"This is Heather," he told me earnestly, a little less cool than his usual style. She nodded at me and snootily brushed aside a stray lock of that bla...k mane, well aware of who I was. I liked her name. It seemed to befit the idiom she had already taken on in my eyes. D too, seemed smitten. Unfortunately, if he imagined any kind of normal relationship with her, I feared he could be heading for a fall. First impressions indicated that she wasn’t the type. So, I settled in, drunk rubbish, flat. Was Carl Cox on? Was Judge Jules, Paul Oakenfold, Ferry Corsten, Armand Van Helden? Was it going to be blinding? Or cheesy? Or hard? Or trancey? Who fucking cared? The rain beat down gently, softer than the music, barely noticed on the sweat that already had her hair sodden and damp and lank and sticking to her bare skin. But not for long. Just a shower. Thank fucking Christ for that! Bumping. Thumping. Kicking. Heavier. Harder. Darker. Throbbing. Banging. How it happened, Kirsten didn’t. More

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