The music thumped the air and drummed the inside of my skull. I’d had a headache before I’d arrived at the Lounge. Now it was pulsating mass of agony, as though Damien had shifted from my soul and settled behind my eyeballs. My stomach heaved. I gulped back pools of saliva. How many drinks did I have? Demons in people-suits brushed by me and muttered various slurs. The club had been packed to bursting point every night since reopening two weeks ago. I was here to find out why the Lounge was bustling. And I was fucking it up.
My reflection looking back at me in the mirrors above the rows of sinks was a stranger. I had my straight-as-nails hair cut above the shoulder and dyed bottle-blond. A pink and black short skirt ensemble accentuated curves I didn’t know I had. Lacy had assured me the outfit was as anti-Charlie Henderson as I could get. She was right. I hardly recognized myself. I had blue contacts in too. I’d melted the last pair when a demon got frisky a few days ago.
