Like, Follow, Kill by Carissa Ann Lynch

Author:Carissa Ann Lynch
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers
Published: 2019-07-30T17:00:00+00:00

Chapter 11

The first thing the beefy, bald bouncer did was ask for the keys to the Jeep.

“It’s illegal to park out there. Valet will move you to the lot next door. Here’s your ticket.” He thrust a small paper ticket, the size of a Chuckie Cheese stamp, into Lincoln’s outstretched palm.

Lincoln pocketed the ticket and glanced back at me, warily. He looked just as sketched out as I felt.

Together, we winded through a dark, narrow hallway that opened into a massive room with exposed pipes and beams overhead. I was shocked to find the floor crowded with people—more people than I ever could have imagined lived in Paducah. A cloud of smoke rose through the crowd, either from cigarettes or fog machines, I couldn’t tell.

Electronica music boomed from the speakers, vibrating my back and brain. People were dancing or standing around in clusters, some nicely dressed in business-y attire, others in casual shirts and jeans. A double-sided bar extended the entire length of the room; on one side of the bar, there were girls in black shorts and lacy, black bras dancing, and on the other side, a man with a mohawk and a girl with a stubby black ponytail were serving drinks.

We stood at the edge of the dance floor, staring. The lighting was strange, coating the patrons’ skin in a green, ghoulish light and making their teeth ultra-white. I couldn’t imagine what it was doing to my scars …

“Wow. Just wow.” Lincoln was standing beside me, surveying the room with shock. “I had no idea this was here,” he said, his eyes and teeth so white they were blinding.

“Best-kept secret in Paducah, honey,” came a purr from behind us. A girl with long, dark braids, wearing what looked like a latex suit, swooped in front of us. She was carrying a tiny tray of neon-green Jell-O shots. She held them under our noses like miniature Christmas presents.

“Care for a shot, darlin’?” she directed this question at me.

“No, thank you.” It seemed strange, refusing a drink when asked, but then again, I’d never been much of a Jell-O shot person.

“Want to get a drink at the bar? Maybe ask the bartender if he’s seen your friend …?” Lincoln suggested.

“Sure. Okay,” I said, giving the waitress an apologetic smile.

Lincoln took my hand, his palm like a slippery wet fish in my fingers. He led the way, weaving through the crowd and keeping me connected to him.

It had been over a year since I’d been inside a bar, and I’d never really been in one sober. I had always been the nervous type … the kind of girl who drinks too much before she makes it to the bar in the first place.

The whole place felt alive, electricity in the air, my chest and back vibrating in tune with the music.

Lincoln found an open spot and signaled the man with the mohawk. I couldn’t take my eyes off the dancing girls on the other side, their shorts cutting off right below their bottoms, long, tan legs smoothed to perfection.

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