Micah Johnson Goes West (Get Out, #2)(32)

Then he buttoned it again. Two was enough.

On his way downstairs to meet Sam, he hesitated outside Dane’s door. It was quiet for once—usually there was some music blaring to act as a barrier to anybody trying to gain access.

He was about to walk off when he decided to hell with it, and knocked sharply on the door. He instantly regretted it, thinking of the secret Dane claimed to hold over him. There was no way of knowing if he’d decide to drop that little bomb or not, and maybe it was best not to antagonise him. This was a huge mistake.

“Who is it?” yelled Dane.

“Your favourite person in the world.” He couldn’t resist, despite everything.

There was the sound of shuffling feet, and the door cracked open slightly. Dane peered out at him, and although Micah couldn’t see the full of his mouth he knew it was set in some form of sneer. “What do you want?”

Charming. “Look, I just wanted to give it one last shot and see if you wanted to come with us tonight.”

“Did my brother put you up to this?”

“Sam’s not that dumb.”

A huff claimed that Dane thought he most likely was, and Micah bristled a little in Sam’s defence.

“I just thought I’d do the nice thing.”

“Well, save it.”

Fed up, Micah imagined kicking the door so it flew back into Dane’s face. It was only a momentary happiness; he knew it was most likely a terrible thing to think. Funny, though. Dane wouldn’t even see it coming. Instead, Micah would do the mature thing and try kindness. “You don’t have to hate me, you know. I’m not the enemy.”

There was a pause, and then four words Micah would never have expected to come out of Dane’s mouth. “I don’t hate you.”

“Excuse me?” He had to hear it again, just to be sure.

But the sudden appearance of Sam in the hallway ruined whatever moment they were about to have.

“You ready?” Sam called out.

Dane’s door slammed. There would be no further conversation with him tonight.

“What’s going on?” Sam asked him.

“Just thought I’d try him one last time.”

“Lost cause, mate.”

Micah really wished he hadn’t said that, as he was sure Dane was still standing on the other side of the door listening to every word he said.

“No such thing as a lost cause.”

Sam shrugged. “Hope you’re right. Now, let’s get you out tonight, otherwise you’ll be one.”

Micah was sure he was more of a lost cause than Dane, but he was willing to pretend otherwise for one night at least. And he couldn’t help but give one last look back at Dane’s room, wondering what the hell was going on in that guy’s mind.

The door remained closed.




NORTHBRIDGE ON a Saturday night was crowded, but Micah still felt it was small in comparison to Melbourne’s nightlife. He also didn’t feel at ease as he did back home—there was a frisson in the air, a static that made everyone seem edgy, as if a fight could break out at any moment.

“That’s just Northbridge,” Danny Hawkins told him. “It’s the ice. There are a lot of people on it.”

Micah wondered whether the isolation of the city made the people harder and drug use more prevalent, which thereby affected the general atmosphere. He was flanked by eight strong athletic men, but being who they were also made them more visible—they were known as AFL players, and that resulted either in frenetic fan worship or belligerent catcalls that threatened worse.

But they made it to Connections unscathed, and there was no problem getting in the door as the bouncer’s eyes bugged in appreciation at so much straight man flesh.

“How do you handle it?” he hissed at Micah as he swanned past.

“Quite easily,” Micah told him. Even though it was true, the bouncer didn’t seem to believe him.

Upstairs was like some scene from an Eighties dance movie. The crowd on the dance floor parted as the boys strode out onto it, having already dispatched someone for drink duty. Micah saw the whispers start, and he felt hidden amongst his teammates. Then a boy his age boldly approached him and began dancing alongside him. Micah remained frozen in a childhood game of Statues while other eyes were upon him.

A shove in his back and a cry of “Just fucking dance, already!”—he was pretty sure it was Craig although the volume of the doof doof music covered most of it—made him almost fall into the other boy’s arms. Awkwardly he began to move in some pattern that could be regarded as dancing, and his teammates whooped and started doing so amongst themselves. In no time at all they had their own goodwill suitors, men and women taking the chance to share the floor with football royalty and have a story to tell their friends the next day if they hadn’t already seen the pictures that would be plastered across Twitter, Instagram, and Facebook.

“What’s your name?” Micah yelled over the din of the music.

“Jace,” yelled his dancing companion.

“I’m Micah—” he began.

Jace got in close to him and wrapped his arm around Micah’s waist, drawing him in until they were chest to chest. Not breaking eye contact, Jace grinned. “Yeah, I know who you are, Micah Johnson. Can’t stand the Dockers, but you’re all right.”