I had dropped Nicholas off at clubs more times than I could count. Seen countless pictures of him dancing and draped over so many women, their names were a blur. To be fair, he probably couldn’t recall half of them either. I’d picked him up even more times after receiving drunken calls in the dead of night—slurred admissions of lost drivers and misplaced keys.
But in two years, not once had I ventured inside.
The club was dimly lit, the air thick and humid—a place that exuded trouble, the kind I always fretted over Nicholas encountering.
He navigated us through the pulsating crowd with the confidence of a regular, leading us to the bar. Under normal circumstances, holding his hand would have felt awkward, but now I clung to it desperately.
The bartender muttered something in Spanish, a
