I wallowed for four days.
That’s all I gave to the numbness, allowed it to submerge me into the cold apathy and drown in my despair. It’s all I allowed before I took action.
Then, I plotted.
Maeve thinks if she marries me off, I’ll be my new husband’s problem. No longer her issue. Her liability.
I just need to feel something other than abandonment from my sister. Something that makes me feel loved, pushes away that sorrow and bleakness at what my life is going to be when I’m married to a killer.
Will I survive? Will he kill me too?
Not like it matters now, my fate is sealed.
Regardless, I knew what I had to do.
“Sloane! This way, Sloane! Let’s see that smile!” a reporter yells, drawing my attention his way. Lips pouting, I push away the melancholy, and give the report the best doe eye gaze I have. One that looks innocent, but everyone knows is the furthest from who I am.
Danica shifts on my arm, her bright pink dress like a second skin to her rail-thin body. The scrap of material barely covers her breasts, her dyed blonde hair hanging in soft curls along her boney shoulders. She smiles with me, letting the camera flash into our eyes until we see black dots swimming in our vision.
This is what I needed. The attention, the spotlight, the need to be seen by someone—anyone in a world that avoids me, neglects me.
Danica juts a hip, wide mouth grinning as we turn toward the long line of club-goers. She’s enjoying this, like she always does. Half the reason I invite her is because of the way she laps up the attention and eggs on my bad decisions. Most of them with her.
We enter the club, the bouncer nodding at us as we pass without stopping. My name has pull in this city, even if I don’t want it to. O’Briens get into places and are given the best wherever they go.
The press will follow us or if the club’s halfway decent, they’ll stop them before entering, and the people around us will sell pictures to their papers for top dollar. It’s happened before.
Our steps are loud with every clink of heels on the metal stairs, the thumping music bubbling up from the darkened staircase, and I mentally pray my Versace safety pin heels don’t get stuck and snap.
That’d be just my luck.
We make it to the bottom, the loud music beating against my chest, rattling my teeth. It overtakes my senses, fills my lungs and veins with the kind of energy I need. The kind of energy that hides the numbness, makes me feel at ease and feral with need. Need to move, to explode, to do something that burns away this out-of-control sensation caused by my decree.
Grabbing my hand, Danica pulls me into the dance room, weaving along the sweating bodies. It’s tight, warm, and suffocating. The kind of pressure I can enjoy, submerge myself in, and hopefully never come up for air.
“We need drinks,” Danica yells though it’s a whisper in my ear. The thumping of the bass is a constant buzz and it drums steadily inside my skull. Nodding, I move us to the large silky, black bar, the sides packed with people all waving the three bartenders down. Lights above make the entire floor red, the haze causing my feet to stumble, depth perception completely gone.
When I signal to the bartender for a bottle of champagne, Danica pulls me back as her hot, demanding lips take over mine in a long kiss.
I give into her, letting the sweet taste of bubblegum and Chanel coax a moan out of my mouth. Her hand snakes into my thick red curls, yanking to move my head into the right angle to deepen the kiss, and I grab her slender hips, red nails digging into her sensitive flesh.
I want what she’s offering, if to lose myself into someone and ignore my reality, but first I want to dance. I need the beat, to expend this energy and move my hips within the beating heart of the dance floor.
Pulling away, my finger swipes my red lipstick from her sprayed tanned chin. “Dancing first.”
She huffs, kohl rimmed blue eyes crinkling with too much makeup, reaching over my shoulder for the cold champagne. “Fine, darling.”
Taking a swig, she gulps three big times, sparkling wine dripping from the corners of her mouth, before handing it to me. The crisp bubbles pop on my tongue, chasing away Danica’s sweet taste and leaving behind a slow buzz.
When we’ve had our fill, passing the bottle a few times, we push our way back onto the dance floor. My sequin red designer dress reflects the above lights, sparkles dancing over my hair and legs. I start to sway, following the crowd in beat and steps. One step this way, a twirl, my hands hold up high, body slowly unraveling to the thumps of a beat I don’t recognize.
Immediately, hands start pulling and touching, and I follow their demands. The touches are kind, soft. I can almost forget what waits for me outside this gyrating dance floor, and I let the buzz cloud my head, numbness forgotten.
Danica appears in front of me, lips trailing between the valley of my breasts, higher still to my neck. I let her, enjoying the touch, enjoying the trickle of warmth that dips down lower. The bodies around us push closer, our hips meshing, delicious sparks of desire igniting at the simple caress.
Danica’s fingers dip—dangerously close to where I’m growing damp with need, the urge to escape reality drawing my desire higher. I don’t want Danica, per say, but she’s here and willing, someone who can fight back the melancholy and ease the loneliness. Someone who I can use—like I use all my other partners.
She reaches under the short hem of my dress, fingernails raking against my sensitive thighs. I can’t stop the gasp of pain, eyes flying open, even as she chastely pecks my lips.
“I’m so happy you called tonight,” she murmurs, hands grabbing my ass and pulling me forward. The friction is nice, a pleasant rubbing that has my mouth twisting, tension easing from my shoulders. I know this dance. The push and pull, how Danica knows exactly where to grab and hold me.
It’s been weeks since we’ve done anything, but she still remembers, and that’s all I need to escape my shit.
“You’ve always been the best, worst mistake,” I say against her lips. “Even when I know you shouldn’t be my first call, you are.” Sticky lip gloss spreads between us like a physical line, breaking the lust-haze just slightly.
She smirks, hand sliding down my front. “But you always call me.” But instead of going further, she opens her mouth.
A small, bright pink pill sits there, waiting like an invitation.
Smiling, I nod. I know what this is. Danica is as much an addict to drugs as I am to attention. She always finds the dealer in the clubs and always brings me along with her.
It’s a toxic ride, what we have. Two party girls with demons who won’t talk about it, but we’re getting high to avoid them.
Carefully, I open my mouth, her tongue darting to tangle with mine. The pill follows, dissolving between our lips with no more than a flicker of acknowledge. She pulls away, turning to face the crowd, limbs mixing with another guy nearby. He spins her, disappearing into the group while I’m left in the middle, alone.
I don’t let those thoughts take me—I can’t. Not when the drug activates right away, a pleasant euphoria erupting through my chest and spreading out to my arms and hands. My mind muddles, and I smile, a weightlessness following in its wake.
I lift up my hands, amazed at how light they feel. And beyond that, my eyes catch the pulsating red lights that turn and blink overhead. It looks like a beating heart, matching the rhythm in my head.
Slowly, my head tilts back and that grin grows, and I’m swallowed up by the swaying bodies, the buzz growing so loudly between my ears that nothing else matters anymore.
