②⓪①⑤ - C H A P T E R [7]

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"Isn't this great?!" Clint yelled, throwing one of his arms over each of James and Ozzie's shoulders. "Bitches, these be my fucking people!" He said, tossing his head back and laughing—his stocky body dangling between them like a marionette with its strings cut.

Ozzie shot him an incredulous look. "No," he said plainly. He didn't. He couldn't really say any of this was great. He couldn't even say any of this was good. Heck, Ozzie could barely say any of this was fine. The only thing he could say was that Limbo was intense. And even that'd be a gross understatement. He blew his bangs out of his face.

Clint pursed his lips. "Asshole," He intoned, his face contorting into something between a glare and a pout. Ozzie wasn't really sure which. It was kind of hard to tell what with the angle. And the lighting. And the fact that really, he didn't give two shits.

If I was half the asshole this dick thinks I am, he mused, as he shifted his grip on Clint's waist, he'd be on the floor already.

Ozzie raised an eyebrow instead. Because obviously, Ozzie was not an asshole. "Do'ya want me to drop you?" At least not that much of one.

Clint... blinked and... yeah that was definitely a glare. Ozzie smirked.

There were people everywhere. They milled about on the second floor between tropical looking palm-trees and exotic ferns. They packed the dance floor and the bars and the booths spread across the edges. Ozzie spotted a miraculously free one and inclined his head to James. Together they made their way over.

Clint's neon shirt glowed a hot pink in the psychedelic lights of the club. The white of his pants shined like a beacon. They were almost blinding under the attention of murky violet black lights, his feet barely touching the floor as a manic grin stretched across his lips. "Mush my noble steeds!" Clint yelled, decidedly too peppy for nine-thirty in the evening and Ozzie jerked his head to the side at the noise. "There is so much hype you don't understand!"

"This would be a helluva lot better if I wasn't about to make out with you," James grunted, their heads almost knocking together. James winced as Clint threw him off balance, his skin looking over-pale and washed out under the harsh attention of the lights strobing around them.

Ozzie frowned. "Dude, did he take something before we got here?"

"He's Clint," James said with an eye-roll, like that explained everything, which to be fair it kind of did. "Why do you think I drove?"

Clint pouted. "Aww Jamie, I'm hurt. Really! Where's your bloody sense of adventure?!"

With a grimace, Ozzie shrugged his shoulder, trying to shift the added weight of Clint a little more comfortably. "Probably lost it with your lame ass Tarzan impression." He gritted a breath out through his teeth. "You're heavy as shit, dude."

"Are you calling me fat?" Clint bounced to his feet, hands drumming against his hips and eyebrow raised. "Hashtag rude."

Ozzie sighed and cracked his neck before slumping down into the booth. "Course I wasn't Clint. You're very fit."

"Damn straight," he said with a nod. He turned to James, his expression slipping to one of dirty promise. Clearly whatever he'd taken was something that played a lot more openly with his slutty side. Ozzie leaned back in their booth and rapped his knuckles against the table. Ozzie couldn't say much about Limbo, but one thing was for sure and that was that Limbo, in the wise if not terribly inaccurate faux English accent Clint had just pronounced his enthusiasm in, was a bloody madhouse.

Clint trailed a slender finger down the movie-star's chest. "Let's dance, Jamie," he whined, batting his eyelashes and looking much too childish. "I wanna dance and make-out with total strangers!"

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