Taken

1: The Drugs Tasted Like Salt

I was outside a bar, arms crossed over my chest - the cool air is creeping through the fabric - and chin lifted upwards. I don't go out often. The only reason I'm even out here is because my buddy Alex decided it would be a good idea to get so wasted he can't drive back by himself.

I assessed my options in the parking lot. I could call up his boyfriend and ask him to go get Alex, but I'm already here. The place is small; the parking lot supports less than a dozen cars, and it's so poor that the neon sign can't stay lit for more than a minute. The hot pink and lime green spelled out "OPEN", but flickered back and forth between the full word and only a couple of letters. The music rumbled louder than the patrons, playing the classics. Right now, it was Black Sabbath. The place was so small, and I was already here, so maybe I didn't have to call up Alex's boyfriend.

I adjusted my leather jacket. The attire you wear to this sort of place could mean life or death - wear something other than black, you're wearing a neon sign that says "nice to meet you, I'm a little bitch and I give free blowjobs" or something along those lines. So accordingly, I donned a leather jacket, a pair of jeans stained with blood (from an allergy nosebleed, I could never get out the stains, but these patrons didn't know that), and a few choice accessories that made me look less like a pussy.

I'm not sure why Alex goes to places like this. I mean, he doesn't often, but once every two months he ends up shit-faced in a bad neighborhood. Maybe it's the thrill of waking up and finding no signs of physical trauma on your body. Either way, dude needs his head checked for like the fourth time in his life.

I found myself walking towards the bar, black boots crunching on the gravel. It sounds like water plugging my ears as my heart thundered. Come on dude, fuck, I know I need to get out more but can't you lure me into socializing into a place where every damn bloke doesn't own three pairs of brass knuckles? I was careful not to have any cash on me before coming here.

I stepped into the bar and hastily made my way to the stools. There, back turned to me, was a skinny boy clad in leather and metal. He had a mohawk, I could see that from behind as well. He didn't look much different from the other patrons, and his most defining feature could not be seen - big blue eyes that could make any gay man get on his knees instantly. Still, a sense of familiarity told me that this was my Alex.

An empty red stool stood on either side of him. I filled the seat closeat to the door, to his left, and elbowed his shoulder. "Alright bro, time to get your totally fucking baked ass in the Chevy."

Wasting no time, he turned to me, blinked slowly, and went, "I'm not even baked yet."

"Excuse me? You called and told me you were pissed out of your mind."

"Correction, I said I planned to get drunk and needed a ride for when it happened. Until I'm drunk, you can actually talk to people."

I took a deep breath, wringing a free hand through my hair. It was greasy, I hadn't even bothered to wash it because I thought it was a walk-in walk-out call. "If you're trying to get me to socialize, pick a different place next time. If you aren't ready to go in thirty minutes I'm leaving your ass."

"Sounds like a plan. And I'm taking you keys if you don't talk to someone and leaving your ass here."

That's why he's my best friend, I guess. I spun the stool around and slid out of the seat. No biggie, it's just talking to someone. All I have to do is look at someone, they'll threaten me, I'll apologize, and we're all good to go. That counts, right? At least I can say I tried.

My "socializing" was interrupted.

She was around my age, give or take some years. She had the figure 8 body, but a bit thinner, and blonde hair that went down to her shoulders. Hazel eyes narrowed in my direction, and she gave a charming grin lit by pale mostly-straight teeth. I could go on describing her - the feminine face, the glasses on the bridge if her nose, the taunting revealingness of her dress and mini-skirt. Like a good man, I tried to focus on her face, but damn if the rest of her wasn't screaming for attention.

"Hey there, haven't seen you around here before." Her voice was husky, like one too many whiskeys might have burned her throat. It was still sexy.

I became unbearingly aware, suddenly, of the fact that I hadn't brushed my teeth or put on deoderant or any of that shit. So when I smiled back awkwardly, it was all lips. "I don't get out much." I sounded like a total fucking loser. "I mean, not here, anyway."

"Why don't you have a seat?"

I obeyed the implied command.

"So," she said, gripping a glass full of water, "does ny handsome new aquaintance have a name."

"Ah, shit, it's Dean."

"And I'm Diana Ford. Nice to meet you."

Diana? That was a MILF name. This girl looked like a Brittany. Not a "I'm abusive to everyone I know because I'm forgiven for my looks" sort of Brittany, but a "I have my own TV show because I have a nice ass and worked for it" sort of Brittany. But my angel's name was Diana, and she was perfect with a MILF name.

Was that rude? That was rude.

Diana took a sip of the water. "You're here alone?"

"Yeah - no - um, friend. I was supposed to pick up a friend, but he isn't drunk enough to need an escort yet... Uh, you here alone?" There I was, stammering like a fucking idiot. Trying not to look like a total freak. Probably failing miserably.

"Yeah, sadly. My first night back in town since I broke up with my boyfriend. I was hoping to meet new eligible men..." Her eyes glimmered, and it made my heart pound. "The options look great so far."

"Options?" I asked, half joking. "Who am I competing with?" I felt like I was being smothered, my breath all trying to escape me at once and like everything was narrowing in on me. A
Social anxiety can fuck me backwards, I hate this feeling.

"No one yet. But the night is young, you just have to entertain me long enough."

I get that the notion of putting work into keeping up with a woman would turn nost guys off, and I think she got that too, because she tilted her shoulders to expose more cleavage purposely. I kept my eyes on her face, but the message was still clear: talk long enough and we might do more than socialize. Damn. I found myself looking a the floor.

My attention was brought back to her  as she slid a drink across the table. "On the house babe."

I obliged to drink, taking a full. It burned in my throat and tasted like salt.

That's all my remember.