I wink back. “Always do.”
Once officially “in”, we have to walk down an overlong hallway, music thumping louder the closer we get. The place isn’t as dark as I’d expected, given my limited knowledge of these places. There are some backlights around the bar, which only serves coffee and soda according to the small menu, but other than that, The Pink Pony has a kind of formal dinner lighting. Soft, elegant, and you can see the people around you but they’re easy enough to tune out, too, if you wish. And, I’m counting on the people around us to be tuning us out. Though I suppose the women on the stage at the moment have more to do with no one paying us attention than the lighting does.
As Flo-Rida blares from the speakers, Jonah moves to my left, leaving me closer to the stage area. His hands move to his pockets and his head lowers as if he’s on a scavenger hunt for rocks.
Rocks…
I suddenly get the code word Silas and Bridgette have for each other when they’re in public and want to “guard” each other from seeing things they want to protect their eyes from. Their heads would have exploded in the parking lot, so I don’t have to waste time wondering what they would be thinking if they were in here, but I’m growing really concerned for Jonah.
“Hey,” I whisper as we walk aimlessly to the back of the room, “I was serious. Wait outside. I don’t want you getting in trouble with CU or … you know.”
God. The unspoken third person in every single conversation.
“Stop,” he demands. “It’s fine. I just want to find Matt and get him out of here.”
“Where are we going?”
He tilts his chin forward. “Maybe from the back corner we can see more of the floor and find him faster.”
Just as much as Jonah is keeping his eyes away from the stage, I’m working to keep my eyes off the patrons. Because I don’t just see a group of college guys sneaking sips of their own beer. I see Trent, Jonah, and Silas. I don’t see the guy with his loosened tie and cast-aside suit coat. I see Roland, and it turns my stomach. I see their wives, girlfriends, and daughters at home. I see Matt.
I see Matt.
“There.” I elbow Jonah and point to the furthest table in the back, just as the track changes to an Usher song. “I’m going to need to make some major changes to my playlists when I get home,” I mumble, my heart racing the closer we get to Matt.
We’re approaching him from the side, so he doesn’t see us—what with his eyes being glued to a girl sliding down the pole upside down—quite skillfully from what my peripheral vision allows me to see.
Stop looking at her, Matt. Stop.
Putting my hand up, I stop Jonah a few long paces away from Matt’s table. “We need a plan,” I whisper, close to his ear so he can hear me over the thumping of the bass. “He’s drinking.” I try not to choke on the last few words, since seeing an eighteen-year-old drink is not out of the realm of normalcy for my life in Connecticut. But it is here. Well, “here” as in Matt.
“How do you know?” Jonah whispers back, just as close to my ear as I was to his. His voice is breathy, highlighting his adrenaline-surged nerves.
“Flask between his knees,” I note of the shiny silver neck peeking over his jeans. While I can’t tell if he’s done this alcohol-hiding thing before, he’s not a complete amateur with a brown paper bag.
Britney Spears is up next. Musician, not girl. Her name is Charity, says the man with the creepy-sounding voice.
Yes, Ms. Spears, this is all very toxic.
I’ve never given much thought to strip clubs. My senior year in high school, the rite of passage for guys turning eighteen was to go with their other now-adult friends to such places to celebrate their independence from childhood. It certainly garnered laughs, but right now none of it seems that funny. Sure, there are guys in here with groups of friends, clearly with their fraternity brothers or at a bachelor party—don’t get me started on that—but it’s the other men that make me uncomfortable. The ones here alone. Not here for any sort of social bonding—whatever that means—but here for this. The women, the scene.
“What if he won’t come with us?” Jonah asks, clearly growing in his hesitation.
Taking a deep breath, I walk forward. “He will one way or another.”
I’m thankful for the loud music, or I might hear the rational voices in my head that I know are telling me to get out. I will get out. When I have my best friend with me.
“Hey.” I tap Matt on the shoulder, aiming for a casual greeting.
He grumbles something unintelligible and shrugs his shoulder.
“Matty,” I say a little too-quietly. I’ve only ever heard Roland call him this, and it was months ago, but it poured from my mouth faster than I could consider it.
It gets his attention, though. Matt snaps his head around and, while it’s clear he’s teetering on the line between buzzed and intoxicated, the horror on his face as he takes in mine, and then Jonah’s, is overwhelming.