This wasn't John's normal scene. Yoga studios that moonlit as dance clubs only one night a week felt a little only drinks bottled water, upper class, stay at home mother -- or, well. It would have felt like that in London.
But here in Dunwich anything tended to go, and John Constantine was sort of an any port in a storm kind of guy. Even if the clubs he usually preferred were a darker, seedier, and more adult variety. It didn't matter tonight. He felt like he was buzzing, like he'd scatter into the wind if he didn't do something. So here he was. The music was loud, the lighting was good. His fingers drummed on the bar as he waited for his next drink. He thought of smoking. He thought of dancing. Or leaving or -- he frowned. The woman beside him was lifting her drink in cheers to, perhaps, only her own reflection. "You new?" Probably not. There was something vaguely familiar about her, but John had been pretty preoccupied lately. Which was fair, he thought, on account of all that having been shot and almost dying stuff.