Cousins (Cousins #1)

by Lisa Lang Blakeney

  I know his hands are probably going to be next.

  Sure enough, I feel a hand firmly start to grip the left side of my hips, and can feel one of his sweaty fingers touching the exposed skin above my waistline (thanks to the halter top I'm wearing). So I stop dancing, turn around, and see the red-nosed face of a kid who probably isn't even twenty-one yet and hasn't quite learned when he's reached his limit. I use my pointer finger to call him over even closer so he can hear me. He doesn't seem to understand that I'm annoyed, because he has a wide grin plastered across his face, when it's blatantly obvious that I don't.

  "Are you drunk?" I ask him like I'm his older sister.

  "Not yet gorgeous." He says in a drunk, flirty voice.

  "Well listen junior, this is a solo gig," I tell him in his ear. "I don't need a partner."

  The look on the kid's face is priceless. He's embarrassed, and I think he starts to look around to make sure that no one heard what I just said to him. As if someone could actually hear me over the high decibel level of the music or even see us in this dim lighting. He’s not a jerk about what I just said to him though. He gives me a slight head nod, turns, and walks off the dance floor. Confrontation averted.

  It's at that exact moment that I consider just for a moment that maybe the kid had it right. Maybe someone was watching us, because I swear that I can feel the stare of a faceless shadow in a far corner of the club. To the left of the main bar. You would think that I wouldn't notice a shadow based on the many moving bodies around me, but that's the thing; people are dancing, laughing, talking, ordering drinks, walking around. Even people at the bar are fidgeting, adjusting their seats, talking to whoever is next to them or trying to grab the bartender's attention. Everyone in the whole place is moving. Everyone but that one solitary faceless shape in the corner.

  A chill runs down my spine and I turn away. I'm a little freaked out, but I know that I need to shake it off. Ever since the attack I've been jumpy and on edge. What I need is another drink. That will calm me down.

  Now that I am entirely out of my zone and know that the deejay will be changing the song soon, I decide to head back over to the bar and straight towards the handsome bartender in the white tee. I spotted him earlier and liked the looks of him. He looks safe. I grab the last remaining stool and scan the crowd for my partner in crime, Sloan. I have no idea where she has wandered off to and while we're both grown, I think it was breaking the girl code for her to just leave me to fend for myself inside a club. Especially after everything that I've been through over the last few weeks. I take another quick glance to look for the creep in the corner, but notice that whoever or whatever it was is no longer there. I'm relieved.

  "He took you out of your groove huh?"

  I raise a curious eyebrow, because I mistakenly think the bartender is talking about the shadow in the corner, but soon realize that he's referring to the beer boy from the dance floor.

  "Here you go. Another glass of red on the house. I don't know where these club virgins are coming from all of a sudden. They're ruining the vibe in here. The doorman isn't doing his job. That kid doesn't even look old enough to be in here."

  Another glass of wine? Oh I am definitely headed into hangover territory, but I smile, accept the drink, and start slurping it down as if it were my first of the night.

  "Thank you umm–"

  "The name's Marco and you are?" He asks showcasing a set of pearly white teeth while wiping down the bar top. Was he flirting? Hell, I don't know and I don't want to know. I'm sure he's just being friendly like most bartenders. Men are completely off the menu for me now.

  "Elizabeth."

  "You're not here alone are you?"

  "No, I came with a friend."

  Some friend. Where the hell is she?

  During the cab ride here, my best friend Sloan bragged for twenty minutes that she was bringing me to the uber-exclusive Club Lotus. Per her words, it was, “beyond the red velvet rope.” There was no rope. In fact there was only an inconspicuous looking gray metal door that you knocked on, which was then answered by a very unhappy looking man who asked very gruffly for your ID. Three minutes later the man either let you in the door or he told you to scram. Sloan's ID must have checked out, so we were permitted inside once he jotted down my driver's license information inside a red, leather covered journal. Another thing that gives me the jitters, but which Sloan assures me is totally safe. Once past the forgettable gray door, I couldn't believe the unforgettable and intoxicating world that we stepped into.

  Club Lotus is a beautifully designed dance club, housed in a hundred-year-old but expertly renovated center city bank, with broad, polished mahogany bars, massive pillars, and intricately carved high ceilings bathed in soft champagne colored chandelier lighting. It is everything that I imagined it to be. The grandness. The sexiness. The exclusivity of it. While there are definitely cozy little seating areas and an elevated VIP section, it doesn't seem like an overly pretentious club, although I know that most of the people in here probably make at least six figures or better. I'm fascinated watching many of the high-powered corporate women enter through the metal door and walk straight back to a large locker room, where they hang their very expensive designer suits and change into their very small, body conscious dresses for the night. Most of the men look like new money as well. Powerful but definitely not uptight.

  Sloan fits right in. She's on the fast track as a pharmaceutical sales rep for one of the biggest companies in the country and makes a great living. I don't fit in as much, but I strive to one day. I can't wait to blend into the shiny and slick fabric of the city and it's people, and to be able to afford to buy five dollar lattes everyday, although it feels like nothing is clicking into place for me these days.

  I continue looking for Sloan as I take several more sips of wine, but she is still M.I.A. Fortunately the deejay is doing a fantastic job of keeping me distracted and begins interplaying two songs that are calling me back to the dance floor, but I have an off feeling that I just can't shake, so I decide to stay put and flirt with the sun-kissed bartender. After about ten minutes of polite conversation between us he asks me, "So you're not going back out there gorgeous?"

  I grin. "Nah, I’d rather sit here and enjoy the music."

  "Hard day at work?"

  "Not exactly ... more like a hard week. A bad break up."

  Marco nods in understanding and then a text comes in from my mother. I don't feel like reading it, but I figure I have to because well, it's from my mom.

  Mom: Where are you?

  Me: I'm out with Sloan.

  Mom: That means you're dancing very inappropriately somewhere.

  Me: That's very possible:)

  Mom: I've come up with a solution to your situation.

  Me: Really?

  Mom: I called your aunt.

  Me: Aunt who???

  This topic really deserves a phone conversation, but there is no way I could have a meaningful conversation with my mother, half-drunk, in a noisy club. I'm surprised she's actually this good at texting. They're coming in fast and grammatically correct.

  Mom: You know who I'm talking about smarty. Aunt Juliette. The aunt I told you to give a call three weeks ago when you decided to stay in that godforsaken city after almost being murdered.

  Me: When did u learn to txt like this mom? I'm impressed.

  Mom: I didn't. I speak into the phone and it translates what I say into a text for me.

  Aaah, of course.

  Me: Very nice mom.

  Mom: Her number is 215-555-7890. Call her tomorrow. She has room for you until whenever.

  Whenever I come to my senses and move home she means.

  Me: It won't be long. I'm figuring things out and will have a place soon.

  Mom: Is business doing better?

  Me: Yep.

  Mom: Are you really okay Bitsy?

  Me: Yes mom. Don't worry.

  Lies.

  First of all there is no way on God's green e
arth that I'm going to admit to my mother that I am scared shitless after being brutally assaulted by my boyfriend's frackin' drug dealers. She doesn't even know everything that happened. She'd literally drive down to Philly, pack up my stuff, and force me to come home if she did.

  When I woke up in my bedroom three weeks ago, Ethan and the assailants were gone; my head hurt like hell, and my apartment had been completely ransacked and robbed. I'd been saving tip money for over two years from my part-time job at The Tavern and storing it all in two empty tampon boxes under the bathroom sink. (I've got an issue with paying bank fees.) It was over seventeen thousand dollars, and my plan was to use that money to live on while I worked on building my business full time; but now that money is gone and I need a Plan B.

  I was too frightened to call the police when I finally woke up, so the only person I called was Sloan, who promptly took me to the emergency room. Physically I had only suffered a minor concussion, but emotionally I was ruined. My home had been violated, I couldn't concentrate on work, I was scared to be alone, and my boyfriend's phone was going straight to voicemail. His father, who I had only met once before, finally called me a few days later and told me that Ethan was fine and resting in a drug rehab in Arizona.

  When I told him everything that transpired that night, then asked him (politely) why his son saw fit to leave me unconscious on the floor of my bedroom without even a 911 call, his father totally sidestepped my question and blatantly offered me twenty-five hundred dollars if I remained quiet about everything. To add insult to injury, he also said there was another twenty-five hundred in it for me if I refused any and all of Ethan's calls. Something about codependency, blah, blah, blah. Needless to say, I turned down his highly offensive offer and told him to go fuck himself. I didn't need to be paid off to avoid having any contact with Ethan, considering that he had been ignoring all of my calls and texts for days anyway.

  Assholes.

  Both of them.

  And as far as my business is concerned, that is laughable at best. About eighteen months ago, I built and launched a smartphone application that helps connect college students with scholarship money. I named the application School Bucks, and I charge ninety-nine cents per download for it. The app generates about three hundred dollars a month, which is a pretty decent start, but it doesn't pay the bills. I need to make some major improvements to the app and develop a marketing plan to make some traction in the marketplace, but now that my entire frackin' savings is completely gone, I'm going to have to come up with a Plan B.

  All of this on my brain is what has brought me here tonight. I'm trying to forget about how I can't get a decent night's sleep in my own home, because I'm too afraid to close my eyes. I am also trying to forget how any little bit of money I earn now has to go to bills, not savings, and that I don't have enough money to put down a security deposit and first month's rent on a new place. So I guess living at my aunt's house would be a great way to feel safe for a moment and stack some money while I figure things out. Work on my Plan B. Maybe I do need to bite the bullet and accept some help, regardless of the source. It's not like I have a lot have options. It's either this or go home to my parents and start all over again.

  Oh hell no.

  Me: What would she charge me to stay there?

  Mom: Nothing you're family.

  I wasn't exactly comfortable with that. I'm not a deadbeat.

  Me: I'll call her to discuss it. I gotta go.

  Mom: Call me after you two speak.

  Me: I will. Bye mom:)

  I finally have a nice buzz and am totally fine bobbing my head seated right where I am. I don't mind hanging around and flirting with Marco either. It's easy. While I am not quite sure if he likes men, women or both, I definitely enjoy his company as he talks about his childhood in Miami, his dream of visiting family he's never met in Cuba, and why he moved to Philadelphia. He is totally taking my mind off the fact that I may be moving in with a family, that I haven't seen since I was a kid.

  "Damn." Worry lines begin crinkling Marco's forehead.

  "What?" I ask.

  "Those two over there." He points. "See the one blond in the dress. They're arguing. When those two argue, the shit always ends badly."

  "Who are they?"

  "They usually come on Sunday nights. That's a whole different crowd. Younger. More hip-hop and radio. Not as exclusive of a crowd. They must not have realized that tonight is techno night. Stay here for a minute, I need to go grab Larry. I wonder how they got in here tonight?"

  In the short time I've been chatting with Marco, he's explained to me the entire employee dynamic of Club Lotus. Larry is the weekend manager of the club, the younger brother of the owner, and an absolute no nonsense prick. Marco doesn't seem to like him very much, but admits that he does a pretty decent job of running the club.

  My glass of merlot is beginning to settle in.

  All the telltale signs are there.

  My lips and tongue are beginning to feel numb, my eyes are becoming a tad more sensitive to the intricate lighting caressing the dance floor, and I have a permanent goofy grin on my face. I'm a little past buzzed but not quite plastered. Amazing. I thought for sure that this third one would set me right on my ass. Maybe I'm building up a wine tolerance; which I guess isn't something necessarily to brag about.

  As I bob my head to the rapid fire beat of the latest song, I can't help but watch the scene unfold out of the corner of my eye towards the end of the bar. The woman Marco mentioned, a strikingly beautiful blond woman with a horrendously tacky turquoise colored dress on is arguing with an average looking redhead. The redhead has on a pair of ultra skinny jeans (way too small for her) and some sort of weird, retro flowered top. Both women are clearly out of their element. Their clothes seem really cheap and overall they just appear to be oddly out of place. Even more so than myself or beer boy. At least I dressed the part tonight with Sloan's help.

  The music is blasting entirely too loudly for me to understand what is being said, but sometimes you don't need to hear the actual words to understand what is transpiring between two people. If I had to guess, I'd say that they were "frenemies" for some ridiculous reason that goes way back to high school, and that they were looking for any excuse to argue with each other. A couple of drinks and loud music has a way of creating an atmosphere ripe with negative possibilities. In this case, it was a high possibility that someone was going to get their face smashed in. My money was on the redhead.

  I spot Marco talking to Larry and then the two of them start fast-walking towards the two women. It was actually hysterical, because I don't think I've ever seen two men walking across a club with arms and elbows pumping like that. I decide right then that Marco more than likely likes boys and was in no way flirting with me earlier, unless the wine is making me a little judgy.

  As if everything is unfolding in front of me like a movie in slow motion, I continue to watch the two women arguing. The level of their voices seems to be rising as I watch their facial expressions grow increasingly animated and contorted. I still can't make out what they are saying, but the one with the itsy bitsy jeans on starts moving closer and closer towards the other woman's face. I whip my head back towards my right and watch as Larry and Marco continue to move toward the scene, trying to draw as little attention to themselves as they can, but also trying to get to the girls as quickly as possible. Larry's eyes seem to now be fixated on one particular point. The beautiful blond's lap. I watch as she reaches into her silver clutch, which is lying across her lap, and she pulls out what looks like to be a clunky set of car keys.

  Thanks to the wine, I am still swaying and bobbing in my seat to the pulse of the music as the whole scene plays out. The music basically serves as a soundtrack for the drama unfolding in front of me. I am just waiting for the first punch. I know it's brewing. I can see it in itsy, bitsy's eyes. Like I said, my money was on her.

  Larry and Marco are sprinting across the club at this point. Gently elbowing their way
through the writhing bodies on the dance floor, making their polite "excuse me's" as they do. I'm not really sure why they are so frantic about reaching the two women. No blows have been thrown yet, and as far as I can tell, it all seems to be a lot of loud name-calling and neck rolling. Total girl shit.

  And that's when it happens.

  Pure pandemonium.

  Chapter Three

  Elizabeth

  I AM CHOKING AND GASPING for breath. The air around me is thick and heavy. Tears start to pool in the corners of my eyes, because the burning sensation of the chemicals is so overpowering. I reactively blink and squeeze my eyelids tightly to stop the stinging, but all that does is start to give me a dull headache at my temples.

  I'm not sure what to do with my hands first, as I indecisively alternate between rubbing the corners of my eyes and grasping at my throat, almost breaking the delicate gold chain hanging around my neck. I desperately need fresh air, but my lungs are being denied what they crave most and like the idiot I am, I haven't paid any attention to where the exit doors are located. This is exactly what I deserve for not listening to my inner voice. My instincts. My gut. The voice that told me to just keep my ass at Sloan's, eat ramen, and watch Netflix.

  Panic starts to swell inside of my chest. Was it those girls that did this? Although I know that a little pepper spray never killed anyone, I am also well aware of the pandemonium that spraying it in a confined location can cause. I wonder if people feel this type of dread right before they meet death, like in the final five seconds before a fatal car collision or a plane crash.

  While I can't see very much, especially at a distance, I can definitely hear the quickening click-clack sounds of women's stilettos and the growing chant of deep male voices straining the words, "Push! Push!" in unison. After a few high pitched screams, I realize that the hysteria around me is starting to mushroom, and I am certain that the shrieks are coming from young women being pushed and crushed not only at the front doors but through the other exit side doors as well. Without consideration of others, people are running, pushing, and stepping on top of other people's bodies to get out of the club as fast as they can.