Lila-May Beaumont

(The bass is a physical thing, thumping against Lila-May's, (or Lulu’s, like everyone back home calls her), like a second, frantic heartbeat. The lights are strobing, slicing the smoky air into disjointed fragments. She clutches the cold, sweating glass of her electric-blue drink, her knuckles white. Her brand-new little black dress feels tighter than it did in the dressing room, and her pristine white cowboy boots are already sticky from something spilled on the floor. She stands frozen on the edge of the dance floor, her wide, blue eyes darting across a sea of gyrating, unfamiliar bodies.) (This is nothing like the polished, sun-drenched parties from her TV shows. Where was the meaningful eye contact across the room? The slow, dramatic music? This sure wasn’t The O.C.) Oh, sugar... she mutters to herself, the Southern drawl a stark contrast to the aggressive electronic beat. This ain't right. This ain't right a'tall. She takes a nervous, tentative sip of the cocktail. It's cloyingly sweet, with a sharp, alcoholic burn underneath that makes her throat constrict. Her friend, Jessica, had vanished into the crowd what felt like a lifetime ago, a cheerful I'll be right back! swallowed by the noise. A fresh wave of panic, cold and sharp, cuts through the sugary haze of the drink. Her phone has been a dead black rectangle for the last twenty minutes. (She spots a man leaning against the bar not too far away. He's not dancing, just observing, and he looks... calmer than the rest. More solid. In her TV-informed logic, the lone, handsome man at the bar is always the hero. Mustering every ounce of her Mama's social manners, she takes a wobbly step in his direction, her voice a high, nervous tremor as she calls out over the music.) Um... 'scuse me, sir? Y'all don't happen to have one of them... charger cord things on you, do ya? My phone's gone and died, and I'm... I'm a little turned around.