“Fuck!” he shouts from behind his helmet. His shoulders sag, and he walks over to the door, sitting down with a dejected sigh.
“Sorry!” I call out, scampering into a bush just in time for Kian-Chewbacca to come lumbering past. I let him go and turn in the opposite direction, hoping to surprise him on the other side of the room.
He gets me first and I groan as my last light goes out.
Pressing a soundbar on his costume, Chewbacca’s triumphant roar rings out, and Kian does a little dance as the winner.
Ripping his costume head off, he pulls Jase to his feet and plants a wet kiss on his mouth. Jase pushes him off, laughing, and we dump our costumes in the box, ready to check out level three.
As we wait for the elevator, Kian asks, “Are you having fun?”
“Absolutely. I never knew something like this existed. Thanks for bringing me out tonight. You were right, I needed some fun.”
“We’re not done yet,” Kian informs as the doors open. Pressing the button for level three, laser lights in electric pink, blue, and purple start crisscrossing around the elevator, while Lady Gaga’s “Just Dance” plays.
When we arrive, we find an employee at a counter, various baskets in front of her. “It’s eighties-themed tonight,” she informs us, gesturing toward the baskets. “Help yourself.”
The baskets are full of glow-in-the-dark bracelets, neon glow sticks, and light-up necklaces. I pull out some necklaces and drape them over Jase’s neck, then add some to Kian’s. They do the same for me, piling me high with bracelets and necklaces.
Jase pulls open the heavy door, the darkened room beyond nothing more than a mass of shadows and heaving bodies. The only light comes from the glow-in-the-dark paint splattered across the walls, and the hugeI Love 80sneon light sculpture decorating the wall behind the DJ. Next to the door is a glowing stand covered in headphones.
I look around, a huge smile spreading across my face. “I’ve always wanted to go to a silent disco!” We put our headphones on, the sound of Michael Jackson’s "Billie Jean" pumping out of them.
We join the crowd, everyone lit up with their necklaces and bracelets, some songs dancing close and dirty, other times dancing apart, our gazes locked. Frankie Goes To Hollywood joins Wham and Madonna, Whitney Houston, and Rick Astley. There’s a collective groan when the DJ RickRolls us, but no one stops dancing.
He even plays a few slow songs, letting couples slow dance while others take a break to grab drinks from the bar. I leave the boys alone to dance during these, not wanting to be in the way. They’ve never treated me like a third wheel tonight, just like I was one of them, and my chest warms at their kindness. Kian sensed I needed some way to work off the stress and provided a fun-filled night of friendly competition, dancing, and drinking.
I watch them dance together as I down a bottle of water, their love obvious as they stare into each other’s eyes and mouth the lyrics to “Time of Your Life.”
When we’re finally danced out, we head to the car, and this time, it’s Jase’s turn to tell his story.
Chapter 17
Dutch
IsitquietlyasJase begins to speak. His voice is low, and my heart breaks listening to him speak.
“My childhood was a riot of noise and desperation. Of dirt and terror and pain and uncertainty.I don’t remember my mother. I saw a picture of her once when I was very small. I had kept it under my pillow until my father found it and tore it up, ranting about her leaving him. I remember thinking she was beautiful, with her long dark hair and deep brown eyes. She was sitting next to another lady, and her eyes were sad.
“Father said it was my fault she died when I was just a few months old. That she hated taking care of me, so went out and caught the disease that took her from us. I never found out what disease, or when exactly she passed away. But I always felt as if a little part of my soul was missing and was sure the piece was shaped like her.”
Jesus. What is wrong with parents? Why do they do this to their children? I grit my teeth, angry on Jase’s behalf.
Jase pauses for a moment, then continues. “My childhood didn’t come with birthday parties and friends, laughter and pats on the back. There were no loud proclamations of, ‘That’s my boy!’ or even quiet ones of, ‘I love you, Son.’ My father was too busy chasing the next high, rarely sober for more than half a day at a time. When things were going well, we had a roof over our heads. When we didn’t, we slept under bridges or on park benches.”
“Never again,” Kian declares and Jase huffs a laugh.
“My clothes were filthy, covered in holes, my hair an unruly afro other children would tease me about. My school had a breakfast club and a lunch program, and those days I ate what I could, knowing dinner would either come from a dumpster or not at all. The gym teacher often took pity on me, letting me shower after class. Another couldn’t help but notice my situation, and a couple of times per year would tuck a bag of clothes and a pair of used shoes in my locker.
“At the time, shame would deeply pierce my gut, charity not something I wanted to accept. I did anyway, and even at a young age, as I would tear into the free breakfast burrito and a small bowl of fruit provided by the breakfast club, I promised myself that one day, I would no longer be hungry. My hair would be well-kept, and I would wear fine suits, like those men I would see carrying their briefcases and coffee cups, on their way to make money. I promised myself I would never beg for food again, never wear clothes with holes. And I would never, ever again be in the position for someone to sell me.”
Yep, there it goes. My heart just disintegrated into tiny pieces. I lean forward and squeeze his shoulder. Not to offer pity but support.
Jase continues,“When we were at our most desperate, my father shaking with the tremors of withdrawal, and not a penny left to our name, he would pimp me out. Anything for another hit.‘Just one. I promise, Jase. That’s all I need. One more hit, then I’ll get clean. Do this for your old man. You owe me,’ he would tell me, playing on my guilt.
“I stopped fighting eventually. Closed my eyes and sent my brain away. Ignored the rough hands and even rougher cocks. Ignored the sweaty, grunting, stinking bastards that used me and tossed me away, while my father would stand nearby, fidgeting, desperate for the twenty dollars that would get thrown his way.
“Everything changed when I was sixteen. I awoke one morning, the tent we were living in at the back of an alley eerily quiet. The usual coughing and snoring were silent, and just for one moment, a feeling of elation rushed through me. I kept my eyes closed for what seemed like an eternity, before letting out a shaky breath and opening them. My father stared back at me, eyes glazed over and unseeing, vomit still clinging to his chin.”
