SOL - Done it Again Part 6

“Come on,” you say tiredly.

Olivia eagerly climbs into the car. Altruism? Or does she just not want to spend the night at Loser Camp? Even if it’s the latter, you can’t blame her. You need to get away from all this too.

But you are a limp rag of misery and Olivia is not. By letting her into the car, you gave up control. You don’t have the energy to resist her. Your plan had been to have something to eat, probably a few drinks, and go to sleep in a hotel somewhere hoping that your head would be clearer tomorrow.

Instead you end up buying dresses and shoes so you can go to the club together. Olivia’s pushiness forces a little of your old self to awaken; you are not about to wear the dress that she’s trying to push on you. You have a look for the club, and that’s what you go with: artfully ripped white jeans, sexy boots, and a soft, tight black top with no bra.

Olivia, meanwhile, gets ridiculous spikes and an even more ridiculous tiny, glittery dress. She can barely move in it without showing her underwear, but she does not seem worried about that.

You draw a firm line at going to a salon first, and compromise by letter her do your makeup.

Roughly three hours after you leave camp, you’re in the hottest club this city has to offer. American clubbing doesn’t impress you much after some of the spots you’ve been to, but you’re just along for the ride. Pink and blue lights flash as Olivia drags you around. She’s searching for the best light for photographs. You are so used to clubs that it’s automatic: you check out the women, dodge people trying to spill drinks on you, and tune out the repetitive music.

“I just want a drink,” you say, trying to pull away.

“No, no, no,” she says, dragging you onto the dance floor. Her read on you is perfect. She knows that her body in this dress is enough to break through your mood, and she spends just enough time dancing close to you to make that point… then she’s off again. She doesn’t want to mess up her hair before pictures.

You help her with several photos and selfies together and only when that’s all done does she finally let you go to the bar and gulp down a cocktail. Despite everything, your jeans are holding a half-chub. It’s hard to avoid when you’re squeezing together with her for all those photos and she’s striking those poses. Now there’s a little layer of sweat on her, gleaming on her exposed cleavage and shoulders. A few hairs are out of place. It’s easy to see why she has so many followers. Her beauty, her energy, and her one-in-a-million physique are the perfect storm.

“So,” she says, meeting your eyes after she’s finished her first drink. “What is the problem, Adella?”