Hey people! This is a co-written story, with my amazingly beautiful and talented BFF, VivaLaVida1704. We really hope you enjoy it...yeah...and please review. It would mean a huge great deal to us, and we will reward you with a virutal cookie (with chocolate chunks) and yeah...
DISCLAIMER: As frequently mentioned...if VivaLaVida1704 owned this story, things would be different...VERY different *laughs evilly* But I'm guessing since no-one in the story ever got kidnapped by schizophrenic beavers or unicorns with God complexes...I'm gonna go with we don't own this. And if we don't own it, then the author owns it..so we must just be doing this for fun...ergo don't sue us..or the beaver. You can sue the unicorn if you want to though. But we do own Ayla and Luca, so if you steal them, there will be consquences (we'll set the beaver on you!)
Ayla's Club Outfit: ayla_clubbing/set?id=67244218
We also have a playlist for this story, titled Feeling Every Heartbeat. It's on Spotify, so if you have Spotify, please feel free to check it out.
Feeling Every Heartbeat
The beat pounds through the floor, the whole building vibrates; I totter into the club on heels I should never have bought. My feet hurt already, but I'm determined to have fun – if I get sick of the shoes, I'll go barefoot. I want this, I need this – I'm going to have some good, mindless fun even if it kills me. And, knowing me, it probably will kill me.
The last strains of that god-awful, preppy boy band, clubbing song die away as I haul myself up onto a bar stool, dumping my black leather handbag onto the bar in front of me. It makes a satisfying thud as it hits the wood, a constant reminder of the gun tucked away inside it. The sheer freakiness of hauling a handgun around with me is far overshadowed by the sense of safety, of security I get just by having it nearby. I've experienced first hand what happens when people think they don't have to protect themselves – but, then again, most people don't know they exist. Most people don't realise they need to protect themselves against anything. They believe they're safe; that nothing's out there, nothing's coming to get them. They're wrong.
"What would you like to drink?" the hunky bartender drawls, placing his folded arms on the bar and leaning towards me. I glance at his muscles appreciatively, before tilting my body towards him, and, in my best sexy voice, saying,
"You know I could do with a beer."
"Sure thing," he winks, straightening up and turning away from me towards a fridge under the counter, scooping out a beer with effortless ease and placing it in front of me. "Five dollars," he looks me up and down, taking in the slutty dress and dramatic eye-make up, then leering admiringly. I slap the money down on the table, making sure my gun is out of sight, before leaning on the counter so our faces are very close.
"You know…" he drawls. "My shift finishes in like…two minutes."
"You know," I mimic. "I could be okay with that." What the hell, I think to myself. There's a first time for everything and all that jazz. You only live once.
He smirks, glancing at his watch, then shouting, "Oi, Josh!" A skinny, dark haired guy with multiple piercings in his face turns around, glaring at Mr Blonde Aussie Obnoxious.
"What?" he snaps.
"My shift's finished. Make Bryce get off his lazy arse and do some work."
Josh's reply is to yell, "Bryce, get off your f***ing arse and come here!" Blonde Aussie Obnoxouis ducks under the bar and comes around to where I'm sitting lacing an arm around my waist.
"Come on," I swear his voice has dropped several octaves – I snatch my bag, and follow him towards the edge of the club.
There's always one, I think to myself. Always one girl who lets the boys get away with everything, who never puts up a fight. I think it happens to everyone at least once in their lifetime – if only because constantly pushing people away, constantly doing what everybody else does just because it's 'normal' gets too hard, takes too much effort, hurts too much. Up until now I hadn't known what that felt like, never thought I'd be that girl.
At least he's hot though.
His lips are insistent against mine, my back is pressed against a wall. It's hardly a pleasant experience, barely even enjoyable, but oddly enough I don't want it to end. It may not feel nice, but there's enough chemistry between us to make me want more. I put my arms around his neck, pulling him closer – too close, so close I can barely breathe. But I guess it doesn't matter.
All of a sudden something catches my eye, something so small, so insignificant I couldn't even tell you what it was. But without even knowing how, I could swear that it was the flash of a silver wing. A jolt runs through my body, an electric shock – something's changed, something's wrong.
In a sudden burst of strength, I shove the guy who's making out with me away, drawing my gun from my bag I hide it behind my back and move up through my chakras. With my vision fully focused, what I see makes my blood run cold.
An angel, right there in the club, drifting lazily over the heads of the dancers. Just the sight of it, just the fact that it dared to show up here, close to me, sends trickles of nausea running through my body. Its translucent body is caught by the flashing lights as it searches out a suitable candidate for its prey. Without even thinking, I raise my gun my arm shaking and fire, aiming for the halo. The bullet misses.
"What the hell are you doing?" Forgotten Blonde Aussie hisses grabbing my arm as the angel turns towards me, its glowing eyes alight with fury.
"Get away from me!" I grind out. "Do you have a death wish?"
"You have the f***ing death wish," he spits, pulling my arm down as I try to fire the gun again. Fear washes over me as the angel swoops across the room, right towards us, terrible anger etched on its beautiful face. I scream and slap the Blonde Aussie, raising the gun again, but before I can shoot, I hear another bang and the angel explodes into fragments of drifting light.
Someone else has gone and shot the bloody angel, my thoughts scream at me as I stare up at the ceiling. I thought that I was the one of the only ones who knew about those abominable things.
It's like all of a sudden, someone has flicked a switch. Where two seconds before the club was in some state of ordered chaos – a writhing mess of bodies and drinks and dancing lights – now it's just chaos.
All I can do is stand there and stare as people are screaming, running, pushing past me. My mind can't remember how my legs work, how to run, how to do anything. Shock is coursing through my veins instead of blood, consuming me, eating me up inside. I thought I was the only one who knew.
"Move," a hand clamps around my forearm, a sharp voice breaks through my reverie. I shake my head as the unknown person starts to drag me away from the screaming mob, across the rapidly emptying floor of the club.
"Who are you?" my voice is hoarse – from the shock and the beer that has been long forgotten.
"It doesn't matter," he kicks open a side door, leading me out into the cold, crisp night air. I start to shiver – I left my leather jacket on the bar. I can be such an idiot sometimes.
"It does," I snap, regaining some control over my alcohol-soaked thoughts. I'm one of those idiotic people that knows they get hammered after one drink and has never thought to do anything to avoid it. "I have enough to worry about," I hiss through my teeth. "Without getting kidnapped by some random stranger because he thought I was too drunk to know better."
He turns to face me as he opens the passenger door of a silver soft-top car. "Get in," his voice is low and rough.
"Not until you tell me who you are," I put my hands on my hips. Then I look at him closer, narrowing my eyes as I take in the messed up bronze-brown hair, and the dark hairs, the tanned skin and slim-but-muscled build. He looks strangely familiar. "Don't I know you?"
"I dated your sister," his tone is abrupt. "Now get in the car."
"What's your name?" I put a finger to my chin. "I swear I know it."
"I'll tell you when you get in the damned car," he folds his arms.
Even drunk, I know when I'm beat. "If you end up raping and murdering me then tossing my body in a dumpster, I'm telling you now it's not my fault."
"Duly noted," he rolls his eyes when he thinks I'm not looking. I just see him doing as I try and lower myself into his car as elegantly as a drunk girl wearing ridiculously high heels can.
He slams the door, and walks around to the other side and sliding into the car with fluid grace. "My name is Luca Fray, and yours is Ayla Fallon," he states as he starts the engine, reversing out of the parking spot.
"Wait," I turn my body to face him. "How the heck do you know my name? Are you stalking me?"
"No," he sounds exasperated. "I dated your sister for six months – I think I would have learned her family's names over the course of that relationship." His tone is bitter, so I decide not to push it.
"Did you shoot the angel?" I press. "Because if you did, that was a very nice thing to do. Thank you."
"You're welcome," he fixes his eyes on the road. "Just next time make sure you're sober."