Adam cleaned himself with water, took out a tissue, and pressed on the small bleeding. Then the reflection revealed two huge red stains staining his beautiful white T-shirt and, on his arm, the marks of the woman’s fingernails.
His image was spoiled. The entire evening was spoiled.
The thing about Trevor and Lisandro, the subsequent argument with Trevor, the jump scare he got thanks to that guy who looked like him—because that must have been what happened—that crazy lady, and now, this. His white T-shirt and the scratch on his arm: two warning signs that said, retreat now, nice and easy, and wrap this night up before something worse comes up.
Mint, Strawberry—do your best with the opportunity I gave you, and good luck, he thought, looking at the VIP platform from afar, and without saying goodbye to anyone, he left.
Before crossing the exit threshold, he gave himself another chance to find his doppelganger and took one last look. No luck whatsoever.
He approached Little John, who was guarding the front entrance, covered the bloodstains on his T-shirt with one hand, and called to him with a pat on the shoulder. “Hey, Johnny, did you… see me leave?” he asked, even knowing how ridiculous it sounded. “I mean, in these last few minutes, did you see me leaving here?”
The big man twisted his mouth into a smile. “You won’t give me a pass on that one, Adam, will you?”
Little John had misunderstood him. Adam returned the friendly gesture, sacrificing his true curiosity, and patting him on the back in farewell, left the club.
What the hell are you doing? he questioned himself as he walked towards the central parking building of the Ciccone neighborhood. You find someone who looks exactly like you, and you just leave because your T-shirt got stained?
Doubt slowed the haste of his steps.
Why don’t you plant your feet right at the club’s door and wait until he gets out? He had to do it before dawn, right? The mouse will poke his head through the hole, and you’ll be the cat that catches it.
Adam stopped; one foot on the street, the other on the sidewalk. He glanced toward B-Crush’s entrance as if he expected to see his double coming out right there. But again, the voice of reason invited him to think: Scenario #1. Your unknown twin brother shows up when you’re taking a leak, then runs away. Scenario #2. A guy, who looks like you, opens the door without knocking first; he realizes the stall is busy and leaves. Which of the two scenarios do you think is the most plausible?
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Adam shrugged. Sure, the second one made more sense, but it didn’t match what he’d seen, and apparently it didn’t match what Little John saw either.
John could have been confused. That usually happens. And what do you think you saw? he retorted to himself. It is said that there’s always someone out there who’s the spitting image of someone else. That guy, the one you think is your long-lost twin, might as well have been one of those doubles. You were in a narrow place, between two screens, under dim light; it’s easy to get confused that way. One more thing, the guy had a beard; how many times you have grown a beard to know what you would look like with it? Never. Beard changes the appearance of guys; you know that better than anyone; it’s the first lesson a model learns before his first photoshoot.
Adam nodded. All right, all right. He had to admit those were pretty good arguments against his initial thoughts.
Was it possible that the voice of his logic was actually the voice of his cowardice, though? Because it was easier to attribute what had happened to a mix-up than to think about the possibility of having a twin brother out, a blood relative who seemed to know him but hadn’t wanted to start a conversation with him.
He entered the parking lot, went through a long row of parked vehicles until he found his car, started it up—the little symbol of the Tor automobile company, a rottweiler opening its snout in full bark, gleamed on the hood of the blue compact—and left.
As he maneuvered, the two cards of Loud he’d bought as a present for the girls slid across the dashboard. With the movement, the holo-magazines got activated again and displayed their covers. He looked at his photo in them and pictured what he would look like with a beard; the result was a face almost identical to that of the stranger. He deactivated the cards and tossed them into the glove compartment as if trying to avoid being distracted by any images of himself for the time being.
His arm burned a little, there, where the woman had clawed him. He remembered her smile, and his hair stood on end. Then he ran a finger under his nose to make sure he wasn’t bleeding anymore. What the hell could have caused the bleeding? He hadn’t hurt his nose, and as far as he knew, he didn’t have any health issues either. Or was he supposed to take the weird dizziness he had suffered in the restaurant as a warning sign?
And so, he left the colorful and noisy Ciccone neighborhood behind, and leaving the Magenta Area along one of the elevated avenues, passed through the edge of the White Area and entered the Yellow one.
11.05 p.m. showed the car’s dashboard. Friday night was still running. Maybe he could change his clothes and go back to B-Crush. He needed to get rid of the foul taste the last few minutes had left in his throat. His reflection in the rearview mirror showed no traces of blood.
You’re bad at making excuses, he grumbled. You don’t think about coming back to have a good time; you fool. You do it to find your ghost twin.
He growled again, this time to silence his own conscience.