Free 0577651001373397368 ls 00.7- ta by babe Page B

louder than the reverb from the speakers and my heart does this weird thing where it seems to expand and fill my chest, beating insistently against my ribs.
    ‘Sweet hotness on a stick,’ Nancy purrs in my ear. ‘And I’m not talking about Santa’s fat ugly brother next to him.’
    The boy turns to face us --- as though he can feel us both staring --- and in the split second where we lock eyes everyone else in the club spins away to some far corner of the universe, leaving just the two of us alone. He smiles ---
    an easy, slow smile that hooks me as certainly as a fish on a line. But then Nancy starts smacking me on the arm and the club comes hurtling back across the universe at warp speed.
    My heart contracts and the only sound whooshing in my ears now is Nancy, who has started making a series of weird, small animal noises --- thankfully not aimed at the boy. Her attention span is way shorter than that.
    I turn around and look at the stage. The Gnarly Surs have appeared and are pulling on their instruments, ready to torture us with something that could just about be classified as music. In some outer galaxy inhabited by deaf aliens, perhaps.
    Suddenly I’m engulfed in thundering noise and rancid sweat smells and auras bursting bright as solar flares at the edge of my vision. My head starts to throb and I close my eyes and try to breathe through it.
    This is one of the reasons (other than men in leather with rodent beards and torture music) why I don’t like coming here, or anywhere where crowds of people gather (unless the gathering crowds are meditating Buddhist monks).
    Because I don’t just see auras. That I could live with.
    That’s what the sunglasses are for. It’s the emotions that do it, bouncing off people like infra-red rays. That’s the real killer.
    In small groups I can tune out the rays. And the one or two people I choose to hang out with (OK, make that one…
    Nancy) only give off the happy rays.
    In this room however, filled with sweating, loud, mosh-pit loving people --- most of whom are amped on some form of mood-enhancing drug --- I feel like I’m being squashed inside a microwave and zapped on high.
    Someone nearby is ecstatic --- that would be Nancy. She bumps against me and I feel her happiness spark a surge of dopamine straight to my brain. I let out a whoop that makes Nancy shoot me a bemused look. But the joy is short-lived as from the other side jealousy spears me like an ice-pick. I squint through the strobe lighting. Some tall skinny guy watching his girlfriend go fan-girl crazy over the drummer on the stage is responsible. I edge away from him. And get a hammer fist flare of red slamming down on my skull.
    This one’s more surprising as it’s coming from a small girl just behind me who looks like butter wouldn’t melt, and whose foot I’ve accidentally stood on in the crush.
    It’s too much.
    I shout in Nancy’s ear that I’m going outside for some air and then I try to push my way towards the nearest exit.
    Weaving past the biker crew --- flashes of red, pulsating waves of yellow --- is like swimming against a tide of pus.
    My head’s pounding up a storm. I only just make it to the door.
    But Santa’s ugly fatter brother is suddenly in front of it, blocking the way.
    ‘Hello little lady,’ he says to me, easing his hands over his pregnant belly and rocking back on his heels.
    BO. Stale beer. Mingling with something altogether more vile and stinking. He isn’t touching me but I can feel him
    --- feel his thoughts --- reptilian smooth and snaking around my limbs. I jolt back, unable to hide my revulsion, and catch the flare of anger in his eyes in response. Crimson burst off him like arterial spray.
    I glance over my shoulder, looking for help --- but we’re practically behind the stage here, submerged in a well of shadow. Just a wall of leather behind me, and beyond, the bouncing, ecstatic heads of those in the mosh pit. The music is so loud I can’t even hear my own