Thirty Minutes 

“Thirty minutes. You swear?”

“I swear to God, Nyx. Thirty minutes. I have like, two more things to do.”

I sighed, throwing my car into park. “Alright, Chris. I’ll be at the bar.”

“Okay, babe. Thirty minutes. See you soon.” I could hear Chris breathing heavily into the earpiece, throwing stuff around, voices calling his name in the background.

“Bye.” I muttered as I hung up, pushing my car door open. The Florida night air was muggy and my hair was sure to look like a goddamn Chia pet in the morning and why the fuck was I out here at this fucking bar again? Please remind me.

 Oh yeah, because my boyfriend was a bar slut and had asked that I accompany him to meet some guy he knew from back in the day (why my presence was required, I had no clue) only to call me while I was on my way over to say that he’d be a bit late and to chill for a few minutes. But when he got involved in something, Chris tended to lose track of time. Thirty minutes late was downright optimistic thinking. Yet if I were thirty minutes late to anything, he’d be climbing the walls.

But since our little almost-break up, we had been making an effort to not piss each other off, and things were going well, so I sucked it up and tried to make myself believe that it would only be thirty minutes and hopefully tonight would zoom by.

Oh, fuck it. I’m not really good at optimistic thinking, so I wasn’t fooling myself, and I sighed as I locked my car and started hurrying across the dark parking lot. Chris would be longer then thirty minutes, this mysterious guy would probably be just as late, and the two of them would be so caught up in old reminiscences that they would drink themselves retarded and I probably wouldn’t be able to get out of there until almost dawn. There was once a time when I enjoyed clubbing, but that had been ages ago and living so close to Bourbon Street had pretty much cleansed me of all urges to party all night. I was much safer drinking at home, where I knew I couldn’t get myself into trouble.

Not to mention I had work in the morning (which, in light of my most recent ‘career’ choice, was becoming more and more unbearable by the day) and was certain to be dead on my feet. The voice on the other end of the phone had instructed me to sit tight; they’d call me when and if they needed me. So even if I hated limbo, I had no choice. 

The club already had a decent line outside, but the bouncer knew me and Chris and he waved me on through. There were perks to dating a celebrity, I thought, squeezing between a cluster of frat boys at the entrance, albeit none that I particularly enjoyed taking advantage of. The club wasn’t yet packed to full capacity, so I was able to wrangle a barstool with little to no difficulty and apologized in advance to my ass for the extended amount of time I’d have to sit here. The bartender also knew Chris, or at least knew him in passing, and he came right over and asked what I wanted.

“Give me a water, babe. Meeting somebody.”

 I gave him a tired smile, and he winked at me as he slid my $4 bottled water across the counter. I paid and took a long hard sip of my water (which I wished fervently was a nice cold beer)and resigned myself to the wait. Before I had a chance to start getting antsy (which doesn’t take long) my phone vibrated in my bag and I set my water down, anxious to get to it, hoping it was Chris and he wasn’t going to be late after all.

I guess that’s when it happened. I don’t know, it all happened so fucking fast, but if there had to be a moment, I’m guessing that when I turned to grab my phone, it happened.

As it turns out, it was my mother. I briefly considered letting the call go to voicemail, because my mother was one of those people you don’t talk to when your patience is already low, but those apron strings tug tight and I answered, despite my own reluctance.

“Hey, Ma.”

“Nyx Dufrene, why the hell haven’t you called me?”

I sighed and plugged my ear, trying to block out the sound of shitty trance music.

“I’m sorry, Ma. I’ve been working a lot.”

“And you don’t have time to call your own mother? Bullshit.” My mother snorted, and I clenched my teeth.

“Sorry, Ma. What’s up?”

“You need to come home, Nyx.”

I immediately straightened in my chair. “Why? What happened? Is Autum alright?”

“No, she’s not alright.” My mom snapped, and my heart clenched.

“What? Is she in the hospital? What happened?” I demanded, envisioning a thousand scenarios-Autum dead in a car wreck with one of her slacker friends, sick, lost, pregnant.  This last thought filled me with murderous rage for this would-be impregnator, almost hopping off of my stool to drive straight back to LA and kick some fucking ass.

“She’s not at the hospital. She’s not alright cause her big sister just decided to drop everything and leave without a word.” My Mom must have gone to school and majored in Making People Feel Guilty, I swear. She was better at it then most Catholics.

I sighed in exasperated relief. “Goddamn it, Ma, don’t scare me like that. Shit.”

“I should have told you she was sick. Hell, it would have brought you home.” Now she sounded mulish, and I couldn’t believe I forgot how low my mother would sink to get me to do the things she wanted me to.

“Mom, I’m an adult. I can go where I please.” I said tiredly, and she sputtered in indignation.

“Oh, you think so? Well, I’m your mother and I’m telling your ADULT ass to come right back home. Your father’s worried sick about you and the family is pissed off.”

I wanted to throw my phone against the back of the bar, but instead I gripped the phone harder and forced myself to control my tone.

“Ma, I’m sorry if you guys are upset, but I needed to get away for awhile.”

“To FLORIDA?!” She sputtered, and I growled.

“Yes, Florida. It’s not Timbuktu.”

“Whatever you’re doing out there cannot be any more important then us.” She declared, and I cracked my knuckles.

“I never said that,” I grit my teeth and tried exhaling. It didn’t work. “it’s not like I’ll be here forever, Ma.” Chris’s face flickered in front of me as I said that, and I winced.

"You’re damn straight you won’t.  Your cousin told us you were dating some kind of celebrity and that you’re always ugly to her and that you’re planning on getting an apartment or some other shit. I really hope that it’s just Christobel exaggerating, as usual. Is it?” Mom asked sharply.

Damn you Christobel, and your big mouth.

I knew it would be pointless to lie to her and I sighed, giving up.

“Ma, I’m not sure what I’m doing, really.”

Mom harrumphed. “Well, figure it out and then get back home. You’ve got responsibilities here, Nyx. You can’t just go disappearing off into the night because things are bad. You need to get this shit out of your system and come home and settle down.  Shit, you already let Alan slip through your fingers.” I could envision her shaking her head, exasperatedly blowing out a stream of smoke from her cigarette.

What I really wanted to tell her is that this wasn’t just some childish stunt that I pulled just because I got fired or that I broke up with Alan or whatever. I wanted to tell her I ran away because of the never ending pressure, the memories of that fucking state, the same old shit from the same old people. The way I felt when August would roll around, that despite my deep love for my family, they were killing me. That part of me wasn’t really sure if I could ever go back.

But I didn’t say that. To do so would inspire a grand mal seizure, so I swallowed my tongue and like the good Greek daughter that I am, I humbly apologized.

“Okay, Ma. I’m sorry.  I didn’t want you guys to be upset at me.”

Mom sighed. “Nyx, we’re not upset, we’re worried.  We think it would be best if you came home and got some help.”

I stiffened. “What kind of help?”

“Maybe go talk to somebody. It’s not our way to hold in everything the way you do-it’s not healthy. I guess you got that from your father.” Mom sighed as if this trait was less then desirable.

“Did Christobel say that too? That I need help?” My tone was icy, and I was already running through the torture I would inflict on the bitch if she had alluded to ANY of my problems.

“Don’t get pissy with me, young lady. And no, she did not.  We’ve all thought that for a long time.” Mom scolded, and I exhaled with relief.

“Ma, I don’t need a shrink. I just need to figure out what the fuck I’m doing with myself.” I took a huge sip of my water, my mouth cottony.

“I’ll tell you what you’re going to do with yourself-get this shit out of your system, come home, get a job, find a guy and settle the hell down. I’m getting too old for this worrying bullshit, and your father won’t say it, but if you don’t come home you’re liable to give him a heart attack. You know how he worries.  And your sister could use a goddamn role model. She’s not going to school and she’s smoking pot like it’s going out of style.”

I groaned in frustration. “Fine, let me talk at her.”

“She’s not here. She’s off at the movies. I’ll make her call, and when she does, you better pick up.” Mom warned, and I clenched my water bottle.

“Yes, Ma.” She didn’t notice the sarcasm in my voice, and good thing, cause I would have gotten reamed out for that too.

Instead, she sighed tiredly.“Nyx, you drive me nuts.”

“Yeah. I know.” I said absently, thinking of how Chris would say that, all the time. It seemed to be the main emotion I brought out in people.

The DJ turned up the music louder, and I felt my back teeth vibrate in my mouth.

“Where are you?!” Mom yelled over the music, and I cupped my hand over my ear.

“In a club, Ma. I’ve gotta talk to you later!”

“-great place to be to pick up men, I swear to God, Nyx, how are you gonna pick up a good husband if you don’t-…”

“I gotta go, Ma! I love you!” I hollered, and without waiting for an answer, I clicked off my phone, letting out a deep, painful breath. I felt absolutely exhausted, which I always felt when I got off the phone with my mother. Guilt, despite my justifiable reasons for leaving LA, was like a thick blanket. She was right; I didn’t belong here. I could change the scenery and the company all I wanted, but I was still Nyx, and my problems still followed me like a homeless dog and the apron strings remained tangled around me.There was no getting around it.

I threw my phone back in my bag with a little more vigor then one needed to dispose of their cell, and I sucked down the rest of my water as if it was a twenty year old Scotch. While I was having that daunting conversation with Mommy Dearest, the club had filled up, and the dark skinned guy beside me snickered.

“Looks like that was some good water.”I smiled a little at him, but I was in no mood for small talk with an idiot that flipped up his collar and probably thought he was the Champion of the Universe after finishing the EASY level on Guitar Hero.

“Yeah, it does the job.” I gave him a sarcastic smile.

The guy turned his body toward me and smiled cockily.

“Well, how about you let me buy you something a little stronger? You look like you need it.” Inwardly, I sighed. Did I look like a girl who wanted to be hit on by some sleazy reincarnation of Enrique Iglesias?  Evidently I did.

“No thanks. I’m waiting for somebody.” I grimaced (politely, if you can) at him, and turned my attention to the front of the bar, hoping he’d get the clue and fuck off.

“Ah, the classic ‘blow off’ response. Tell me, chica, that you’re more original then that.” The little shithead sighed as if he really gave a shit about my originality, or lack thereof.

I was not in the mood. “Look, dickwad, I’ll tell you how original I am-if you keep on fucking bugging me, I’m going to grab a bottle opener and scalp your Gotti boy haircut right off of your fucking forehead. Is that original enough for you?”

SleazEnrique was not evidently used to people telling him no, and especially was not accustomed to girls threatening to scalp him in the middle of dark nightclubs. I got a split second of satisfaction as his jaw almost dragged the floor and he slunk away, muttering something like, ‘la ramera que jode’ under his breath.

“Yeah, you too, fag.” I muttered under my breath, cursing Chris under my breath for leaving me here to deal with this goddamn bullshit. I swore to myself I’d give him fifteen more minutes, and then I would call him up. Until then, I’d sit here and wonder what the fuck I was doing with myself.Fifteen minutes passed. Twenty five. Thirty. Forty five.

I should have called Chris ages ago, but I was too busy blinking in confusion at the spotlights, which had at my arrival seemed annoying but now struck me as absolutely intriguing. The music had ceased to be a bothersome screeching in my ears and it felt like someone had liquefied it and shot it into my veins. My feet itched, I wanted to dance.

Dance? I never danced in a club alone, at least not anymore. But the endlessly repetitive strains of “I Gotta Feeling” by the Black Eyed Peas was making me twitch.My mouth was dry and I gulped down the rest of my water. It tasted grainy and strange but it didn’t matter. Liquid was liquid, and I felt like I was caught between an orgasm and a full on panic attack.

I clutched at my bag as if it were the only thing keeping me afloat in this dark, writhing ocean, and I nearly jumped out of my skin when two blonde girls appeared next to me. I cringed away from them and they gave me weird looks.Something was happening, and it wasn’t normal. I blinked at my water bottle. To my knowledge the bartender hadn’t spiked it with anything. 

 The music changed to some stupid rap song and for a minute I started wondering why the hell Chris had invited me out to a place like this, anyway. Chris usually stuck to rock bars, not actual dance clubs. And when we would go out to one, he’d wear those fucking Affliction shirts and Ed Hardy hats and he’d smell so good and the faint taste of beer on his lips was always a shock to my system and oh my god I was shaking my fucking pants off. I shivered like a dog out of water, even though everyone around me was sweating through their shirts. Nobody seemed to notice my freakish behavior. Yet.

“OH MY GOD IT’S YOU!” I nearly shit myself as the screech blared in my ears, and my hands curled into fists, ready to stomp someone. But the drunk sorority girl who had raped my eardrums half staggered, half zoomed behind me to greet her friend, presumably another drunken sorority bitch, and when the wave of air in her wake brushed my hair, I froze. It felt like someone touching me with electricity in their fingers. I hesitantly reached up to touch my hair.

If you’ve ever stroked a wig, you know how unreal it feels. Well, it felt just like that. Except it felt as if I was stroking a wig made of nerve endings. And when this feeling registered in my brain, I knew.

I was rolling my fucking balls off.

While in my past I would have not given one shit less about being slipped a tab in some dark bar in my drink (hey, free tab) times had changed, and I now found myself in possibly the worst predicament, ever. I was rolling in some stupid club off of some tab containing God knows what that some jerk off had slipped into my drink when I wasn’t looking and my famous boyfriend was coming to meet me at some point and I was in an unfamiliar neighborhood in an even more unfamiliar state and for all I knew this wasn’t X but a roofie, and some crazy rapist might come up to me any minute and lead me out and holy shit holy shit holy shit I am freaking out-

Okay, Nyx. Settle the fuck down. I made myself take a very, very deep breath and close my eyes. I tried to mimic labor breathing without being too obvious. Calm the fuck down, Nyx. Assess the situation. Focus. If you’re still conscious, you need to find help.

What help, my brain argued? My face wasn’t instantly recognizable but I had been in a few magazines, and alerting someone to my plight might eventually draw a crowd. The cops would be involved. One of them would talk to the media. And when Chris showed up, he would definitely be recognized. We came to this bar often, and the bartenders, bouncers, and regular hoochies would connect him to me and vice versa. No. I could not call for help. I felt my legs trembling. They felt like rubber, alien to my body. Breathe, Nyx. Focus.

If it was a roofie, then whoever had slipped it to me was sure to approach me soon and lead me out of here under the false pretense of knowing me and ‘helping’ me out. I had to think fast. But my brain fought against the urge to stay as calm as possible. My body wanted to lose itself, and sooner or later I’d have to go with the flow.Think, Nyx. Think. Who was sitting next to you when you ordered the water? Guy? Girl? Transvestite?

I struggled to recall even the faintest memory. I didn’t spend a lot of time surveying and watching other people, so for all I knew Osama Bin Laden could have been standing next to me with his arms full of grenades and I would have been like, “Motherfucking $4 for a bottle of water.”

And then it was like a slap across the back of the head with a newspaper. The phone. I had taken my eyes off my water to fish through my bag for my phone, which had picked the most auspicious moment to lose itself in the depths of my purse. The cap to my water had been off, and providing the person was stealthy enough, one could easily have dropped the pill in my drink. I had been so wrapped up in fighting with my mother that a tiny pill dissolving in the bottom of my water would have escaped my attention completely. Fuck. So stupid.

I felt my chest starting to hitch and my heartbeat thumped in my ears. Freaking out again. Not the best option. I turned in my seat and searched desperately through the crowd, trying to find a pair of eyes that were trained on me, or at least looking sideways at my reaction. If you slip a pill in someone’s drink, you’d be watching that person to determine when to make your move. Frat boys bopped their head to the increasingly intoxicating beat of “Live Your Life” and tiny little blondes and brunettes with Cosmos in their hand laughed and swatted their beefy arms. Beyond the ring of light around the bar, I could see gyrating figures, eyes closed, sweating and laughing and drinking. Nobody seemed to be even interested in me, which was shocking because I felt as if I was standing naked in front of the whole place, brandishing a sign that said “I’m Rolling Balls, Don’t Mind Me!”

Think think think. And for God’s sakes don’t move. Plan. I needed a plan. And I needed one fast.

“I always wondered why they were called roofies. Cause you're more likely to end up on the floor than the roof. They should call em’ groundies.”

“Or rapies.” Zack Galifianakis offered, and the whole theatre exploded into raucous laughter.

But Alan wasn’t laughing. In fact, he had barely been able to concentrate since the damn movie started, almost an hour ago. Sure, it did seem funny, and on an ordinary day, when he wasn’t trying to work up the nerves to reach over and touch Lance Bass’s hand in the dark theatre, Alan was sure he would have enjoyed the film, even if he hardly ever went to the movies. But Lance’s arm was draped along the armrest and he did not seem to notice Alan’s nervousness-in fact, he was laughing his ass off at the movie. Alan, on the other hand, could feel sweat prickling the back of his neck. Lance’s hand was so close, dammit, just laying there for him to touch. Not hold, because it would be too conspicuous, but ‘accidentally on purpose’ kind of brush against it. Enough to make Lance look over at him. And Alan could stop torturing himself at night about being a pussy. Or so he hoped.

He shifted in his seat and took one last swig of his Dr. Pepper to refresh his dry mouth. He swore he could hear his heart hammering in his chest and thanked God they had picked a comedy so that no one could hear or notice his paranoia.He set down his drink in the cupholder and tried to casually shift his body so that his hand moving toward Lance’s would not look like such a big deal. Why hadn’t they gotten popcorn, Alan wondered desperately. Sure, it was cheesy, and unoriginal, but the old ‘reaching for the popcorn at the same time’ trick was exceptionally handy when you were a closeted gay trying to make a move on a famous, out of the closet gay.

Alan balanced his elbow on the armrest, keeping Lance in his peripheral vision, and rested his hand on his leg. He took a deep breath. Few more inches, Crane. He’s not looking. His hand began to move ever so slowly.

The light from the screen changed and filled the theatre with bright ‘daylight’, and Alan’s hand froze. Lance did not notice. He was too busy giggling (yes, giggling) at the sight of Justin Bartha burned to a crisp. The light did not change, despite Alan’s fervent prayers, and he was forced to make his movements nevertheless. Almost…almost…almost touching…

VVFFTT!

 VVVFFFT!

You gotta be fucking kidding me.

Alan snatched his hand away from Lance’s hand and fished hastily in his pocket, where his IPhone was buzzing angrily, swearing to God he’d castrate whoever the fuck was calling. Lance glanced over at him. Alan mouthed ‘sorry’ , grimacing. He glanced at the screen, already planning to ignore whoever the hell it was and shove the damn thing back in his pocket and try to resalvage his plan before the fucking movie ended.

But when he saw Nyx’s name above the short message, his stomach soured immediately and his heart did a bungee all the way to his toes.

Nyx Dufrene

911

He leaned over to Lance.  “I have to take this call, I’m really sorry. It’s an emergency.” He whispered desperately, and Lance, instead of looking pissed, furrowed his brow and looked worried. “Do you want me to come with you?” He mouthed, pointing at the stairs, and Alan shook his head. “I’ll be right back.” He mimed back, and Lance nodded, still looking concerned. Alan quickly stood up (thank God they were on the end of the row) and hurried down the steps, each footfall quicker then the last. Nyx had never, not in the deepest throes of her addictions, texted him for an emergency. He was more likely to find her on a front stoop after the fact, or face down on the floor somewhere. Nyx was the rarest kind of drunk-one who recognized her binges as her own fault and did not want to impose or hinder people with slurring phone calls in the middle of the night. Alan had been more exasperated by this misguided thoughtfulness then he would have by being woken up.  He wasn’t even out of the double doors before his phone was at his ear and Nyx’s ringback tone, some angry metal band screaming in his ears, the tune vaguely familiar from when she tried to get him interested in some of her music. Amen? Fold Seven? Whatever.

It kept ringing and ringing and Alan paced the length of the popcorn strewn lobby, muttering, “Pick up Nyx, pick up, pick up.”

“Alan?”

Alan’s feet came to a screeching halt on the faded carpet. “Nyx, what’s the matter, babe?”

He could hear loud rap music in the background (where the fuck was she?) and the din of laughing voices.

“I’m in trouble…Alan.” Nyx hiccupped, her voice sounding slurred and dreamy and for a moment Alan wanted to kill her, wanted to absolutely kill her. Of all nights for her to finally become inconsiderate, she had to pick this one? Where the hell was Chris?“

Are you drinking?” Alan ground out between his teeth, and Nyx huffed into the phone, sounding short of breath.

“No, Alan, I’m not drinking. Someone…” She took a deep breath. “Someoneslippedmesomething.”

“What?” Alan demanded, not hearing her over the screeching in the background.

Nyx exhaled hard. “I said, someone…someone slipped me something and I’m really freaking out over here and I can’t call Chris and he’s supposed to be here but I don’t know where he is and I’m really freaking out Alan-“

Alan felt the cold stone of terror slip into his belly. Nyx drunk was one thing. If you tried to fuck with Nyx while she was drinking, she’d most likely have your balls in a sailor’s knot before you got one word of a punchline out of your mouth. Nyx on cocaine was no different, except more jittery. But Nyx was always conscious of what she was doing when she went out, which meant she knew how to control her surroundings (as much as a drunk/drug addict knows how) and the people around her. To his knowledge, Nyx being slipped something was, incredibly, a first time occurrence. And not even Nyx could fight back if she had been slipped a roofie. This was bad.

“Nyx, how long ago did it happen? Did you see the person who did it? Do you have an idea?” Alan demanded, and he heard her hiss between her teeth.

“So…many…fuckin questions.” Her voice trailed off at the end, and Alan panicked. He had to keep her on the phone.

“Where are you?” She asked suspiciously.

“I’m at a movie theatre. Listen, Nyx, tell me where you are.”

Nyx sniggered. “You at a movie theatre? What….what the fuck are you doin at a movie theater? Don’t you hate the movies?”

Alan closed his eyes. “I’m here with Lance.”

Nyx chuckled, and the sound was deep and throaty and vibrating. She sounded stoned out of her skull. “Awww, Poofu and you are on a date? Alan and Poofu sittin in a tree, B-J-I-N-G…”

Alan felt his face getting beet red.

“Nyx, shut up!” He hissed, and Nyx immediately sobered.

“Sorry, dude. I didn’t mean to…oh God…shit…fuck your date up.”

“What’s the matter?” Alan asked anxiously, and Nyx groaned. “Alan, I’m fuckin rollin. What do you think?”

“You’re sure it’s X?” Alan muttered, his eyes flicking nervously from one end of the lobby to another. Besides a few stoned looking theatre employees sweeping up popcorn, nobody could hear him.

“I dunno, Alan. I’m really freaked the fuck out, here. I mean I don’t remember…oh God…Jesus…sorry…I turned to grab my phone and it was my mom and she was cussing me out and thirty minutes later I’m spazzing the fuck out.”

“Where’s Chris?” Alan persisted, and Nyx sighed, her breath shaky. “I don’t know. He was supposed to be here forty five minutes ago. I can’t call him like this, Alan. He’d know.  I can’t drive. I’m really fucking freaking out.”

Her voice was starting to tremble and Alan heard the tears behind her voice, and it terrified him. Nyx was notoriously cool under pressure under circumstances like this. For her to be legitimately freaked out was enough to cause Alan severe alarm.

He made himself swallow hard. He could not freak out. “Nyx, listen to me, babe. Are you listening?”

A loud yell sounded in the background and he paused. “What the fuck was that?”

Nyx laughed shakily. “They’re playin Soulja Boy.”

“Whatever. Listen, where are you? Tell me, now.”

“The…shit…The Roxy. Bennett Road.”

Alan’s heart sank. There was no way he’d be able to get in there. He had heard Christobel jabbering on the phone to someone about that place and how exclusive it was getting. Just having money wouldn’t get you in. You had to be fucking a socialite or on MTV or screwing with a famous person. Nyx was in the latter category. Of course she was in.

“Alan? Are you there?” There was a audible tone of hysteria in Nyx’s voice, and Alan grit his teeth.

“I’ll be there, Nyx. I’ll find a way, okay?”

“Oh-kay, Alan. Please hurry. I keep feeling eyes on me.” Her voice was muffled, as if she were making out with the phone in an effort to keep her words quiet, but Alan got the general idea.

“Look, just stay where you are. Try to look casual. Order another water. DON’T drink too much, though.” Alan warned, and Nyx let out another warbled laugh.

“Alan, I couldn’t move if I wanted to. I tried standing up and it was like walking on a marshmellow floor.”

“Can you text Chris?” Alan asked hesitantly, and again, that shaky snicker. “He never answers texts.”

Damn these fucking boyband members.

“Okay, just stay put, Nyx. Don’t talk to anybody. If anyone tries to fuck with you, sock them in the mouth.” Alan ordered, and she groaned.

“I’ll….I’ll try.”“I’ll be there soon. DO NOT MOVE.”

Nyx muttered something as she hung up, but it was unintelligible and Alan stared at his phone in his hand, his mind racing, his stomach hurting, frustration and horror and anger and love warring within him. Damn Nyx. Damn Chris. And damn whoever it was for slipping that stupid pill into her fucking drink and ruining everyone’s fucking night. Damn damn damn, he hated being the nice guy.

The theatre doors sprang open and people started filing out into the previously deserted lobby, laughing, talking, pushing each other. Alan was still standing there in shock when Lance appeared out of nowhere.

“Alan?”He jumped and blinked up at Lance, who was looking at him strangely. Up until this point he had forgotten all about Lance, which was strange, because only moments earlier all he had been nervous about was reaching over and touching his fucking hand. Alan realized how silly this fear was in retrospect to the current situation.

“Are you alright?” Lance demanded, and Alan bit his lip. Lying to Lance would do no good, but how are you supposed to tell the famous gay man that you have a massive crush on that your ex girlfriend (who was the same girl dating your equally famous ‘boyband brother’) was at some bar rolling her ass off because some jackass had slipped her ecstasy, or God forbid, a roofie? Yeah, not so easy. But Alan could not lie to him.

“That was Nyx on the phone. She’s in trouble.” Alan said tersely, motioning for Lance to follow him down the clogged hallway. Lance immediately followed, but not before bumping into a small girl in skinny jeans, who stared up at him with wide eyes. Lance gave her a quick smile of apology and hurried to keep pace with Alan, who was trying to get around a slow moving Asian couple.

“What kind of trouble, dude? Isn’t Chris with her?”

Alan shook his head. “No, he was supposed to meet her at that nightclub Roxy, I guess, but he’s not there yet. She thinks...” Alan took a deep breath. “She thinks someone slipped her a pill.”

Lance’s pale green eyes widened to saucer size, but he kept up his pace. “What kind of pill?” Lance demanded, and Alan shrugged helplessly. “She says it might be Ecstasy, but Lord knows what it could be.”

They finally made it out to the parking lot and Alan gratefully sucked in huge amounts of cool night air. He turned to face Lance.

“I have to go get her, Lance. I’m really sorry…” He began to say, but Lance shook his head. “Alan, don’t even go there. And besides, I’m coming with you.

”Alan’s mouth dropped and it was a few seconds before he could choke out, “Why?”

Lance sighed with good natured exasperation. “Why? Because it’s Chris’s girlfriend in trouble, that’s why. And I like Nyx and I know how much she means to you both. So don’t give me any shit, Alan, okay?”

“Okay.” Alan said, cowed, and Lance motioned for him to follow his lead into the brightly lit parking lot.“What car do you want to take?”

“Mine.” Alan said, and Lance nodded, changing directions and allowing Alan to lead him to the Prowler. They slid inside the cool cab of the car and Lance had barely buckled his seatbelt before Alan shot out of the parking lot, praying that Nyx listened to him for once in her life and stayed her cute ass put.

“How does she know it’s Esctasy?” Lance asked quietly, and Alan exhaled in a loud rush. “She did it in high school. And if she hadn’t, the symptoms are pretty well known these days, right?” He could not meet Lance’s eyes as he said this and was grateful that he was driving, silently thinking that Nyx could write a book on Ecstasy if she wanted to.  “You’re really worried, aren’t you?” Lance murmured, and Alan nodded tersely, keeping his eyes on the road.

“She’s never sounded that scared before. Nyx can usually take care of herself.”

“I have to call Chris, Alan.” Lance said quietly.Alan bit his lip. “I know. Go ahead.”

Lance dug his cell phone out of his pocket, pressed a few buttons, and held it on the side of his head. The cab of the Prowler was filled with tense silence as the phone rang on speakerphone, but all they got was Chris’s voicemail, and Lance cursed.

“Fucking Chris never picks up the phone.”

“Are you going to leave a voicemail?” Alan asked, and Lance rolled his eyes. “He never checks his voicemail, either. I think all he bought that phone for is to prove he’s cool and not ‘the old guy’.”

Alan chuckled despite the situation.“I have no fucking clue how I’m going to get into this fucking nightclub.” He groaned, and Lance snorted.

“Um, excuse me?”

Alan looked over. Lance’s eyebrows were almost touching his hairline. “What?”

“I’m kind of like, a big deal?” Lance rolled his eyes, and Alan flushed bright red, not noticing the way Lance was pressing his lips together to keep from laughing..

“Jesus Christ, I’m sorry, dude.”Lance started giggling. “Dude, calm down. Your face was priceless.”

Alan took a deep breath. “I do need to calm down. It’s just…ugh, how could Chris leave her alone in that place?”

Lance stiffened in his seat. “Look, Alan, Chris evidently thinks that Nyx can handle herself, as do you, most of the time. It’s not like he’s purposely being late.” For the first time since they had been hanging out, Lance’s ever present smile had been replaced by a scowl. Alan realized too late that criticizing Chris had not been the smartest decision.

“Ugh, dude, I know. I’m sorry, I don’t mean to down Chris. I’m just fucking up everywhere.”  The Prowler lurched to a stop at a red light and Alan smacked his head lightly against the steering wheel, trying to remember to breathe. There was a pause, and all of a sudden Lance’s hand was on his leg. Why was Lance’s hand on his leg? And for that matter, why was Lance’s hand curling around Alan’s? And why the hell was Alan about to pass out?

It was just everything he’d been dreaming about for weeks.Alan slowly turned his head to look at the other man, who was watching Alan’s reaction with a small smile. Lance’s hand was warm and big and it felt…right. Like for once, it wasn’t a square peg trying to fit into a round hole.  Ugh! Horrible analogy! Alan shook that out of his head and would have continued gaping at Lance had the other man not squeezed his hand.

“Green light.” Lance said softly, and Alan looked at the road dumbly. What was he supposed to do, again?

A horn honked behind them and Alan jumped and hit the gas. The Prowler shot forward with a resounding growl, and instead of fearing for his life, Lance just chuckled.

“Let’s try not to kill ourselves before we get there. If something happens to Nyx, Chris will drown us both in his pool.”

Alan blinked at him in horror.

"He will?”

Lance shrugged. “Can you swim?”

Alan nodded, trying to not think of Chris’s face if something happened to Nyx. The man had sung in a cheesy boyband and was affable enough, but he was a stocky guy and Alan had no doubt that he could inflict damage, if need be.

 “Doesn’t matter. Chris is like a spider monkey. I love the man, but I do not want to die with his limbs wrapped around me. So, for the sake of both of our lives, and Nyx’s, please get us to Roxy in one piece.”

“But your hand…” Alan choked, the words barely making it out of his mouth, and Lance smiled mischievously.

“Want me to move it?”Alan swallowed. Do it, you pussy.

His fingers curled around Lance’s, warm and big and soft. The way he knew it would feel.

"If you do, I’ll make Chris drown you anyway.” He threatened.

Lance snickered. “Took you long enough. I was wondering if you’d ever get around to it in the damn movie theatre.”

Alan tore his eyes from the road and goggled at him.Lance sighed dramatically. “Should have bought popcorn.”

It’s official, Alan thought, narrowly missing a red light. I’m in love with Lance fucking Bass.

 “We’re here.” Lance said suddenly, and Alan, ripped rudely out of this momentous epiphany, stared out of the window.

“Please tell me you’re kidding.” He said weakly.

“Nope.” Lance sighed.“She’s in there?” Alan groaned. The entire place was overrun with people. The line extended halfway around the building, and instead of discouraging newcomers, the line at valet was steadily growing longer and longer.

“How the hell are we going to get in there?” Alan demanded, and Lance turned towards him, his expression wounded.“A little faith, please.”

Alan blushed. “Right.”

“Just park, Alan.” Lance rolled his eyes, and Alan, still the color of a tomato, could only obey.

Before they had even pulled into the growing valet line, Lance was on his phone, speaking rapidly to a person on the other end. And not even a nanosecond after he snapped his phone closed, there was a tall red haired guy hurrying towards the Prowler, even though they were in no way next in line.  Lance rolled down the window as the guy peered into the Prowler.

“Damn Lance, nice ride. How many cars you got now, dude?” The man asked, shaking Lance’s hand.Lance smiled.

“Not my car, man, but thanks. Listen, can you do me a favor?”

“Anything for you, dude. You know that.” The valet cracked his gum and winked at Lance. Alan wanted to kick him in the balls.

“You remember Chris, right? Chris Kirkpatrick?” Lance asked, and the guy laughed. “Dude, Chris is the shit. Of course I know him. Fucking Kirkpatrick. Remember that time-”

“Well, his girlfriend’s in there, and he called us to come and keep her company while he’s stuck in traffic. You want to take this car off our hands and park it for us?” Lance asked this so sweetly that his rude interruption went unnoticed, and Alan couldn’t blame the valet guy for winking at him again. Lance could have asked him to wash the entire parking lot with his tongue and Alan would have done it gladly, as long as Lance asked him with that seductive note in his voice.

 “I could get in big trouble for that, but fuck it. Anything for you and Chris. Get on out of the car, dude.”

Alan could not believe his luck as they slid out of the Prowler and handed over the keys to the valet, who ignored the angry cacophony of horns behind them and slid behind the wheel. As they hurried up towards the club, Alan smirked.

 “Pretty smooth. He a friend of yours?” He didn’t mean to put so much emphasis on the word ‘friend’, but he couldn’t help it.

Lance snorted. “He’s a tool. I got his girlfriend Taylor Swift tickets. He owes me one."

Alan could not explain the relief he felt. I guess Nyx was right, he thought, hurrying up the steps to the club. Dating a celebrity definitely had some perks. Who would have ever seen the day when Alan would be impressed by somebody else’s influence?

Lance stopped in his tracks and Alan almost ran into the back of him. “I really hope I did a favor for the bouncer.” He sighed.

“What-“ Alan’s jaw almost hit the floor as he saw the crowd of paparazzi clogging the entrance to the club. One turned around and saw Lance. And before he could run, or faint, or scream, a wall of paparazzi was rushing towards them, flashbulbs popping, questions erupting. Alan thought of his old man watching the news on his dining room plaza, seeing this, and falling over into his breakfast. His bank account emptied in front of his eyes. Life as Alan Crane knew it was probably over.

Nyx. You owe. me. so. fucking. big.

Should I stay or should I go now?
Should I stay or should I go now?
If I go there will be trouble
An if I stay it will be double
So come on and let me know

This indecisions bugging me
Esta undecision me molesta
If you dont want me, set me free
Si no me quieres, librame
Exactly whom Im supposed to be
Diga me que tengo ser
Dont you know which clothes even fit me?
saves que robas me querda?
Come on and let me know
Me tienes que desir
Should I cool it or should I blow?

"Should I Stay Or Should I Go" by the Clash