tried to stifle our giggles, but couldn’t.
“Rise and shine, time to party,” Dante said.
Lance sat up and rubbed his eyes then his elbow; it looked like he had landed on his funny bone. He laughed too.
“Thanks. Kind of. Ow,” he said, bending and extending his arm.
Much more low-maintenance than Dante or me, Lance was ready in a flash—he literally rolled out of bed and was set to go. Dante had decked himself out in a pink plaid button-down and his best jeans, the slim dark indigo pair he saved for special occasions. The three of us found our way to that elevator just beyond the lobby, descending in silence, imagining what we might find.
Even before the elevator doors opened, the music hit us, traveling up the elevator cables and into our car, pulsing. When the jaws did finally part, we were deposited before that imposing steel door. Coming in as we had from the hotel, we had the advantage of no line—most club-goers were forced to queue up in the alleyway outside (among Dumpsters and the occasional rat—not a pretty place; we had seen it that afternoon and were told the line could snake all the way down the side of the building) and then were led inside to another elevator taking them to this point.
This second elevator opened now, disgorging a handful of revelers—three high-heeled, short-skirted women and a pair of blazer-bedecked, open-collared men, all flirting with one another, whispering in one another’s ears, complimenting one another’s clothes for the sake of giving that guy an excuse to touch the sequins on her dress, or that girl a reason to run her hand along his lapel or undo another button on his shirt. Dante, Lance, and I all traded glances. We got a few looks ourselves, but no one bothered to say anything. The group was granted passage through the checkpoint and into the main event—music crashing out at us as the doors opened and the club swiftly swallowed them.
I could feel the music regulating my heartbeat, forcing it to settle on a new rhythm, something syncopated that my body had trouble keeping up with. My lungs seemed to forget how to take in air, remembering too late and then scrambling for it with a gasp. A blond woman, who had handed us our tote bags earlier today, stood at the door,
“We’ll see.” I took a seat beside him.
“Speaking of . . . ooooh, what’s this?” He reached out, taking the pendant of my necklace in his hands, examining it from every angle. “I like it. It’s so not you and yet so you.” He leaned back to get the full effect.
“I know, right? It’s from Joan. Birthday gift.” My fingers ran over the smooth ridges of the wing. I could only imagine what Joan would say if she knew I was even entertaining the idea of going to a club.
We waited until a respectable hour—which according to Dante was about eleven o’clock—to launch ourselves into the revelry of the Vault, killing time in my room, while Lance took a nap in theirs. Dante had crept in earlier, while Lance was sprawled fast asleep—his glasses still on—on the bottom of their bunk beds, and procured his promised belt. It was a thick and worn chocolate-brown leather piece adorned with a clunky buckle bearing DANTE in rhinestones.
“Really?” I said as he suited me up, looping it into my jeans.
“It’s fierce,” he assured me.
On him, yes, but on me, it didn’t quite pack the same fashionable ferocity. “I feel like this is one of those tags: ‘If lost please return to . . .’”
“Well, you told me not to abandon you, didn’t you?” He laughed back, taking great pleasure that this wasn’t quite my style. “Love it.”
When the time came to get Lance, I hovered while Dante poked him in the arm, getting in a few good jabs before he woke with a start, arms flailing, and rolled right out of bed landing at our feet. We tried to stifle our giggles, but couldn’t.
“Rise and shine, time to party,” Dante said.
Lance sat up and rubbed his eyes then his elbow; it looked like he had landed on his funny bone. He laughed too.
“Thanks. Kind of. Ow,” he said, bending and extending his arm.
Much more low-maintenance than Dante or me, Lance was ready in a flash—he literally rolled out of bed and was set to go. Dante had decked himself out in a pink plaid button-down and his best jeans, the slim dark indigo pair he saved for special occasions. The three of us found our way to that elevator just beyond the lobby, descending in silence, imagining what we might find.
Even before the elevator doors opened, the music hit us, traveling up the elevator cables and into our car, pulsing. When the jaws did finally part, we were deposited before that imposing steel door. Coming in as we had from the hotel, we had the advantage of no line—most club-goers were forced to queue up in the alleyway outside (among Dumpsters and the occasional rat—not a pretty place; we had seen it that afternoon and were told the line could snake all the way down the side of the building) and then were led inside to another elevator taking them to this point.
This second elevator opened now, disgorging a handful of revelers—three high-heeled, short-skirted women and a pair of blazer-bedecked, open-collared men, all flirting with one another, whispering in one another’s ears, complimenting one another’s clothes for the sake of giving that guy an excuse to touch the sequins on her dress, or that girl a reason to run her hand along his lapel or undo another button on his shirt. Dante, Lance, and I all traded glances. We got a few looks ourselves, but no one bothered to say anything. The group was granted passage through the checkpoint and into the main event—music crashing out at us as the doors opened and the club swiftly swallowed them.
I could feel the music regulating my heartbeat, forcing it to settle on a new rhythm, something syncopated that my body had trouble keeping up with. My lungs seemed to forget how to take in air, remembering too late and then scrambling for it with a gasp. A blond woman, who had handed us our tote bags earlier today, stood at the door,
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