We fight our way to the bar, going through the dance floor, turning down offers to dance from a bunch of different men who grab us anyways as we pass.
I cringe away from their hands, but Tamara revels in it.
When we get to the bar, Tamara immediately orders two Moscow mules and then proceeds to flirt brazenly with the bartender.
I ignore her and turn to survey the crowd.
“Hey, sexy,” someone rumbles way too close to my ear.
I ignore the deep voice for a second. But the tap of a blunt finger on my shoulder is too intrusive to shrug off.
I turn and look at the man who has planted himself behind me. He’s huge and shaped like a boulder in a too-tight black t-shirt and overlarge veneers on his teeth.
Something about him makes my skin crawl.
So I just give him a tight, no thanks smile and turn my back on him with finality.
He doesn’t seem to get the message.
“How about I buy you a drink, doll?” Boulder Man bellows over the thundering music.
I glance at him and shake my head. “No, thank you,” I answer curtly. “My friend already bought our drinks.”
“Your friend is sloshed off her ass,” he says, leaning in a little. “How about we ditch the deadweight and have a little fun?”
“Good idea. If we’re ditching deadweight, then why don’t you fuck off and bother someone else?”
Safe to say that the onrush of sudden anxiety has made me a little feistier than usual.
This was a fun idea, a good idea… until it very much wasn’t anymore.
Now, all I can think about—once again—is Miguel.
It’s time to go home.
I don’t catch Boulder Man’s reaction, because just then, Tamara throws back a shot that I wasn’t aware she had ordered.
Then she promptly spits it back out… right on the bar counter.
The bartender she’d been flirting with looks murderous as he turns to me.
“Okay, she’s cut off,” he tells me. “Time to get her home.”
“Good call.” I nod in agreement and grab Tamara, pulling her away from the bar. She doesn’t resist this time. In fact, she actually moans a little.
I know then that something is really wrong.
“Tamara?”
I’ve got her arm around my neck, so it’s hard for me to see her face. But a quick side glance tells me that her color is not quite right.
“Esm’, I don’t feel so… urgh…”
She stops talking. I watch her turn a nasty shade of yellow right in front of my eyes.
“Oh, God,” I gasp. “We need to get you home right now.”
Tamara shakes her head violently. “No… urgh! Bathroom…”
Shit. Looks like home is out of the question. T-minus sixty seconds or so until projectile vomiting commences.
Nodding, I try and support her as best I can as I half-drag, half-carry her past Boulder Man and off to the bathroom on the other side of the club.
On our way there, several men accost me with offers to “help” carry Tamara.
“Come on, baby. Let me carry her for you. If you’re jealous, I’ll carry you too.”
“What will you give me if I help you with your skank friend?”
“I like my women barely conscious when I fuck ‘em.”
I act as though I hear none of them. I just keep my head down and power through, ignoring the comments as well as the stares and wolf whistles. Even though the increasingly vulgar comments make my skin shiver.
Men are vile.
Drunk men doubly so.
I’m panting by the time we reach the restrooms.
Tam looks even worse than she did back at the bar. Her face is an unnatural green and the sounds coming out of her are like baby gurgles mixed with a clogged garbage disposal.
Fuck. Fuckity fucking fuck.
I have to kick the door of the bathroom open, but I manage to get us both inside.
For the first time since she threw up on the bar, Tam moves of her own volition. Her drunken, wobbly legs carry her towards one of the open stalls.
She’s down on her knees in seconds, spewing her guts out into the open toilet.
Suppressing my own gag reflex, I reach forward and pull back her hair. Tamara grips the toilet as though it’s a lifeline. Her bare knees scrape against the silver-grey slate tiles beneath us.
In that moment, I’m grateful that Tamara decided on one of the more upscale clubs in the city. There are worse floors to be kneeling on, that’s for sure.
Some time passes. I’m not sure how long. Three or four yaaakks’ worth, if that’s a unit of measurement.
But eventually—mercifully—Tamara’s puking slows.
I brush another flyaway back from her sweaty forehead.
“Tammy, hon? You feeling a little better?”
“Urgh,” is all she can muster up.
At least she’s stopped puking. She slumps against one wall of the bathroom stall and sighs deeply, grimacing.
There’s still a dribble of vomit running down one side of her mouth. I grab some toilet paper and rush to the marble sink to wet the corner slightly. Then I dart back to Tamara and clean her up a bit.
She just lies there, nearly lifeless, her eyes fluttering closed. It’s like cleaning up a corpse.
“Tamara.” I pat her cheek. “Hey, babe, let’s go back to your apartment okay? You can sleep when we get there.”
“No,” she whines, closing her eyes on me. “I’m so tired. Lemme rest.”
I’m somewhat reassured by the fact that she’s talking in full, coherent sentences again, and her color definitely looks better.
But she needs rest, and she’s most definitely going to have a killer hangover in the morning.
“We’re in a bathroom,” I remind her. “We’re in a club bathroom, Tam-Tam. You’ll feel better in your own bed.”
“Five more minutes,” she tells me like a petulant child. “Please? I just wanna rest…”
She trails off there, leaving me kneeling in front of her, frustrated and exhausted.
Fine. I suppose I can give her a few minutes.
I position Tamara against the wall of the stall so that she doesn’t slump over onto the ground, then I go back over to
