YoungBloods

Chapter 8

The longer the night stretched, the more Wyatt drank.

By the time the bottle of whiskey was half gone, his polished words had turned into slurred boasts. His arm, once draped lazily over the booth, was now inching closer and closer to Aurelia’s waist.

She shifted subtly, trying to keep the distance between them, laughing politely at his crude jokes while keeping her smile as soft and hollow as a porcelain doll’s.

Wyatt didn’t notice — or didn’t care.

He leaned in close, the smell of alcohol heavy on his breath. “You know, you’re not like the other dames in this city, Aurelia,” he slurred. “You’re class. Real lady.”

Aurelia forced a soft smile, her voice gentle but firm. “That’s very kind, Wyatt. But I think I’d like to go home now. It’s been a long night.”

Wyatt blinked at her for a second, then grinned, licking his bottom lip like a wolf eyeing prey. “Alright, sweetheart. Let’s get you home.”

The drive back was quiet. Wyatt’s hand casually rested on her thigh again, but this time she didn’t move it — not because she wanted it there, but because she didn’t want to make a scene in the car with his driver watching through the mirror.

When they pulled up in front of her house, the moonlight cast long shadows across the front steps. Aurelia reached for the handle, eager to be alone again, but Wyatt was already out of the car and opening her door like a gentleman — or trying to.

He swayed slightly as he helped her out, his fingers lingering far too long on her waist.

“Let me walk you to your door,” he said, smiling crookedly.

Aurelia didn’t argue. She didn’t want to provoke him.

At the top of the steps, she turned, already reaching for the door. But before she could say goodnight, Wyatt leaned in fast — pressing his lips to hers with force. His hands gripped her waist, one of them sliding too quickly up her side and around her back, pulling her flush against him.

She tried to pull back. “Wyatt—”

But he kept kissing her, his hands now roaming down her back, his touch rough, entitled.

“My father’s home,” she blurted, breathless, hoping it would snap him out of it.

Wyatt only smirked against her neck, “So what? He ain’t gonna come out here.”

His lips grazed her collarbone. She stiffened.

“I’m not that kind of girl,” Aurelia said quickly, her voice trembling slightly. “I… I like to take things slow.”

Wyatt paused. His hands stilled. Then he stepped back half a foot, looking her up and down with something between amusement and approval.

“Ain’t that something,” he muttered with a crooked grin. “You’re not a floozy. You’ve got respect. Morals.” He pointed a finger at her like she’d just won a prize. “I like that. We’ll continue this on our second date.”

Aurelia gave a small nod, unable to say anything else.

Wyatt leaned in again — not for a kiss, but for a hard, possessive press of his lips against her cheek. He lingered there for a moment too long before finally pulling away, his smile smug as ever.

“See you soon, sugar,” he said, and turned on his heel back to his waiting car.

Aurelia stood frozen for a second, heart racing. As soon as his car rolled away down the street, she turned and pushed open the door, slipping inside and shutting it quickly behind her.

The moment the latch clicked shut, she leaned her back against the door, exhaling all the fear and disgust she’d held in her chest all night.

Her hand trembled as she touched her cheek where he’d kissed her.

She felt like she needed to scrub her skin raw.

And somewhere in her gut… something told her that was just the beginning.

Aurelia found Maybelle in the kitchen, her sleeves rolled up, wrist-deep in soap suds as she scrubbed the dinner dishes. The comforting smell of lemon and warm water clung to the air.

Maybelle looked up when Aurelia walked in, her eyes narrowing the second she saw the expression on her face.

“Lord,” Maybelle muttered, drying her hands on a towel, “you look like you just got kissed by a ghost.”

Aurelia didn’t say anything at first. She pulled out a chair and sat at the small kitchen table, her fingers fidgeting in her lap. “It was awful,” she finally said, voice low.

Maybelle raised a brow, leaning against the counter. “He get grabby?”

Aurelia gave a small, embarrassed nod. “He tried. I stopped him… sort of.”

Maybelle shook her head, muttering under her breath, “I swear if I had a brick and a good aim…”

Aurelia gave a soft laugh, but it faded quickly. “He wouldn’t take no for an answer. And my father just sat there earlier at lunch like a coward. He didn’t say anything, didn’t stop him. Just looked away.”

Maybelle walked over and plopped down across from her, resting her chin on her hand. “Sounds like you need some real fun. Not this uptown snob-bourbon kind of crap. The real kind. Music that moves your bones. People who actually smile. Drinks that burn and make your head spin—in the good way.”

Aurelia blinked, then leaned forward. “You mean the speakeasy?”

Maybelle’s grin was instant, wide and mischievous. “You damn right I do. You and me, Lia. C’mon. You need to dance that sleaze off you.”

By midnight, the girls had slipped out the back of the house, Aurelia’s pale blue dress traded for a dark red one with fringe along the hem, her blonde curls pinned up loosely. Maybelle wore a beige silk dress—bold, stylish, and completely Maybelle.

They crept through alleyways and empty streets, their heels clicking softly on the pavement. The city looked different in the dark—alive in a way Aurelia had almost forgotten.

The entrance was hidden behind a boarded-up tailor shop. Maybelle gave a quick, specific knock, and after a second, the false wall shifted open, revealing a long staircase lit with dim bulbs.

As they descended, the distant pulse of jazz grew louder. The bass thumped like a heartbeat, wild and free.

They stepped into a room bursting with life.

People of every color—Black, Italian, Irish, Chinese—filled the space, pressed shoulder-to-shoulder in celebration. The air was thick with cigarette smoke and sweat, the clinking of glasses and the heavy brass of the trumpet echoing from the corner stage.

It wasn’t pristine like Wyatt’s club. There were no velvet ropes, no smug bouncers, no waitresses in tight corsets pretending to smile. The walls were chipped brick, the lighting was low and warm, and the floor sticky in spots—but it was real. Raw. Beautiful.

Aurelia’s eyes lit up.

This was what she missed. What she craved.

People laughing, dancing. No judgment. No fake niceties or class games.

Just freedom.

Maybelle grabbed her hand. “Come on, princess. We’re dancing.”

They melted into the crowd, bodies swaying to the rhythm. The band played fast, furious, and full of soul. The trumpet player—a young Black man in suspenders and a white fedora—winked at them from the stage.

Aurelia threw her head back, laughing for the first time in days. Her hips moved to the beat, feet sliding across the floor, the music infecting her limbs with joy. She forgot about Wyatt. She forgot about the weight of her father’s silence. Forgot the pressure of her last name.

Here, she wasn’t a pawn in some man’s plan. She was just a girl in a red dress dancing with her best friend in a world that still felt real.

Maybelle leaned in close during a slower song. “This is what living feels like, Lia.”

Aurelia smiled, cheeks flushed. “Yeah. It really is.”

And for the first time in a long time… she meant it.