Distract me

The club is packed, bodies pressed together in a rhythmic mass, moving to the deep, pulsing bass that rattles the walls. Strobes of neon blue and red cut through the dim haze, flashing over sweat-slick skin and glossy lips parted in laughter or lust. The air is thick—cigarette smoke, perfume, spilled tequila. It smells like bad decisions and freedom, like escape.

I need this.

I push through the entrance, my heart already racing—not from excitement, but from the coke buzzing in my bloodstream. It sharpens everything, makes the lights too bright, the music too loud, but I welcome it. I want to feel everything tonight.

The bar is my first stop.

"Three shots of tequila," I tell the bartender, barely waiting for him to set them down before I toss the first one back. It burns a path down my throat, but I don't flinch. The second is easier, the third like water. I slam the glass down and wipe my mouth, exhaling slowly as the warmth spreads through my chest.

Now I'm ready.

I scan the club, my eyes finally settling on the VIP section in the back, a raised platform guarded by two large bouncers. The couches are velvet, dark against the glow of the bottle-service candles. Our group is sprawled across them—Freddie laughing loudly, Tara leaning into some guy's ear, a few backup dancers already deep in their own nights. And then there's her.

Stefani sits near the edge of the couch, a drink in hand, her long platinum hair falling over one shoulder. She looks effortlessly cool, relaxed—at least to anyone who doesn't know her. But I do know her. And I can tell by the way she grips the glass, the way she barely moves when I walk up, that she's anything but relaxed.

I barely acknowledge her.

A quick wave, a flick of my wrist, and then I turn to Tara instead, sinking into the couch beside her.

"Finally," she whines, hooking an arm around me. "Took you long enough. Where were you?"

I smirk. "Getting ready to be the hottest person in this club."

Freddie lets out a dramatic ooooh, and Tara laughs, squeezing my knee. "Mission accomplished, babe."

I lean back, stretching an arm along the back of the couch, letting the tequila and the coke settle into my bones. The music is relentless, a deep house beat that vibrates through my chest, and I let it take over. My body sways, my hips rolling to the rhythm.

I feel eyes on me.

I know who it is.

But I don't look. I won't give her that.

Instead, I let my movements become slower, more deliberate, my fingers grazing the exposed skin of my thighs as I move. The world is pulsing, warm, weightless. I close my eyes, letting the moment consume me.

Then—hands on my waist.

A breath against my ear.

"Miss me?"

I smirk before I even turn.

The blonde slides against me, pressing close, her perfume sweet and sharp like citrus and vodka. She moves my hair off my shoulder, her fingers trailing the bare skin there.

"Thought you left," I murmur, tilting my head so her lips are closer to my neck.

"Thought I'd give you a chance to miss me," she purrs.

Tara and Freddie make a scene, squealing and clapping like we're their favorite soap opera. But I barely hear them. My pulse is thrumming, my body reacting before my mind can even process it.

The blonde pulls me onto the dance floor, and I let her.

The music swallows us whole.

Her hands roam over my body, guiding my movements, but I'm already lost in the rhythm, letting it control me. Our bodies press together, heat radiating between us, sweat slicking our skin. Her lips find mine, and I let her take what she wants.

Her kiss is messy, hungry, tequila-laced.

And I let it happen.

Because I need it to happen.

Because if I focus on her, if I focus on the way her nails scrape against my back, on the way her tongue flicks against mine, then I don't have to think about her.

I don't have to think about Stefani.

The blonde grabs my wrist, tugging me toward the back of the club. I already know where this is going, and I don't stop her. The hallway is dark, lit only by the flickering neon sign above the restrooms. We push inside, and the moment the door swings shut, she's lifting herself onto the counter, pulling me between her legs.

Her mouth is on mine again, desperate now, her fingers fisting in my hair. My hands grip her thighs, dragging up the fabric of her dress. The bass from the club pounds against the walls, matching the rhythm of my heartbeat.

Then—BANG.

The door flies open, slamming against the wall so hard that the mirror shakes.

The blonde yelps, jerking back, and I snap my head around.

And there she is.

Stefani.

Her chest is rising and falling rapidly, her hands clenched into fists at her sides. Her pupils are blown wide, and for a second, I think she's high too. But then I realize—no.

She's just furious.

The blonde quickly straightens her dress, slipping off the counter. "I'll wait for you outside," she mutters before slipping past Stefani, disappearing down the hallway.

And now it's just us.

I drag my hand over my face, exhaling sharply. "What the fuck, Stefani?"

She doesn't answer right away. She just stares at me, her jaw so tight I think she might break a tooth.

"What the fuck are you doing?" she finally spits.

I let out a bitter laugh. "You can't be serious."

The tension between us is unbearable, thick enough to strangle me. The bathroom door swings shut behind me, sealing us inside, but I can still hear the bass outside, the muffled laughter, the world spinning on like nothing is happening.

But this—this feels like everything.

Stefani stares at me like she wants to burn a hole through my skull. Her hands are balled into fists, her whole body coiled tight, barely containing the rage simmering beneath the surface.

"You don't get to act like this," I snap. "You don't get to walk in here like I fucking owe you something."

She lets out a humorless laugh, shaking her head. "I don't get to act like this? Are you fucking kidding me?"

I take a step closer, reckless. "Yes, Stefani. You don't. I made it clear we were nothing. That this was a one time thing. So what the fuck do you care who I'm with?"

Her jaw tightens, her nostrils flaring as she breathes in sharp, shallow bursts. She looks at me like she wants to say something, like she needs to say something—but she doesn't. She just stands there, vibrating with anger, with frustration, with something else.

I push again. "What's wrong, Stefani? Can't stand to see me with someone else? Besides, don't you have a boyfriend?"

I expect her to snap back. I want her to snap back. I want her to fight, to give me something to latch onto because I am spiraling, and I don't know how to stop.

But she doesn't yell.

She lunges.

Before I can react, she's on me. Her hands are in my hair, her body pressing me back against the sink, and then—her mouth is on mine.

It's not soft. It's not sweet. It's raw, angry.

She kisses me like she's trying to prove something. Like she's trying to punish me for making her feel this way. Like she hates the hold I have over her just as much as I hate the hold she has over me.

I don't stop her.

I can't stop her.

Because the second her lips crash into mine, the second her teeth scrape against my bottom lip, something inside me snaps.

I grab her hips and pull her closer, kissing her back with the same fury, the same desperation. It's messy, frantic, our mouths clashing as we claw at each other, as if we can't decide if we want to push each other away or pull each other under.

Her hands slide down my body, gripping my waist so tight it almost hurts, her nails digging into my skin through my dress. My fingers tangle in her platinum hair, yanking her head back just enough so I can drag my lips along her jaw, down her throat.

She lets out a strangled sound, her breath hitching as I bite down, as I mark her the way she marked me.

"Lena," she gasps, and fuck—hearing my name like that, ragged and needy, sends a fresh wave of heat through me.

I don't know how we got here.

I don't know how I went from hating her, from wanting to scream at her, to needing her like this.

But I do.

I need her.

I need her hands on me, her mouth on me, the way she makes me feel like I'm unraveling and coming alive all at once.

But then—

She pulls back.

Her breathing is ragged, her pupils blown wide, her lips swollen from kissing me.

"Fuck," she mutters, running a hand through her hair. "Fuck, Lena—"

She takes a step back like she needs space, like she needs air, but all I can do is stare at her, my chest rising and falling too fast, my hands still tingling from touching her.

I swallow hard, forcing words past the lump in my throat. "You don't get to do that."

Her eyes snap back to mine. "Do what?"

"That," I say, motioning between us. "You don't get to kiss me like that."

She exhales sharply, her hands gripping the edge of the sink. "I don't—I don't know what this is."

I let out a bitter laugh, shaking my head. "That's the problem, isn't it? We can't do this."

She doesn't say anything.

And I can't fucking do this.

So I shove past her, yanking the door open and stepping into the club, the music hitting me like a slap to the face.

I don't look back.

I can't.

I step out of the bathroom and into the pulsing heat of the club, my skin still buzzing from her touch. The music pounds through my chest, tequila burning in my throat, sweat dampening the curls at the back of my neck. My body is still wired, still reeling from the way Stefani's mouth felt on mine.

I need a drink. I need something to wash this away, to drown out the way my hands are shaking.

Freddi and Tara are in the VIP section, drinks in hand, laughing at something. Tara spots me first, eyes flashing with curiosity as I grab another shot off the tray.

"Where'd you disappear to?" she asks, raising an eyebrow.

I toss the tequila back and let it burn before answering. "Nowhere."

Freddi smirks. "You were in the bathroom for a while."

I roll my eyes and shake my head, refusing to take the bait. If I tell them what just happened, if I admit it out loud, then it becomes real.

And it can't be real.

Not again.

I turn toward the dance floor, trying to lose myself in the beat, in the haze of bodies moving against each other. The blonde is still here somewhere. Maybe I can find her. Maybe I can prove to myself that Stefani doesn't mean anything. That last night, that kiss, was just a mistake.

But as I sway my hips, letting the rhythm take over, I feel her before I even see her.

Stefani.

Her presence is magnetic, like a gravity I can't escape.

I glance over my shoulder, and there she is, standing at the edge of the section, arms crossed, watching me like a predator stalking its prey. She's barely touching her drink, her jaw tight, her lips parted just enough like she wants to say something—but she doesn't. She just watches.

I turn away, forcing myself to ignore her, to pretend like she's not unraveling me with just a look.

The blonde finds me before I find her, her hands sliding around my waist as she presses herself against my back. I let my body melt into hers, let her hands roam, let her mouth graze my shoulder.

I can feel the tension crackling from where she stands, can practically hear her grinding her teeth.

It's working.

The blonde tilts my chin up, her lips ghosting over mine. "You taste like tequila," she murmurs, smiling against my mouth.

I don't answer. I just let her kiss me.

And then—

A hand wraps around my wrist.

Firm. Unrelenting.

Stefani.

"Come with me," she says, her voice tight, barely controlled.

I rip my arm away. "No."

She clenches her jaw. "Lena—"

"You don't get to do this," I snap, stepping back. "We can't do this."

Her eyes darken. "I want you."

My stomach twists, but I force myself to stay composed. "Well, I don't want you."

I see the flicker of hurt flash across her face before she schools it back into indifference.

She steps closer, lowering her voice. "Really?"

I hold my ground, even though my heart is hammering against my ribs. "Yes."

She studies me for a moment, her gaze flicking down to my lips, lingering there for just a second too long.

Then, without another word, she turns and walks away.

I should be relieved.

I should feel victorious.

But instead, all I feel is this sinking, aching pull—like I just let something slip through my fingers that I'll never be able to get back.