WE BYPASS THE velvet rope where dozens of pissed-off patrons wait to enter. The building is three stories, brick with neon signs and no windows. I look at the curb, remembering my less than a stellar moment at a different club not too long ago, and I want to turn around and go home but Wade grabs my elbow.
“Come on, it’ll be fun.” He nods for me to come inside with him, and reluctantly, I follow. We walk through the crowd and pass by the cushioned booths and wooden tables that line the outer edge of the dance floor. At the center is a riser where the house band is thrashing guitars and swinging hair. The crowd seems to enjoy them.
Wade orders us a drink from the bar. Instinctively I scan the area, my heart beating fast in tune to the heavy progression of the drums. I don’t know if it’s b
