Zachariah Peterson was, oddly, nervous. He could already feel the bass pumping from within the building, and could almost imagine that it was his heart; freshly revived and pulsing a jittery tattoo within the dusty confines of his ribcage. This city’s atmosphere was unlike any other he’d experienced. Everything was out and open for anyone to see - public - and Zach still felt compelled to wear a mask of mortality. Still, he found Jerry’s enthusiasm mildly contagious; and, in this moment, he envied his capacity to remain so carefree.
With lips pressed into a soft smile, Zach trailed after his bouncing brother at a sedate pace. His shoulders were hunched forward, thumbs hooked through the beltloops of black, acid-wash jeans. He wore them cuffed and rolled over the laced tops of a pair of original 1460 Docs. A classic black tee was tucked into the waistband; worn beneath your standard leather motorcycle jacket, with its asymmetrical-zip kept open and loose.
Outwardly, he seemed far less concerned with the nearby milieu than Jerry, whose open gawking wasn’t as subtle as he likely believed it to be. Internally, however... He was wired. With each forward step, each blaring efflux of electronica brought about by the sliding glass door as it opened for its patrons, Zach felt more and more on edge. The unfamiliar scent of the bouncers didn’t help. A scent resembling campfire and black pepper, fused with something borderline acidic; curling against the back of his throat like bile. He stopped breathing.
Jerry’s mischievous backward glance was met with the mental equivalent of an eye-roll; and Zach nearly laughed when they rounded the corner to discover that the line was still ongoing. Upon reaching the podium - where the pretty vampire hostess sat primped upon her stool, passing out cards and brochures - he stood close to his brother to denote their togetherness, and bypass any reiterated questioning.
He accepted the leaflet from Jerry, and thumbed it open. Zach had always been of a mind that most rules were in place for a reason. Sure, he’d broken a few - and, moreover, had enabled Jerry in transgressions-a-plenty. Still, he felt that awareness was important. Sometimes he couldn’t help but to wonder if Jerry intentionally overlooked guidelines, knowing that Zach would intercept before things could go too far. Probably not.
If a Risk groupie is marked with a tattoo on the wrist, they are not to be killed. No ifs, or ands; just that. One rule, plain and simple. It seemed that, this time, Jerry was right to be dismissive. Neither of them was a killer. It was an easy rule to follow. Zach folded up the pamphlet and stuffed it into his back pocket.
As they stepped over the threshold of the glass partition, past the bouncers that stood still as stone, and into the club proper; as they were blasted with music that had a far better sound from therein, Zach felt himself finally begin to relax. After moving aside to allow entry for those in line behind them, he stood still for a moment in observation. The bar; the dancefloor; the neon blue lighting and disco-ball ceiling. It wasn’t until he felt the brush of fingertips across his abdomen that he broke from his quiet scrutiny.
A woman had touched him in passing, slow and grazing; Jerry, too, was afforded her affections by way of a puckering of full, painted lips. Her head was shaved, and she wore a skintight dress made of dichroic vinyl. It was transparent; made evident when she moved to lean against the bar, and the reflective film had met just enough shadow for Zach to note that everything beneath was on full display. Nothing left to the imagination.
Zach lofted his brows, and cast a grin toward Jerry.
