She nodded.
Loud digital sirens screeched, silence hung over the room for a good five seconds, and a melody cascaded from the speakers. Without warning, the bass resumed at a frantic, adrenaline-inducing speed. The crowd went wild.
Her heart pounded in a dizzying rush, and fear threatened to swamp her. Too much noise. Too much frenzy. She bottled up her emotions and buried them deep inside herself, forced herself to take slow breaths. As long as she looked calm on the outside, she was winning this. The music raced, but time crawled.
The bodies shifted so she got a clear view of the bar. The blonde was playing with the collar of Michael’s shirt, leaning in too close.
She sealed her lips over his.
Stella flinched like someone had slapped her. She waited for him to push the woman away. She waited for what felt like ages, waited until the crowd moved again and blocked her view.
Acid and amaretto climbed up the back of her throat.
She needed to find a place to vomit. She forced her way into the crowd, pushed through bodies swaying to the rapid tempo. The music bombarded her. Lights strobed. Sour body odor, cologne, alcoholic breath. Hard limbs and pointed joints.
Was Michael still kissing that woman?
Her eyes flooded with tears. The bodies formed a cage around her. She couldn’t move. She couldn’t cry for help.
A hand closed around hers.
Michael?
No, it was Quan.
He shoved people aside. A woman swore at him when he made her spill her drink. A guy shoved him back. Quan merely elbowed the guy to the side and brushed past. Through it all, his hold on her hand remained secure and steady. He led her through the people, opened a door, and cool, sweet air floated over her face.
The door clicked shut, muting the music. Someone was gasping. The flashing light was gone. She covered her eyes and sank down to the cold cement. Her trembling legs refused to take her weight.
“Thank you,” she made herself say.
“Are you all right?”
“Going to throw up.” Her nails clawed at the sidewalk as she tried to find a suitable place to be sick. She couldn’t get enough air into her lungs.
“Easy, easy. Slow breaths.” He moved as if to touch her but stopped when she flinched away. “Sit up straight. That’s it. In through your nose. Out through your mouth.”
Who was gasping like that? The sound was driving her out of her mind.
“Hold on. Let me go get Michael.”
“Don’t.” She grabbed his wrist. “I’m fine.” She leaned back against the side of the building and turned her face into it. The coldness felt good on her fevered forehead, distracted her from thinking about Michael with that woman. Michael kissing that woman.
With her mouth almost touching the wall, the sound of the gasping grew louder, and she realized it was coming from her.
She gritted her teeth together, fisted her hands, and tightened every muscle in her body. The gasping stopped.
“Do you need anything?” Quan asked.
“I’m
fine. I’m just overstimulated.” She was already feeling better, though her temples throbbed.
Quan tilted his head to the side. “My brother used to get overstimulated just like this. He’s autistic.”
Her chest constricted at his words. She shouldn’t have used the word overstimulated. Most people didn’t use it. Why would they? When he narrowed his eyes, she could almost see the connections being made in his mind, the question forming there.
She held her breath and hoped he wouldn’t ask. She could withhold the truth, but she’d never learned how to lie.