The Palace Veil is a little outside of the Strip, in a rundown looking part of the city. Neon lights flicker all around the outside, a squat one story with thumping music bleeding out into the night. Pictures of over-bleached and over-glossed young women, topless with black bars to cover the most essential bits, line the exterior.
The driver parks and lets us out. I have to stifle a groan as Tyler leaps towards the door, enthusiastic as a kid in a candy store made out of breasts.
“Most men like seeing naked women, you know,” Julia says, giving me a smug smile as we walk toward the building. “Unless you’re Data.”
“What about my data?” I ask.
“Data, the humorless, literal android from Star Trek: Next Generation.” She rolls her eyes. “You make my nerd heart sad, young Padawan.”
“Is that also from Star Trek?” I ask.
She bursts out laughing. I’m going to stop asking questions.
We finally enter the club, the fog machine hazing the room to a degree where I can’t even see the grimy floors or terrible cracked walls. Almost. It smells like Febreze and sweat in here—not the world’s most hygienic combination.
At least Mike’s having a good time. I think he’s happier now that Stacy is here, actually. They’re making out with enthusiasm over by the bar, and I turn my eyes away. Sometimes I think I’d like to find some flaw with Stacy, or more so, with their relationship. Something to point at, something that statistics tell me means it’s never going to work out.
I’m a shitty fucking person, to quietly wish I could see some way for my best friends to be miserable.
I turn away from the others, trying to get a handle on my own thoughts. I want them to be happy. I know how much they need each other. But I can’t help thinking that it doesn’t matter how much love you start out with. Sooner or later, it all turns to shit. I know from experience.
Even after all this time, Phoebe will pop into my head unexpectedly. Sometimes the memories will be of the break up, her moving out of the condo, all the yelling that went on that incredibly shitty weekend when it finally ended. Sometimes I’ll remember making love, or taking an afternoon walk through Millennium Park, my arm around her waist. Those are the moments that sting the worst, even more than the break up.
There’s someone at my side. Someone with curly hair and, I have to admit, fantastic cleavage on display.
“Here,” Julia says, shoving something into my hand. “Drink up.”
“What is it?” I ask, making a face. I prefer a neat scotch when I can get one, and this is tall and ice cold.
“An iced tea, all the way from the wilds of Long Island,” she answers. That’s not really my drink. When I try putting it down, she grabs my wrist. “Think about it. You’re holding a potent cocktail of oblivion. One might even call it a magic potion. Drink it, and the night goes by much faster. Pretty soon you wake up, and it’s tomorrow.”
She has a point.
“I’d say I get a lot hotter as well, but let’s face it. I’m smoking already.”
Yes, she definitely has a point. About the night going faster, not about . . . never mind.
I toast her, and swallow as much of the drink as I can in one gulp. It tastes like turpentine, but it’s effective. I give it a minute . . . and instantly, the world hazes at the edges of my vision. I’m feeling all right. At least, better than I was before.
Hmm. This could be the beginning of a very fruitful partnership. Me and Long Island. Not really a man’s drink, but I won’t hand over my testosterone card just yet.
“Look at you!” Julia coos, patting me on the arm. I close my eyes; all this would be a little better without her condescension. “Shots?” she asks me. She wiggles her eyebrows.
Hmm. She already has a distinctly tequila smell about her.
“Sure you haven’t had enough already?” I ask. She sticks out her tongue. Mature.
“Vegas is for making questionable decisions. That and accruing huge amounts of gambling debt. But I think we should stick with one vice at a time.” We walk back to the bar. “What’s your pleasure? I’m thinking some rum by way of Malibu.”
I can handle only so many chick drinks in one evening. I take a Macallan instead, sipping it calmly. I’m in control, where I like to be. The booze starts a fire in my belly, and I can finally feel my shoulders relaxing, just a fraction. I don’t want to get too drunk. I don’t like to get too out of control. Ever.
The thumping sound from the speakers vibrates through me now, seeming to pulse in my bones. More dry ice smoke puffs over the stage, and some tall, well-endowed figures strut out, wearing high heels and not much else.