I haven’t been back home to Dale since I left at seventeen. Too many memories I wasn’t ready to revisit. Most of those memories are happy ones—my parents and our life before they were taken from me too early, leaving a scared and heartbroken teenager. When I left, at the time I didn’t care what I was leaving behind. Now that my parents are gone, there is nothing left there. He already left, so what is the point now?
Shaking myself off, I quickly push the painful memories back into the box in my mind I marked ‘do not fucking go there.’ I have worked hard to beat the past, and at thirty years old, I finally feel the ‘healthiest’ I have ever been. I don’t feel the fear daily. I surround myself with positive and generally happy people; negativity doesn’t own a place of my soul anymore. The pain is still there, just not as sharp as it once was. I am happy, or at least I am on the road to getting there.
I see the street Carnal is on up ahead, and the line already out the door and down the sidewalk. Well, Iz, I think, time to put that game face on and enjoy the night.
CHAPTER 4
Club Carnal is located just inside of Atlanta, in an old converted warehouse. It’s been the club to go to since it opened four years ago, and Dee and I have enjoyed it a time or two since we moved to town. It’s a classy club, dress code and all of that, valet standing at the curb, and a line that is never less than a hundred people.
Another benefit of coming with Greg? He knows people—everyone, it seems. He pulls up to the curb and tosses his keys to the young kid playing dress-up as a valet. After helping Dee and me out of the car, he saunters off to chat with the huge burly man standing guard at the door and shakes his hand. They do that weird man hug thing and exchange a few words, glancing back a few times at Dee and me. The bouncer nods once and lets us in. I swear, Greg can get anything he wants.
As we walk down the dark hallway leading into the main room, I can feel the music pulsing through the air. Lights are dim but bright enough for me to see the sea of bodies rolling with the beat. I ignore it all and head straight for the bar. It takes Dee and Greg a minute before they realize I have left their sides for my one-woman mission to become completely blitzed. When I leave here, I plan on being a blacked-out, stumbling drunk.
Signaling the bartender, I order three shots of tequila and tell him to keep them coming. Pointing over at Greg, I say, “He’s paying.”
Greg shakes his head but pulls out his wallet and hands his credit card over to the bartender to start a tab.
“Bottoms up, bitches,” I say, quickly downing all three shots.
*
We spend about an hour at the bar, just taking in the atmosphere and the general vibe of the place. Well, Dee and Greg might be taking it all in, but I’m too busy keeping my drinks flowing. Dee was keeping my pace, but she isn’t on the same mission I am. Her goal is fun and mine is to become numb.
I steal the second Jack and Coke the bartender put down before she can drink it. I look at her, smirk and down it.
“Seriously, Iz . . . you can’t even pretend to share?” She has a small frown on her face. She knows what I’m doing and she isn’t happy about, it but being the friend she is means she will stand by my side and catch me when I fall.
I have just ordered us a round of Tight Snatches—vodka, peach schnapps, orange and cranberry juice—when I catch their eyes on me. At first, I think they are reacting to my decision to only order off-the-wall drinks, but when I look closer, I see it—the concern, the worry, and the uncertainty on how to proceed.
I pick up my drink and announce, “All right, let’s fucking party! You’re only thirty once. Whoooohoooo!” I’m screaming; why am I screaming again?
Giggling, I look up at Greg, catching his eye as he looks down at me with his stoic face. He shakes his head, accepting that his friend is well and truly sloshed. I can see his lip twitching from trying so hard to remain the untouchable bodyguard.
The hell with this.
Laughing even harder, I grab their hands and drag them out to the middle of the dance floor. Belatedly, I notice how much easier it is to walk on these sticks when you can’t feel your legs. Lesson number one for hooch wear—be drunk. It might make dancing more of a challenge, but I’m not feeling a thing and it is beautiful.
The song changes to the familiar beats of Macklemore & Ryan Lewis’s ‘Can’t Hold Us.’ It fills my ears and pounds into my bones. Throwing my arms up, I turn around and look up at Greg, who is still trying his hardest not to laugh. I let the music take over my body, invade my muscles, and penetrate my soul with the pulsing rhythm.