His finger lightly touches the bottom of my chin, and he pushes my face upwards so that I'm looking into his eyes. Eyes that are solely on my lips.
I can't help it. I bite them.
"Oh, Delta," he whispers, quietly giggling under his breath. His laugh...
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The walk home is cold. I'm only wearing ripped skinny jeans and a thin long-sleeve shirt, which isn't enough to keep me warm from the cooling wind that blows against me, sending shivers running up my spine.
I wrap my arms around my middle, slowly trodding home and mumbling a series of curse words under my breath.
Whatever happened in that car instantly put me into the worst possible mood in the history of bad moods. His smart mouth and witty insults made me double over in rage, and that car ride was just as torturous as I thought it would be.
I plant my face in my palms and muffle a scream. I can almost feel my rage taking over and hot tears sting the back of my eyes as I glance at my watch.
Knowing I don't have very long until my shift starts, I bolt for my house, running along the sidewalks and failing to look both ways as I cross the streets.
I push back angry tears, letting the breeze dry my eyes and leave my lips chapped. There's no way I'm missing a minute of my job tonight; it's Nightfall Knockout today, and the club will be packed. I'll make double than what I get on normal Friday shifts, and maybe even triple if the audience likes what they see.
This job pays well, and has been ever since I applied at the start of summer break. I'm young for it, but it was never a matter of age. If I could walk in heels the entire day, I already got the job.
I reach my house and open the front door, slamming it shut behind me. I run upstairs and change into my "uniform": a tight black dress that ends just above my knees and a ruffled pair of nylon tights, incomplete without the three inch heels I've managed to hide in my closet.
There's a full body mirror in my bedroom and the first thing I do is sneak a quick glance at my reflexion. I can't imagine myself as two people at once; studious, hardworking Delta versus rebellious, daredevil Delta. Yet here I am, a little less than ten minutes of changing that turns me from a high school, can-barely-control-her-temper student, to a girl that looks ten years older.
I hurry out of the house as quickly as I can while stumbling in slick black stilettos, cursing under my breath when I reach the roughly paved surface that is our driveway. I always knew heels weren't made for running, but I was confident they'd be a little bit easier to scurry in than this.
My dad's car is parked on the driveway: an old silver corolla that none of us ever have the heart to replace. It's rusting at the edges, but still drives like "a husky in snowstorm" (as my dad often says.)
I get in the car and stick the keys in the ignition, watching in anticipation as it rumbles to life. Slowly, I back it out of the driveway and crank the radio high, letting the music drain out my thoughts as I drive down the street and head to work.
__
Today, the club lights are dimmed to a minimum, leaving only one source of illumination in the middle of the building. Spotlight shines over a greasy basement floor, creating the outline of a shining white circle with people clumped around it. Some of the booze in their hands spills from their glasses, but they don't seem to care. And as it drips, drips... drips over their fingers, the bitter smell of alcohol drifts into the heated air and seeps into my senses. I cough.
