“Whoa. What happened in here? This isn’t OCD-compatible,” Brooks said, picking up a plundered pretzel bag from the floor. There were empty beer bottles on the coffee table and dishes on the floor by the couch. Trash and discarded food littered the kitchen counters.

“I was gone for three hours! Are you kidding me?” I yelled, slamming the door behind me. I couldn’t deal with this crap anymore! This was Devon doing what Devon did best—being a dick.

“I’ll clean up. You go get dressed,” Brooks offered. I started to argue.

“We’ll be here all night if I leave you to do it,” he explained, and I knew he was right. I swallowed my need to fix and tidy and went and got changed. I looked in the mirror and cringed. My face was red and splotchy, my lips puffy. I couldn’t believe Brooks hadn’t interrogated me over my very obvious state of disarray.

After I had changed into a short black dress and my knee-high black boots, I pulled my hair into a high ponytail and darkened my eyes so that they stood out. Not bad for fifteen minutes of prep time.

Brooks had straightened up the best his guy chromosome set was capable of. Seeing the way he had replaced the couch cushions made my eyes twitch, but I appreciated the effort.

He looked up when I came in and appeared relieved to be able to cease his cleaning duties. “Awesome, let’s go!” he said, ushering me out the door.

“Do you know where we’re going?” I asked, wondering if we’d have to trek through the city to find a mysterious painting to determine our location for the night.

“Yeah, I spoke to some of the guys in my building, and they gave me the address,” Brooks said distractedly, hooking his phone up and putting the location into the GPS. I was a little disappointed. I may have been late to the street art appreciation party, but I was now an X fangirl all the way.

We drove through the city until we reached the interstate. “Where the heck are we going?” I asked.

“Apparently the club is in an old textile factory twenty minutes away,” he explained, merging onto the darkened highway.

I spoke very little on the drive. My head was too full of other things—those other things being Maxx freaking Demelo. Why had he left so abruptly?

That question burned a hole in my brain and was driving me crazy with a niggling insecurity. My self-esteem had taken a beating, and I didn’t like it one bit.

Almost thirty minutes later we were pulling into a large parking lot teeming with cars. The usual crowd of raver kids and emo rejects were milling about, making their way to a dark building in the distance.

And just like every time I approached Compulsion, I felt an instant rush of excitement and anticipation. I was becoming more than a little addicted. It was exhilarating and sort of scary. But it wasn’t the type of scary that made me want to run in the opposite direction. Not anymore. It was a scary that I wanted to explore and embrace.

Brooks pulled me toward the huge line, and we took our places. Part of the fun was the people-watching. Compulsion brought out all kinds—from the preppy boys trying their hand at dressing like badasses to the truly freaky. Take the woman wearing pasties and black leather panties—this dominatrix queen held a metal chain attached to a man dressed as a gimp, complete with ball gag.

Brooks discreetly pointed out the group of women, possibly in their thirties, who looked as though they had taken a night off from the coven, with their long, flowing dresses, flower garlands, brightly painted, talon-like fingernails, and necklaces made from what appeared to be human teeth.

We passed the bouncer’s keen inspection, and then we were inside. I felt as though the heat and the music were smothering me. It was exactly what I needed.

This time when I ordered my drink, I didn’t take my eyes off the beverage. I had learned my lesson. Brooks had gone to dance; I had politely declined, wanting to soak it all in. I also wanted to see if my mystery man would make an appearance.

Finally tired of playing wallflower, I moved into the crowd and started dancing. I had never been a great dancer, but I liked it anyway. Lucky for me, the dancing at Compulsion didn’t require a lot of skill. People were bobbing on their feet, glow sticks between their teeth.

I sort of rocked my head from side to side, swinging my hair into my face. My arms rose above my head, and I started to move in time with the thumping bass.

Dancing at Compulsion was a communal experience. Complete strangers pressed against me, and we moved together like one primal beast of sweat and heat. My OCD had taken a backseat to the energy. It was unreal.

A girl with bright purple hair grabbed my hand and looped my arm around her waist. We rocked our hips together, dancing, two people who enjoyed the music, nothing more, nothing less. There was something incredibly freeing about being physically close to so many people who were all here for the same reason.

To escape.

I felt a set of hands on my hips, and without bothering to look behind me, I pulled purple-hair girl into me, and I was dancing in a crazy, debauched sandwich.

It was completely out of character for me, but for once I just went with it. That was the real beauty of Compulsion. It made what was out of the ordinary seem possible.

I loved it. I never wanted to leave.

One song bled into the next without pause. As my dancing partners changed, I barely registered their faces. I didn’t talk to any of them. Words weren’t necessary. We weren’t here to make friends.

We were there to just be.

It could have been minutes later. It could have been hours. But I finally realized how tired and sweaty I was. My legs felt wobbly from all the bouncing and jumping. My hair was plastered to the side of my face, and I was way too warm.