The rain stops just as Alba reaches Levit8’s flickering marquee, leaving the air warm and slick against her cheeks. A line of students snakes down the block, shoes scuffing wet pavement while bouncers check IDs under a violet lamp. Alba’s heart hammers, half nerves, half thrill, this is the moment her little operation goes live.
Inside, the club is a living prism: laser greens carve through shadow, pink strobes ripple over raised arms, and a DJ mixes house beats with syrupy Afropop that makes spines roll. Every surface gleams, sweat-sheened skin, glassware, even the ceiling’s mirror tiles. Alba tugs her leather jacket snug and palms the first stack of condom packets, their foil catching the lights like fish scales.
She starts at the bar, leaning between two friends debating tequila or gin.
“Safety on the house,” she says, voice pitched just loud enough to ride the music. She fans three packets like a magician revealing a trick. Both guys blink, then grin when they notice the ALBA — TEXT ME label. One lifts a brow.
“Bold move,” he shouts.
“Bold night,” she answers, slipping a packet into his front pocket with a wink.
That first smooth exchange burns away the last of her hesitation. She works the room in fluid arcs, letting the beat guide her from group to group. With each handoff she perfects a rhythm:
Eye contact—warm, inviting rather than predatory.
Offer—condom held between thumb and forefinger so the label is visible.
Consent—a nod or outstretched palm before she places it.
Exit—a grin, a finger-wave, disappearing into the colored haze.
By eleven-thirty the tote is half empty, and Alba’s cheeks ache from smiling. She threads through dancers in the main pit, hips swaying to the bass. Someone in a floral vest, the bartender she’ll later know as Erin, leans over the rail to intercept her.
“Hand those out and still have time to dance?” Erin asks, eyes dancing.
“Multitasking is my superpower,” Alba quips, pressing a packet into Erin’s palm. Erin flips it, laughs at the sticker, and tucks it into the vest pocket right over their heart. “Keep me posted,” Alba mouths.
At the far end of the club, a fringe of private booth tables offers a breather. Alba pauses under an overhead vent that sends cool air racing across her collarbones. Her spare phone buzzes in her jacket, a vibration she’s been craving to feel. She pulls it out:
Theo (lightning-bolt tee): Hey Alba, thx for the party favor. Pizza after hours?
Rae & Juno (couple in mesh): We collect stickers, yours counts?
Marco, silver jacket: Nightcap? My place overlooks the river.
She types quick acknowledgments but no commitments, sliding the phone away before she’s swallowed again by pulsing lights.
Midnight strikes. The DJ ramps up the BPM, and Levit8’s staff unleash a short confetti cannon burst over the crowd. Alba times her remaining giveaways to the spectacle, gold paper fluttering, foil wrappers flashing in erratic rainbows. One lands in the hands of a tall, buzz-cut athlete who pockets it with an earnest “Thank you.” Another finds its way to a shy literature major who blushes scarlet, grips the foil like a secret talisman, and mouths Text soon? across the din. Alba answers with the faintest nod, enough to set his shoulders straighter.
Soon, only six packets remain. Rather than scatter them, she decides to make each count. She spots a trio of women hyping each other for a selfie in the LED-lit hallway to the bathrooms. They’re radiant, braids, sequins, bright eyes. Alba approaches:
“Last of my stash,” she says, handing one to each. “Collectible.”
“Collectible?” the tallest laughs.
“Tonight only,” Alba deadpans. “Limited edition.”
Phones flash; they insist on a group selfie with her. Mid-pose, the tallest whispers, “If you swing our way, we’ll text.” Alba’s answering grin is unambiguous.
Back in the main room, the bass drops into a half-time breakdown that makes the floor tremble. People surge closer. In the shifting light Alba sees silver bomber jacket, Marco, leaning against a pillar, gaze tracking her through the crowd. He lifts a drink in greeting, the foil packet she gave him twirling between two fingers like a coin. It’s a small flourish, but confidence radiates off him, and it tugs at something low in Alba’s stomach.
One packet left. She could keep it as a memento, but the game isn’t complete until every card is in play. She dances toward the bar, body rolling with the music, and collides, literally, into a guy in a lightning-bolt tee: Theo. Both laugh as drinks slosh. Quick apology, mutual check for spills, and Theo’s eyes land on the final foil square in her hand.
“Destiny?” he asks.
“Could be,” she replies, pressing it into his palm. He flips it once, sees her number, smiles so wide his dimples carve shadows. “Catch you later?” he mouths. She shrugs, maybe, maybe not, and slips away.
At 12:45 a.m. the tote bag is weightless, her mission complete. She edges toward the exit terrace for air, pulse matching the music’s adrenaline taper. Beyond the glass doors, the night is velvety, the earlier rain now a memory. Alba braces her hands on the railing, letting lungs fill with cooler oxygen, while her phone vibrates in erratic bursts, each buzz a promise of possibilities queued up in her inbox.
She scrolls, savoring the range: playful emojis, questions about her playlist, compliments on her confidence, and a few respectful selfies, faces illuminated in club neon, condoms held like VIP passes. One message stands out, concise:
Marco: Your number might be on everyone’s wrapper, but I’d like to be the only one using mine tonight. Care to make that happen?
Alba bites her lip, warmth pooling low as she pictures the silver jacket against brick walls and succulents. She looks up; through the glass she sees him still at the pillar, phone in hand, not texting anyone else, just waiting, giving her space to decide.
She flicks open her keyboard and types: Meet me outside in five. A heartbeat later, she hits send. The bubble turns blue.
Alba pockets the phone, straightens her jacket, and pushes back into the sea of color, weaving through a hundred pulsing bodies toward the man, and the night, she’s chosen.
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End of chapter 2. Read chapter 1 below
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