College has been the biggest cockblock—even with coatfuls of coke to afford it. I’d rather press my crush up against a countertop and bury my face within her lines, but I’ve got 50 buyers who wanna lock into Miami nightlife like it’ll be swept away next hurricane season.
“Sorry. I’d love to come but I’m supposed to help someone study.”
“Aw, lame.” Cherry pouts. “Sicily and me’ll save you a seat. Sure you can’t make it?”
“Next time, for sure,” I promise, sad I won’t get to see her in this skintight number as she sips papaya palomas—until maybe something slips that we’re more than friends.
She sighs and swivels back out the hall, taking that Miss Bellum body uptown. “If you say so…”
My face must flare as pink as her scrunched velvet dress. “I do?” My throat lumps, sorry to disappoint her again—especially when she’s got enough no-shows in her life with that Li’l Sicily and sometimes-ex. “Ehm, have fun…”
Shaking my head, I hurry to the club, hoping I’ll bank enough to make risk worth it. Set aside a sum to give Cherry a proper date with rosemary cocktails, Thia floor cushions, and calming instrumentals.
At the entrance of LIV, the bouncer brow-raises me like my suit’s too Scarface-slack to get in. Saying nothing, I flash my phone contact showing the owner’s name.
The roly-poly gets all respectful and back-slappy. “My bad, Boss didn’t mention you’d be in.” He escorts me through the line with a two-second pat-down—looking for steel more than snow—and suddenly I’m in luxe Hell, skirting Satan’s $100 cover charge.
On the double-staircase, convincing drag queens grind in fluorescent bondage and sparkly tiaras. The dancefloor is gigantic, galactic purple, and sided by leather booths as sprawling as the DJ’s soundboard.
I beeline for the bar, looking for Ansel and to drown my bitterness with bitters.
“Hey, man!” the punky redhead greets, pouring something pastel as mermaid piss. “Thought I’d hav’ta call for you.”
“No need. Muscle didn’t even ask me to dial ‘Dave’s’ number. I don’t think I even spelled his last name right.”
“Word. Doormen are too busy peeking up miniskirts to care about credentials.” Ansel slides a couple highballs to dead-eyed señoritas then signals to his crop-topped coworker “breaktime” with a wink.
I follow him into a closet when no one’s looking. As I swap him coke for a fistful of drink-stained bills, I tell myself I wasn’t totally lying to Cherry. What could help a fellow FIU student focus better than a hit of Medellín attention? “Biochem classes going alright?” I ask as he inhales over his phone.
“Huh? I’m not cut out for those Rx classes like you. Dropped ’em like a fly. Don’t bore my buzz, man.” He shakes his head, dabbing flakes from his face. “Chemistry. Heh. What about yours with that Cherry chick? I’d like to see her prance around the dancefloor. She here?”
“I wish. She had other plans and I don’t exactly want her to know that I, ehm, I …”
“Have the best party favors? Man, you’re selling yourself short. Bitches love—”
“She doesn’t do it anymore. A little birdie told me.”
Ansel rolls his eyes. “Twitter Spaces isn’t the quietest birdie. What, she say it on a livestream?”
My face heats as I lean against the door, glancing at the handle. “In a manner of speaking…”
He busts out laughing, knowing I mean her OnlyFans. “Guess her base doesn’t want her getting too skinny.”
I say nothing, tongue kneading my teeth, wishing I sampled that white lightning to feel surer of myself.
“If you really like her, you should let her know.”
“Brilliant advice. Never considered it. You should switch your major to psychotherapy.”
“Ah. Don’t get aggy on me. C’mon, let’s go out there. Some sales and smiles from pretty girls will perk you right up.”
He’s not wrong, even if I am too sober to respect the shitty beats from a chihuahua-shrill rapper.
Still, I sell dozens of powder-loaded glowsticks in no time. One girl in double-bun box braids is so happy I have her high in stock, she kisses my cheek, streaking it with neon lipstick. That keeps me from doomscrolling Cherry’s Insta feed for at least four minutes.
The guilt doesn’t saturate my stomach until 40 later, when Cherry posts a picture of an empty seat at The Tipsy Flamingo. The caption reads: No friends: No flocks given.
Predictably, the comments flood with strange offers and sympathy, kissy and cry emojis, even a few faceless phone numbers.
When I look up, I feel even worse because Ansel keeps jabbering away, tugging my cuff until I see who he’s serving next to me.
“Oooh, pharma boy! It’s me, Cherry’s friend.” Sicily waves with waggling fingers.
Did she see me dart into the restroom with Ansel, get kissed by that light-up chick? Thought I’d be safe with the girls on the other side of the beach tonight. They only know I pharmacy tech. “Sicily, hello.” I glance back at my screen: Cherry swinging open a door that looks like a Pepsi vending machine, posing for pink-light pics over hedge walls, dancing on diamond-zag rugs.
Maybe things aren’t so dour for her. Maybe Sicily double-booked.
I tame my suspicious squint, wondering how Sicily can stand to be covered in all that white confetti. “Enjoying the smoke cannons? The laser beams that look like UFO rays?”
“Oh, yeah, hella cool! See why Cherry recommended it. You know The Weekend is right over there?” She tosses her head back into the shadowy depths of the crowd.
I bite my lip. When did Cherry say that and wouldn’t a pic of Sicily with the singer offend her when they’re supposed to be slinging back mojitos outside South Beach? “Wait, is she here now?”
“The Weekend is a boy.”
“I mean Cherry,” I shout as the next track builds.
“Do you want her to be?” Sicily gives a sly smile, reminding me too much of the Yasmin doll my cousin would always carry. Before I can answer, she grabs my hand and takes me to where she was motioning. “I can show you something better!”
“I, ehm, don’t know wh-what that means,” I mumble as I dodge the dancers I dizzied up with glowstick potions. Please don’t ask me for any more in front of Sicily, I think. Then I imagine her gossiping to Cherry in the lobby, Ew, you know that guy’s a dealer? Cosplaying Cocaine Cowboys, what a poser.
Halfway through the electro-elegant expanse, we’re under the hive of lights. Not a disco ball but a monstrous, moving rig of square lights. It’s like the billboard eye in Gatsby, just as godly in its judgment.
I feel Sicily’s acrylics spider up my shoulders.
“Follow me!” She winks and points to the lady’s room.
I blanch, mind floating. “Ehm?” So, I’m the opposite of disgusting to her? What will she report back and to who? She can’t possibly mean…
Surprisingly strong, she pushes me until I’m gliding past the few giggling girls not taking in the concert’s crescendo. They ditch the stalls as I hide my face behind unfurled hair and a hand.
Sicily latches the door behind us, sidles up real close.
“Ehm, don’t you think security…” or your alleged friend would have something to say about this?
She palms my shoulder to pull herself into my ear. “Think they haven’t seen this a million times?” She reaches into her leather pants and I look away.
Would admitting I prefer her friend send her raging? Or does holding out for my #1 crush leave me nothing but crumbs? “Ehm, I don’t know if I can—”
“You don’t have to break it. Just gimme what you got.”
The back of my ears and neck prickle lava-hot. My dick doesn’t know if it likes the intimidation. Sober coke dick—should’ve snorted after all. Before I can embarrass myself physically or otherwise, she drives in the stake emotionally.
Fanning out hundred-dollar bills, she sing-songs, “I’d like to place an order, pharm boy!” She winks harmlessly. “Ansel said you’re the best way I can get close to sharing a line with Mr. ‘Can’t Feel My Face’ out there.”
There’s a lot of things I can’t feel—besides stupid as sin. The relief is so enormous, I cough on my exhale. Her, coming onto me? Who did I think I am? I laugh like a reject. “Yeah, whatever you want. I have plenty.”
“Hurray! Oh, but don’t tell Cherry,” she whisper-shouts with a finger pressed to her plastic-plump lips. “I was supposed to be good and meet her tonight.”
I smile at the irony. “Likewise.” This hush money should cover those pesky semester fees, a raincheck with Cherry. “Mum’s the word. But if you could just put in a good, vague one to Cherry for me sometime…we’ll be even as those lines.” I nod to the pocket tray she sits on the paper dispenser.
She smiles, tamping together white rails over a picture of Pisa. “Sounds like a fair trade, pharma boy. Deal.”
Bio
Paige Johnson is EIC of Outcast Press (@OutcastPress1 on Twitter, FB, and Insta and @OutcastPress on TikTok). She has featured in Urban Pigs Press HUNGER anthology with a story about a bulimic cam-girl and their inaugural poetry issue with a couple small tales about traversing the Sunshine State and outer space, so to speak. Writing of a similar ilk, she is author of the illustrated poetry books Citrus Springs and Percocet Summer, as well as put together and featured in the short story collections Diner Noir: Put Out The Lights & Cry, In Filth It Shall Be Found, and Slut Vomit: An Anthology of Sex Work.
Urban Pigs Press 
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