CASSIUS

My fingers twitch when I see the coke. At one point, I partook. Pretty heavily, if I'm being honest. I know what goes on back here – it's encouraged, really – but I have questions for fake ID girl, and I don't feel like dealing with a bunch of strung-out partiers while I get the answers.

While everyone else has the good sense to dip out when I demanded they clear the room, she doesn't move from the table or even acknowledge that I'm here. Maybe the drugs made her forget all the times I've dragged her through the club and practically threw her out the back door into the alleyway.

I sit across from her, the chair slightly too small for me to get decently comfortable. There are still remnants of powder smeared across the table and I'm trying my best to focus on the girl instead of staring at it. The chair making a ridiculous creaking sound isn't helping either.

Quitting cold turkey had always been a challenge for me but, as I've said before, humans are resilient. I haven't caved yet and I have no plans to give up the fight tonight either.

Her eyes meet mine without the hesitation I'm used to seeing from other people. This is something I've gotten eerily used to. She never falters, even when I'm pulling her towards the door.

Strikingly pale green, like the color of sea glass. An unsettling contrast to her curly black hair, light olive skin, and dark, arched eyebrows. I don't know how many times I've almost asked if she's wearing contacts because I've just never seen anything like it.

"Ally? Rebecca? Jennifer?" I list a few of the names from some of her previous fake IDs, finding myself trying to break my own focus from her eyes.

The right side of her mouth twists up in a sly smile and she sits upright in her seat. Digging through her purse, she pulls out a driver's license and slides it over to me with a triumphant grin.

"Sorry to ruin your night, but it's real this time." She teases.

I glance down at the name. Quinn Rousseau. I slide the plastic card back to her and she tucks it away, immediately meeting my eyes again. She raises a brow like she's expecting me to leave now that I have no reason to toss her this time.

"Well, Quinn, I think you left your phone at the bar."

Digging in my pocket, I retrieve her outdated cell phone and spin it across the table. It catches on a splintered piece of wood.

"Someone named Ethan Dickface was calling."

She smirks again, this time with a sense of pride dancing in her eyes. Tapping a few things out on her phone, she raises it to her ear and waits for someone to answer.

"Your girlfriend, Skylar, is here. Maybe you should try calling her instead. Ya know, she isn't very good at conversation, Ethan." Quinn chides into the phone.

My stomach twists into knots at her words. Not long ago, Skylar was my girlfriend. Now she's with someone else, like all those years together and all that hell she put me through wasn't even a second thought in her head.

I'm not mad that she moved on because I'm still hung up on her romantically. I'm fucking furious that she might be victimizing another guy.

"Uh-huh. Yeppers. Okay, bye!" She replies to dickface before hanging up and shoving the phone in her purse like a used tissue.

"I'm sorry he hurt you."

Immediate embarrassment floods through me but it was all I could manage to say as my eyes fixate on the drugs lost in the crevices of the wooden table. I don't really know this girl, but I know how it feels to be in her position. We got cheated on, and now, strangely, our exes seem to be together. I guess I feel a weird connection to her?

She snorts out a laugh and I glance up at her, feeling even more idiotic.

"What?"

"He didn't hurt me." She spits out.

"Sooo, him cheating on you with Skylar didn't hurt you? Yeah, okay." The confusion in my voice is evident.

"That's what men do." She replies matter-of-factly.

Her statement throws me for a loop. I want to argue back, tell her that's not true, that women cheat too, but something tells me she doesn't care to listen to anything I have to say at the moment. I've noticed her pupils slowly growing more and more dilated and I'm beginning to feel a bit envious because I know what's coursing through her body right now.

I never did get to ask my question.

QUINN

Ever since buzzkill beast...well, killed my buzz a few weeks ago, I feel like he's always watching me or something. He somehow keeps intercepting my trips to the conference room before I even know that's where I'm headed in the first place.

Even when his eyes aren't boring holes through my face, it's like he still knows where I'm at. I should find this comforting, right? Seeing as how he's the guardian of this place. Wrong-o.

It makes me feel friggin weird. Especially when the conversation always turns into him asking if he can ask me something. Who does that?! Just ask if you want to ask! But nooo, Mr. Ask Before Asking just keeps...asking to ask. So, I don't let him.

Okay, I need a pick me up to get this brain in tip-top shape. Off to see the wizard, the wonderful wizard of shnoz candy! I manage to sneak past Cassius while he's distracted by the lady tending the bar in the back of the building.

Two hours later, the conference room is cleared out except for me and beast man. The usual. His lips are moving, and I think he said something about "you're killing yourself with this shit", but really all I hear is the buzz of a flickering light above us. They really should fix that thing.

If Cassius were an animal, he'd be a bear. No, bears are too hairy. I'd say a giraffe, but they're too lanky. Oh! If a bear and a giraffe had a baby, its name would be Cassius Moretti. Tall, strong, intimidating, and beautiful.

His attire always hangs loosely from his body, but he's not fooling anyone. There's no hiding those muscles behind baggy fabric. Trust me, his huge arms have been wrapped around me plenty of times while he carted me off.

There's no pretending his sharp jawline doesn't exist either. And those dark sapphire eyes with flecks of grey are fierce enough to demand respect. He's just yummy in every way. Well, except that personality of his. He's got the whole black licorice flavor thing going on in that department, so he's most definitely an acquired taste.

"Bearaffe." I blurt out. "Girbear. No – no, definitely not. Bearaffe is better."

It makes sense to me, but he stares at me like I just spoke another language. I don't bother explaining why he's a bearaffe because my brain is already moving on to the next thought process. Which is why the hell is he back here again?

"Did I do something?"

Did I? because the only answer I have for myself is that he's here to kick me out per usual. I just don't know what I did to warrant it this time.

"What do you mean?" he asks, scrunching his eyebrows together.

"Like, why are you back here? Shouldn't you be out there doing Batman shit? Watching over Shadow to make sure it's free of crime? Swooping down to eliminate the villains?" I swish my hand through the air like I'm karate chopping something.

"Batman shit." He repeats flatly. He doesn't have a clue what I'm talking about.

"Forget it. Are you kicking me out?" I get straight to the point, my high already dimming under the weight of his stare.

"Not this time." He shakes his head. "I actually wanted to ask you something."

Oh my god. This again. Might as well just get this out of the way so he stops with this nonsense. I lean forward, squinting as I examine his expression.

"Alright, I'm curious. What's the question?"

He hesitates, looks down at the remnants of coke on the table for the billionth time, and takes a deep breath before making eye contact again. I wonder if he's allowed to indulge in the party favors while he works. Poor guy seems to really want some.

"I'm assuming you and Ethan aren't together anymore."

"One, that wasn't a question. Two, duh. And three, my interest is fading." I retort with a fake yawn.

I lean back and start to gather my belongings, ready to move on with my night.

"Are they together?" He spouts out right as I stand up.

"Who?"

"Ethan and Skylar." His voice is strained when he says their names, like it physically pains him to say them out loud.

I ease back down into my seat. This is so not a conversation I wanted to have. What a buzzkill. Again.

"I don't know. Why does it matter? Are you interested in her?"

His eyes flicker with rage but it fades as quickly as it came. Now this is interesting.

"You know, if you just go talk to her, I'm sure she'd give you a chance. I barely know her, but I have a feeling she'd be down for a good time, if you know what I mean." I shrug and wink after stating my opinion.

He shoots up from the table and the wooden edge digs into my ribs, making me wince with pain. I recoil the slightest bit, waiting for the moment his anger comes in the form of a fist. Guess some reactive instincts never fade. His hand grips the table, and he scoots it back away from me.

"Sorry. I – I didn't mean for that to happen." He mumbles, genuinely apologetic. I stand too, shooting him a quick, very fake smile.

"No worries. I'm gonna, uh, go dance?"

Why did I state that as a question? Whatever. Time to get the heck out of here. The moment he reacted, I suddenly realized we were alone together, tucked away in a very dark, very secluded section of the club and that's a stupid situation to allow myself to be in.

I hear him say something as I'm retreating, but I can't – or rather, choose not to – hear the words.

The cover band playing tonight isn't good. Not bad, but not good either. How am I supposed to dance to this?

My body moves anyway, swaying to the beat of an annoying pop song playing in my head. People are staring but the drugs and alcohol don't give a damn, and neither do I.

I do the sprinkler, the robot, and the running man. I'm pretty sure some of the crowd is starting to distance themselves from me, but it just gives me adequate space to attempt breaking out into a moonwalk.

A woman, probably in her sixties, joins me. I twirl her around and pull her back into me like we're lovers intimately dancing the salsa.

Music pours through me, but not the music coming from the band on the stage. My mama used to tell me I always danced to the beat of my own drum, but I don't think she meant it this literally. I catch a few people recording me on their phones and I just know I'm going to end up all over the internet tomorrow. If there's a blog out there dedicated to crazy people, that's where I'll be. That's where I always am.

Sixty-year-old lady is down for all my bullshit, and she might be my new best friend. Skylar is here and staring at me from the main bar with a horrified expression on her face. She's probably wondering how Ethan ever ended up with me in the first place. Cassius is chuckling to himself every time his eyes land on me, shaking his head with what looks like disbelief.

When me and old lady Greta – of course her friggin name is Greta – are ready for a drink, we head up to the bar. After our order is placed with Giovanni, Skylar decides to find her balls, which are probably also perfectly manicured. She finally makes the comment I bet she's been dying to say ever since I first confronted her.

"No wonder Ethan cheated on you." She grumbles under her breath.

I smile at her while cocking my head to the side. She couldn't even insult me with conviction. Where was the gusto?! She needs to work on her verbal assault skills.

"No wonder he saw you as an easy target. Tell me, do you eat so much penis that your breath permanently smells like a sweaty ball sack?" I shoot back.

I don't typically sex-shame women, especially when I've got my own list of conquests, but Skylar came at me at the wrong time. I don't like being interrupted while I'm trying to have fun and trying even harder to push everything out of my head.

Skylar's eyes do that weird bobbly thing again. Is that a word? Bobbly?

"Bitch –"

She starts to come at me but Greta, being the crazy old bat she is, grabs the nearest drink and throws it right in that beautiful girl's face. While Skylar is trying to work through the shock of what just happened, I just shrugged. Bitches be crazy, what can you do?

Her arms extend and she shoves Greta into the ledge of the bar. That's my cue. Nobody touches my wing-woman.

My left fist is filled with silky platinum blonde hair and the right is swinging away. I can't lie, my brain is only halfway with me right now and I'm pretty sure I'm punching air.

But the other half is still in that back room. I already know Cassius is coming for me because his favorite activity is throwing people out of this place.

So, I make sure to get a few more good swings in on that perfect face of hers before he can drag me away into the creepy alley. Greta is trying to join in on the fun, like she doesn't have brittle bones.

I'm actually relieved when Mr. Tightass shows up because I really don't want Greta to get hurt. He grabs me by the arm and I don't resist as he peels me off Skylar. I see his eyes linger on her for a hot minute. Great. I beat up his crush. He'll probably ban me forever now.

After I'm shoved out the back door, I swing around to meet Cassius' eyes. A little too fast. I wobble around before regaining balance.

I should run past him so I can make sure Greta isn't finishing off the job like the bad bitch she is. I'm little enough to squeeze right through the open space off to his side.

I shift my foot, channeling my inner cheetah for the extra speed I'll need to pull this off. Launching off the cobblestone, I lunge for the door. He puts his hand out and I run straight into his giant palm.

I stumble backwards and glare at him. Guess I should have thought that one out more thoroughly. I'm messed up, he's not. He's a giant, I'm not. His entire job is to handle people like me. Mine is to get through college without screwing it up too badly.

I never stood a chance at getting back inside that building. I'd like to blame my lack of judgement on drugs and alcohol, but I probably would have made the same move had I been stone cold sober.

I huff in defeat, folding my arms across my chest while I continue to give him the evil eye. This whole night is a waste of perfectly good substances.