The Girl Alone

By Allen Dusk

After a devastating breakup, Gabby's best friend attempts to lift her spirits by treating her to a girls' night out at the alluring new dance scene in town, Club Tryst. The next morning, Gabby awakens hungover and unable to remember anything about the previous night. Even worse, her purse is missing.

Gabby retraces her steps in hopes of recovering her purse, and again finds herself inside the dance club, where the lure of the electronic dance scene bewitches her. Consumed by its nightly ritual of accepting drinks from strangers and waking ashamed beside them the next morning, her life unravels as her appetite for casual encounters blossoms. Struggling to overcome her destructive self-indulgence, she uncovers a connection between herself and Club Tryst's dark past.

In order to rebuild her life, Gabby must push beyond her own sexual limits, and piece together exactly what happened the night her purse disappeared. Mystery lurks behind every corner. Every new clue leads back to the same bartender, who always seems to know what drink to pour, and every drink leads to a new sexual encounter more daring than the last.

Will Gabby recover from her reckless binges and reclaim what she lost, or will she succumb to depression and spend the rest of her life drinking alone?

Welcome to Club Tryst. It's ladies night, and we have some killer drink specials during happy hour...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Allen Dusk
• Release date: Sep 27, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370340354

Allen Dusk

Allen Dusk is an award-winning writer and filmmaker. He enjoys experimenting with photography, and lusting over old horror movies.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Gabby couldn't pull her eyes from the text message. Anguish crushed her heart beneath its burden. She'd plucked the last tissue from the box hours ago, leaving only pajama sleeves to sop away tears.

Sorry, babe. Just can't do this anymore. Gotta call it quits.

The abrupt electric memorandum bore a timestamp from two days before. Its dispassion razed any strength but to crawl from bed for an occasional stagger toward the bathroom. The radio and TV both powered off, their viscous karma incapable of broadcasting anything other than heartbreaking memories from the past two years enraptured in Cameron's embrace.

Well, Dad, you were right all along. You told me he wasn't the one for me, and I refused to listen.

Her father silently smiled back from the brass frame resting on the dresser. He looked so young in that captured moment, his jumpsuit zipped tight and a helmet tucked under his arm. Mirrored aviator shades dangled from the breast pocket, medevac rotors fanned out overhead. The last time she saw him they had paid a visit to Stan's Diner for a pair of hot chocolates. They'd eaten there countless times when she was younger, but the once enjoyable Saturday morning ritual of pancakes smothered in butter and syrup had degraded into something more of an obligation.

The routine lately consisted of uncertain glances, long silent pauses, and the revelation of darker truths in life. Grandma Sarah was dying from stage four lung cancer. Her mother was filing for divorce and moving to California. Now, he was volunteering for another tour of duty because the hazard pay would help pay off the mortgage.

I'm only flying medical extractions, and besides, our boys dominate the skies over Afghanistan, so there's nothing to worry about. Bits of whipped cream freckled his mustache. I'll be home before you know it, and next year, I'll finally retire so we never have to do this again.

Gabby wore an uncertain grin as she choked down a scrap of pancake. The other half of the stack remained on her plate, cold and tasteless. She didn't put up her usual argument when he slid the check his way. He walked her to her car, kissed her forehead, and then his figure shrank from view as she drove away.

Two months later a courier knocked on her door. Only the left side of the frail, liver-spotted man's mouth moved when he uttered the phrase, Telegram for Miss Banks.

Who even sends a telegram anymore? Gabby thought, scribbling her signature across his clipboard. After a quick thanks and good-bye she returned to the kitchen to tend pots boiling with spaghetti and marinara.

She ran a chopping knife under the envelope flap and plucked a lone yellow slip from inside. Halfway through reading she paused then started over. She focused on each letter of every word, slowly pronouncing whispers, as if she were clutching a copy of Curious George back in grade school.

The Secretary of Defense regrets to inform you that Chief Warrant Officer Robert Banks was killed in action on June 12. Further details will be forwarded to you as they become available.

Gabby's knees became rubber without warning, throwing her face-first against the stovetop where a fraction of luck guarded her from a shower of scalding marinara. A blaring smoke alarm and the stench of burned tomatoes woke her from her spell, but not from the nightmare.

Months later, during a drunken cry on her best friend's shoulder, Gabby confessed to Brianna that receiving the telegram marked the single worst day of her life. Getting dumped would never measure up to the tragedy of losing her father. However, the sorrow and sense of loneliness tore away whatever scraps of flesh once beat full of hope within her ribs. She would rather stare at a headstone than accidentally run into Cameron at Walmart and hear the cashiers whisper about their breakup. Fort Dodge was a small town; everybody knew your personal business, whether you wanted them to or not.

Ding-ding! The chime from Gabby's cellphone snapped her attention away from the edge of spiraling self-loathing.

Put something slutty on ;-) We're going dancing bitch!!! Brianna spoke in the same witty manner as her texts.

No. Don't feel like it, Gabby replied with quick panic.

Will B there in 20. B ready!!!

Goddamn it. She never takes no for an answer. Gabby rolled out of bed, clouded in the balm of sweat and tears.

Passing by her vanity on the march to the shower, she warned herself not to look, but the magnetism of the shrine nagged her to look until her resistance gave way. His pictures—their pictures—bordered the mirror, held in place with corners tucked beneath trim and bits of colorful tape. Fragile sutures of hope barred her from making the ritual sacrifice of tearing it all down. The act was ceremonial at best. What could shred or smolder in seconds would take weeks or even years to purge from the all-consuming digital cloud. It seemed so stupid now, posting every moment of their relationship to FriendBook for the immediate gratification of Likes and silly comments from people she hardly knew.

The photo in the top right corner snagged her gaze. Cameron's tall form leaned over hers, his cap spun stupidly to the side, their smiles infatuated and their eyes glazed from indulging in a steady pace of Solo cup cocktails. Blurred light beams swept the night sky behind them. They'd danced their asses off at that concert and then passed out half-naked in a cheap motel after realizing they were both too drunk to fuck.

The photo below it was snapped months later: they stood along the grassy shores of Badger Lake, feeding bread to a duck flash mob. For a moment, she swore she smelled prairie roses and felt the ghost of Cameron's arm weighed around her shoulders. Another half-dozen memories stampeded through her brain before a torrent of tears washed them away.

How could he do this to me, after all we shared? I would have married him if he ever bothered to ask. Gabby methodically pulled down photos, stacking them with perfect alignment in her palm. Part of her wanted to shred them into a Kodacolor blizzard, the other part of her realized the memories were too precious to cast aside so quickly. She slipped through the photos—each happy image cleaving deeper through her chest.

I was such a fool, she thought, dropping the images facedown into her wastebasket.

She tossed her pajamas onto the pile of laundry sprouting from her hamper. I'll get to that tomorrow, she thought, adding the chore to her mental to-do list. She turned and cringed when she caught sight of her nude pallor in the bathroom mirror. With her bloodshot eyes and chapped nose, her resemblance was closer to a Rudolph-Twilight hybrid monster than a quaint Midwestern girl.

A pair of scissors gleamed beside the sink; their blades serenading promises of peaceful deliverance into God's arms. Gabby studied their precision razor edge, anticipated their sting bisecting the ligaments flexed beneath her wrist. Death's allure had never been more inviting.

Damn it, she hissed under her breath before returning the scissors from where she grabbed them. You're better than all of this melodramatic bullshit.

Gabby pulled the Hello Kitty shower curtain closed behind her, sank her head beneath steaming water, and welcomed soothing warmth pouring over her. She didn't want to shave her legs, but proper clubbing etiquette, and the law of Brianna Rae, demanded she conform to their standards. Dancing with over-pumped douches rubbing their cocks against her was the last thing she wanted, but the thought of a shot—or maybe five shots—of vodka steadily earned her endorsement.

Gabby toweled off, repeatedly going over dry areas, knowing her friend would be there any moment. She slipped into a black, lacy bra and matching thong and stared into the void of her walk-in closet. The closet and the short walk downtown were the few perks of her humble one-bedroom apartment; the brontosaurs living above her and screaming brats from the playground next door were most certainly not. Nevertheless, Fort Dodge was known for its gypsum mines, not luxury apartments, so she would have to deal with it for now, like the rest of her dull life.

She could have opened a consignment store with the volume of clothing draped over neon hangers. A red halter begged for wearing until she second-guessed her selection.

The last thing I want is attention right now, she thought. Maybe something black…with long sleeves…that reaches the floor.

Quick, heavy taps shook the front door. The jingle of twenty bangles announced Brianna's arrival without the need for peeping through the lens in the door. Gabby opened up, clutching a towel around her wet body, knowing exactly which words were coming next.

Brianna waved then flipped pink bangs out of her face. You're not even ready? she said with concern rolling her eyes. We don't have all fucking night.

I can't decide what to wear.

Bitch, that's no excuse. You're one of my special forces; I expect you dolled up and ready for action pronto.

Her wiry frame passed Gabby and headed toward her closet. Gabby couldn't help but cringe at the neon pink saturating Brianna's long, wavy hair. Every week a new color spectrum infested her scalp. Soon she'd need to reference Bry's baby photos to recall what hair color God had originally intended.

That’s a bit bright for a hair color, don't you think? Gabby followed her into the room. What's your boss going to say?

Ah, fuck him. I dyed it this morning so it would be extra poppin' when we hit that new club tonight.

"What new club?"

Disbelief flattened Brianna's face, irritated the tick of her chin. Girl, there's no way your ass got amnesia already. Don't you remember that new place on Central? They've been putting up flyers all over the place.

Gabby sighed, slowly shook her head, and then shrugged.

"It's called Club Tryst. Everybody's been talking about it, and it's pumping EDM until three in the morning. Remember?"

Gabby faked her recollection. Oh, yeah, that place.

"Fuck yes, that place! We're going to dance our asses off and get all the free drinks we can."

No, Bry. I don't want to hook up with anybody tonight. It's way too soon for—

You know the game; act friendly, dance with them a little, and the booze will flow like the mighty Mississip'.

How 'bout we head over to the Fireside and chill for a bit instead?

How 'bout we go stitch up your pussy and drop you off at a convent while we're at it.

That's not what I meant. Gabby hung her head.

Look, I'm tired of watching my best friend beat herself up over the inevitable. I'm going to pull you out of this rut even if it kills me.

Fine. A smile's ghost materialized in the corner of Gabby's pouting lips. Then help me pick something out.

What were you considering before I got here? Brianna started nosing through the closet.

Gabby held up a long, black dress against her body then swirled around to earn approval.

"Damn it, Gabby. We're going to a night club, not a damn funeral. Brianna's hands clenched her hips. Her chin ticked again. Let's try once more."

Chapter 2

God, I don't want to be here right now, Gabby thought, holding her breath as she walked down the dark hallway. She squeezed Brianna's hand, searching for reassurance. Heavy bass thumped through her chest, replacing her heartbeat with its own rhythm. Ahead of them a bouncer towered beside a pair of dark violet curtains, his thin SECURITY shirt stretched over his muscular build.

Discomfort caressed her flesh where his eyes wandered down her low neckline, reconfirming she shouldn't have worn the plunging top and miniskirt that Brianna had insisted on. Gabby had seen that look in a guy's eyes all too often. He was probably imagining her and Brianna on their knees, arguing over who got to go down on him first or some other perverted fantasy involving a threesome.

Good evening, ladies. Wristbands, please, he politely demanded.

He waved an ultra-violet penlight over their outstretched arms, revealing glowing Club Tryst logos hidden within the pink paper. Their IDs had already been checked back at the ticket window, where Brianna had insisted on paying their covers.

Go right ahead, and have a great time. He pulled back the curtain, revealing a short hallway where strobe lights and lasers beckoned at the end.

A few couples slowly paced the venue, exploring all it had to offer. A group of girls stood on the dance floor talking more than dancing.

This place looks pretty bad ass. Sweeping light beams glimmered in Brianna's hoop earrings. I can't believe the walls aren’t busting at the seams yet.

Give it a chance. I bet things will pick up in a bit, Gabby said. Or they are going to go under quick.

They sank into a pair of velvet cushioned stools at the far end of the bar. Purple LEDs backlit the ultra-modern glassware hanging overhead. Pink spotlights showcased the vast collection of high-end liquor bottles lining the back wall.

Gabby steadily realized how in awe she was of the club. Every detail was artfully selected to showcase sophistication or seduction. Déjà vu jilted her balance, forcing her to pull a double-take on her surroundings. This is my first time here, yet this place seems so familiar.

Maybe it's because it looks a lot like that Vegas club I went to on spring break. Remember, I told you all about it, and I showed you a pic of that cute guy I hooked up with? Oh, what was his name? Brianna skimmed over a glittery drink menu, the text glowing from black lights high above.

I don't remember. Did you talk to him again?

Brianna broke out laughing. Bitch, please. I never gave him my number. I just hit it and quit it.

You're terrible. Gabby shook her head, laughing at her friend as she picked up a menu to peruse as well.

Good evening, ladies. What can I get you? He was tall, tanned and built like a surfer, even though the nearest ocean was over a thousand miles away.

No way in hell is he a local boy, Gabby thought. Bry will be all over him.

Lust manifested within Brianna's wide pupils. She was a sucker for surfers or really anything with a dick between its legs. If her eyes had been mouths, they would have opened wide to swallow the bartender whole.

I'll have a strawberry martini, Brianna pronounced her words extra-breathy, a poor homage to Marilyn Monroe's seductive legacy. "And my girlfriend here will have a Strong Island Tea. She's getting over a broken heart, so be a dear, and make hers extra strong."

He swept a curl of sandy blond hair out of his eyes. "You got it. One strawberry martini and one extra Strong Island Tea, coming right up."

The instant he passed out of earshot, Brianna turned to Gabby and said, I bet his cock is huge.

What? Gabby's cheeks blushed even though he couldn’t have heard them over the sound system. Why would you say that? Not every bartender has a huge cock.

But I bet this one does.

You are so fucking ridiculous some times, Gabby said, snickering and rolling her eyes.

The bartender selected two tall glasses. Concentration wrinkled his brow, and his hands evolved into blurs of pink light glimmering off spinning bottles. A tribal flame tattoo covered the length of his arm and vanished beneath his short, black shirt sleeve. He glanced up and winked quickly, kindling sparks in Gabby's heart. Uneasily, she looked away, catching sight of Brianna eye-fucking him. She was silly in wasting a split second thinking an athletic, hot bartender could be interested in her. The wink was obviously intended for her whore of a best friend...or was it? Charm oozed from his every pore, its narcotic spell saturating her blood. It dragged her eyes back toward him, imprisoned them from escaping his smile. His perfected alchemy filled glasses precisely to their rims.

Here you go, ladies! One strawberry margarita and one Strong Island, as requested. His eyes caressed them. Take it easy with these, though. I've been known to pour a mean drink once in a while.

Brianna's eyes never left him as she raised her glass and sipped past the pink sugar-coated rim. Mmm, that's delicious! It's almost better than sex.

Almost. His swagger never faulted. My name is Lucas. Holler at me if you need anything else.

We most certainly will. Brianna's eyes longed after his tight ass as he walked away.

Gabby couldn't explain the irritation rearing inside her. She knew exactly how slutty her friend could be at times. Why are you being so sensitive about hawking a bartender? she thought. Drink up and everything will be better. Maybe you just need to