As we turn to go back to the dance floor, I see Rosa walking toward the back, where the bathrooms are. She waves at me, grinning, and I wave back before turning to Julian.
“Let’s dance some more,” I say, grabbing his hand, and we dive back into the crowd just as a new song begins.
A few minutes later, I start to feel it—the familiar sensation of an overly full bladder.
“I have to pee,” I tell Julian, and he grins, leading me off the dance floor again. We walk together to the back of the club, and I get in line to the girls’ bathroom while Julian leans against the wall, watching as I wait my turn in the shadowed, circular hallway leading to the restrooms. I wonder if he’s guarding me even here and almost snicker at the idea of him being worried enough to accompany me to the ladies’ room.
Thankfully, he doesn’t. Instead, he stays by the entrance to the narrow hallway, his arms crossed over his chest.
The line is long, and it takes almost fifteen minutes to get to my destination. When my turn finally comes, I step into the small three-stall room and do my business. It’s only when I’m washing my hands that it occurs to me that Rosa disappeared in this direction, and I haven’t seen her come out since.
Pulling out my phone from my tiny purse, I text Julian: Did Rosa walk by you? Do you see her anywhere?
There’s no immediate answer, so I step out of the bathroom, about to head back, when a flash of something red a dozen feet away catches my attention. Frowning, I walk deeper into the circular hallway, past the restrooms, and then I see it.
A red, high-heeled shoe lying discarded on the floor.
My heart skips a beat.
Bending down, I pick it up, and a chill skitters down my spine.
There’s no doubt now. It’s Rosa’s shoe.
My pulse speeding up, I straighten, looking around, but I don’t see her anywhere. With the way the hallway curves, even the bathroom line is out of sight now.
Dropping the shoe, I pull out my phone again. There is a text from Julian in response to mine: No, I don’t see her.
I begin to type out a reply, but at that moment, a door I hadn’t noticed before swings open a few feet away.
A short, skinny guy steps out, closing the door behind him, and leans against the door frame.
A young guy, I realize, looking at him. More like a boy in his teens, his pale, freckled face unmarred by the slightest hint of stubble. His posture is casual, almost lazy, but something about the way he glances at me gives me pause.
“Excuse me.” I approach him carefully, wrinkling my nose at the strong smell of alcohol and cigarettes coming off him. “Have you seen my friend? She’s wearing a yellow dress—”
He spits on the floor in front of me. “Get the fuck outta here, bitch.”
I’m so startled I step back. Then anger blasts through me, mixing with adrenaline. “Excuse me?” My hands curl into fists. “What did you just call me?”
The teenager’s posture changes, becoming more combative. “I said—”
And at that moment, I hear it.
A woman’s scream behind the door, followed by the sound of something falling.
My adrenaline levels surge. Without thinking, I step forward and swing upward with my right fist, just as Julian taught me. The momentum of my move adds to the force of the blow, and the guy gasps as my fist slams into his solar plexus. He starts to double over, and at that moment, my knee comes up, crushing his balls.
He bends over with a high-pitched scream, clutching his crotch, and I grab the back of his neck, using the momentum to pull him forward as I stick my right foot out.
It works even better than in training.
He pitches forward, arms flailing, and his head hits the wall on the opposite side of the hallway. Then he slides to the floor, his body limp and unmoving in front of me.
Shaking, I gape at it. I can’t believe I just did that.
I can’t believe I took down a guy in a fight—even if that guy was a drunk teenage boy.
Another scream behind the door snaps me out of my daze.
I recognize that voice now, and a fresh burst of adrenaline sends my heartbeat soaring. Operating solely on instinct, I jump over the young guy’s fallen body and push open the door.
The room inside is long and narrow, with another door at the far end. A stained couch is by that door—and on that couch is my friend, struggling and sobbing under a man.
For a second, I’m too frozen to react, and then I notice streaks of red on the bright yellow of Rosa’s torn dress.
A hot, dark rage explodes in my chest, sweeping away all remnants of caution.
“Let her go!” I yell, rushing into the room. Startled, the guy jumps off Rosa, and then, as if recalling his vile agenda, grabs her by the hair and drags her off the couch.
“Nora!” Rosa screams hysterically, pointing at something behind me.
Horrified, I spin around, but it’s too late.
The other man is already on me, the back of his hand flying toward my face.
The blow knocks me into the wall, the impact of the hit jarring every bone in my back.
Dazed, I sink down to the floor, and through the ringing in my ears, I hear a man’s voice say, “You can fuck that one if you want. I’ll take my turn with this one in the car.”
And as rough hands start tearing at my clothes, I see Rosa’s attacker dragging her toward the door on the far side of the room.
Chapter 24
Julian
Bored, I step away from the wall and peer into the hallway. Nora is already at the front of the line, so I lean back against the wall and prepare to wait some more. I also make a mental note never to return to this club. These lines must be a regular occurrence here, and I find it ridiculous that they haven’t put in a bigger restroom for the women.