Constant Book 5, Chapter 11: This Is What You Want (Patreon)

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Eleven: This Is What You Want

Closed in on all sides by warm chatter, we sat together in the crowded restaurant. Neither of us wanted to sit with our back to the windows. We got lucky with a small table with a view over the entrance and the expansive windows looking onto the street. A tealight flickered behind colored glass. Napkins in the shape of swans. I’d never before eaten in a place this fancy.

            My suit was grey, borrowed from Shangri La. It smelled musty, the jacket loose in the shoulders, sleeves too long at the wrist. I kept tugging at the collar or touching the knot of my tie. Meanwhile, she wore a red dress sparkling with sequins, backless with a halter top and plunging neckline. Her lipstick was bright red and her nails were red, too. She had tattoos across her right shoulder, an intricate and colorful pattern of whirls and whorls, and wore a delicate chain with a silver cross resting between her breasts. The details of clothes and accessories, her makeup stayed with me but not what she looked like, her face a blank space.

            This was our first date. We’d met in secret a few times, but this was the first time we’d appeared together in public. Stupid, and dangerous, and that made it all the more exciting.

            “You clean up okay,” she said. “You look good with clothes on.”

            The waiter came and took our orders. I don’t remember what we ate that night. It’s the terrible arousal that stuck with me. Mesmerized by her every movement, the flash of drop earrings against her cheek, the way she tucked her hair behind an ear, I yearned for her with all my being. It was—something chemical, hormonal, I don’t know, the intensity of feeling I had for this woman from the very moment we met couldn’t be normal. Ever since that first meeting—in which we fought, then fucked beneath the creaking sway of a bamboo forest and breathed in the rich loam and each other’s skin as the thick soil curled between our toes and fingers—I’d been thinking of her.

            The hiss of her breath in my ears. The sharp bite of teeth into my shoulder. The feeling of moving inside of her. At night, I masturbated to the memory of my fingers sliding down her back, counting out each bump along her spine, or to the thought of her cunt clenching tight around my cock, her ecstatic spasms. During the day, at home, I moved around familiar spaces like an automaton. It was a performance without will, observed from a distance. Me, the real me, stayed with her, the memory of her, obsessed with the ghost touch of her skin against mine. I wanted to roam the streets in search of her, and online, too. But I didn’t even know her name.

            Each time we met was a return to life, like a deep-rooted plant waking after winter. The intensity of this revival scared and thrilled me in equal measures. Obviously, I loved this woman, not that I ever called it that or said the word aloud. She was the first and only woman Luke ever loved. Not counting Sakura, of course, but what I felt for her was different. But I couldn’t articulate the emotion back then. I failed to understand what I was feeling. To pin down such volatile passion with something as fragile as a name, a word as simple as ‘love’, would have been to diminish the feeling itself.

            To accept her and how I felt about her would be to give up too much of myself. I feared the loss of—not control, because for years my life had been in the hands of others. What, then? Something undefinable, yet precious: a sense of myself as a distinct individual, an identity yet in progress; a performance nearly mastered, and to make her a part of me would mean starting over. And so, my emotion remained hidden, tainted by guilt and the constant knowledge that it was somehow wrong.

            I was a fucking idiot.

            Later that night, we would find our way to a dirty little room at the back of a nearby nightclub, a disused office nestled away above one of the dance floors. We would fuck under the twitching light of a single bare lightbulb, throbbing bass rising through the floor, the sound of Harry Longman on a tinny radio. Sweat and swearing, nails digging deep into my back, hands around my throat. In bed, I was her equal. Her desire made me feel powerful and each cry I extracted from her lips brought me pleasure. During sex, I could fool myself into believing she loved me, too. But in public, at the restaurant, I felt hopelessly outclassed by her beauty, her confidence, her effortless coolness. I was nineteen and needed fake ID to order a beer; she didn’t.

            She held my ID between fingertips. “Blake?” She flicked the sliver of plastic back to me. “No offence, you don’t look twenty-five. Or like a Blake.”

            “My name’s Luke” I said, stupid, rash, trusting, returning the ID to my wallet. When I glanced towards the window, she laughed. “Relax,” she said and placed her hand over mine. I stiffened, relaxed, smiled. Her palm scratched the top of my hand: callouses, and her knuckles, like mine, were scarred. “Nobody gives a shit.”

            “If anyone—”

            She shrugged, slender shoulders shining in the soft light of the restaurant. “Same. If we’re caught together, we’re fucked.” Her grip tightened over my hand. “But nobody else is here right now. Just me. I’m here.”

            Here, with me; and did she feel as intensely about me as I did her? It didn’t matter. I was no more able to detach myself from her than I was able to detach the hand she held.

            “So, tell me.” Elbows on table, she leaned a little closer, and the front of her dress hung loose. Her breasts were small and pale, beautiful and braless, and the silver cross dangled between them. “I want to know everything about you. I want to crack you open like an old chest in a dusty attic on a hot summer’s afternoon.”

            “I don’t even know your name,” I said.

            “Call me Persephone.” Her hand over mine now felt large and heavy. “And what’s your name, babe?”

            I snapped back to the present.  A man stood next to me. I’d missed the first part of what he said. He must’ve taken my silence as some kind of consent. Now he held my hand. He’d bought me a drink. The drink was tall, blue and sparkling. Fucking moron: I already had a drink, and it wasn’t blue.

            The past faded. I wasn’t sitting in a fancy restaurant wearing an ill-fitting suit. Instead, I wore a pleated nu-leather skirt, so short it barely cleared my ass, standing at the counter in Calypso, a classy bar out towards the city fringes near one of the wealthiest suburbs. Glass stairs led down to pounding music and colored lights strobed across the dance floor, lighting up collarbones and bared abdomens bright with sweat. But here at the bar everything was turned down low, except for the men, who were as feral as wolves. Dark eyes and the flash of too-white teeth. One of these animals stood in front of me now, grinning. Fingers like claws, touching without invitation. A hand over mine, another at my hip.

            Couldn’t blame the bastard for trying his luck, though. I was pure bait, intentionally so, a jiggling invitation in thigh-high stockings and ankle strap heels. I had my hair tied in a high ponytail, blue contacts, nails set to soft pink, lips plumped and glossy, and big hoop earrings. A snug tube top worn over a cropped mesh shirt, taut across my tits, and my trim belly bare, glimmering with body shimmer under crimson bar lights.

            I slid the drink to one side without tasting it. His eyes flashed with annoyance. But the bastard didn’t take the hint, didn’t pull his hand away, didn’t get that I was trawling for bigger fish. His palm was sweaty and gross. His lips, too, shone wet and pale, like a pair of mating slugs beneath a thin blond mustache. His neck was dotted red from a bad shave, and he was young and stupid. He needed to go away.

            He wasn’t the guy I was looking for. I’d been hitting the bars hard these past few weeks. Where Darius sent me, I went. He played the probabilities, flagging the bars, clubs and pick-up joints our target was most likely to show. The monster who hurt Emma was out there, somewhere. But it’s been a goddamn nightmare. Dressed to draw the attention of one specific man, it’s like fishing with dynamite. I’ve perfected my resting bitch face, I’m wearing it now, but it doesn’t help. Quite the opposite. Guys like a challenge, right? I did, once.

            And tonight, I’m totally not in the mood for any of this shit. It’d be different if I was out with the girls, maybe, find the fun in getting shitfaced with Willow, watch Mel tear down some dickhead, enjoy a quiet moment with Emma. But they weren’t, couldn’t be a part of this, and so rallying the willpower to push myself out the door tonight took everything I had.

            Truth is, I’m exhausted. In a way, chasing down the man who hurt Emma is the only thing keeping me going right now. Ever since Icarus, and the night at Julia’s, I haven’t been myself. Too much going on. Brain full of junk. My focus has been shit: at work, with friends, always tired, never in the moment. Blurry around the edges, an image that refuses to resolve into anything concrete. Even now, I barely felt rooted in myself, a faint hum of the brain, a tingle in the skin and it was as though I was watching a familiar rerun of a once-loved show, played at half-speed.

            “You keep pulling that face, it’ll stay that way.” The guy’s tone was light but his grip over my hand tightened.

            “That’s what Mom always said.” I forced unwilling lips into a well-practiced configuration: distant, but non-confrontational; friendly without promise. Taking a deep breath, I tapped the blue drink with a pink fingernail. “Thank you. But no.”

            “I’m Aaron,” he said. “You’ve very pretty.”

            “Aaron. I’m flattered, really, I am. But I’ve had a rough day, and a rougher week. I’m just looking to unwind on my own. So, thank you for the drink. But I’ve already got one. And I’m not really looking for company tonight.” I angled my body away from slightly, enough for him to take the hint: we were done.

            His eyes narrowed and his face flushed red. He smelled of beer and sweat, only lightly masked by cheap cologne. “I bought you a drink,” he said, with a hint of whine. “So now you’ve got to talk to me. That’s how it works, right? Them’s the rules.” Voice light, he tried to pass it off as a joke. The way he clenched his jaw said otherwise. “Talk to me.”

            “Aaron—”

            “You have any idea how hard it is to walk over to a girl like you and strike up a conversation?” His voice wheedled now, but he was also angry, as though this was somehow my fault.

            “A girl like me?” An oddly pleasant nostalgia washed over me, and I thought of Jonas. I cracked a little wistful smile, and that was all it took for fucking Aaron to think he’d scored. His smile grew, he stroked my wrist, he leaned in close.

            “You know what I mean,” he said.

            “I don’t, actually.” His eyes flicked back the way he came. “See those guys behind me? Look at them.” A trio of grinning idiots, two guys, one girl, watched their friend from across the bar.

            Assholes, he said, and explained that they’d put him up to it, dared him to talk to me. Poor Aaron hadn’t had a girlfriend since high school. His friends said he had no game. He hadn’t met the right girl, hated bars, the music and dancing, the whole fucking scene. I could see that, right? He wasn’t some creep, just a guy who didn’t want to be made a fool of, and he said all this with such sincerity I nearly believed him.

            “They dragged me out anyway tonight, said they were going to get me—” He coughed.

            Maybe this kid, he wasn’t that bad under the right circumstances. But his problems weren’t my problems. And for a guy who hated the scene, he was coming on way too strong. Let him find another girl to practice his goddamn technique. After all, this place was packed tonight, and everywhere I looked, along the counter and at tables under pale spotlights, versions of the same story played out.

            I frowned, prettily enough but clearly uninterested. “Um, no.” I yanked my hand out from beneath his. “I’m not—"

            He chased my hand, grabbed my wrist. “Just take the damn drink,” he said, “and talk to me. You didn’t dress like that to be alone. You want company.”

            My eyes flicked across the bar, seeking out a bartender, a bouncer—fuck it, even a man to intervene. Where’s a goddamn ally when you needed one? I stared at the hand holding on to me and considered how easy it would be to slip free, twist the wrist, maybe roll the arm and shatter his elbow. Maybe settle for just dislocating the shoulder.

            I licked my lips. He grinned. His other hand, the one at my side, stroked my flank. “Maybe it’s more than just company you’re looking for?”

            Christ. It’d be easier, maybe, to just give this dirtbag what he wants. The fizzy blue drink was already in hand, I didn’t remember picking it up. And it occurred to me that, frankly, having this guy around might keep other predators at bay until the guy I was waiting for showed. If he showed. And then what? What would it take for Aaron to go away—his tongue down my throat, a quick fondle in a dark corner? Five minutes sucking him off in the toilets?

            I felt myself grow hot, an angry flush crawling up my chest and neck. Hot, but my belly felt like ice, and my left hand curled into a fist.

            “Hey man, thanks for keeping my girl company.” He slid in next to us, effortlessly, palpable aura of innate confidence pushing Aaron back a step despite the newcomer being shorter. “Here you go, Cindy.” He carried two drinks: a beer and an espresso martini, a match for the one I’d already finished. I blinked and with the blue drink already in one hand, took the new one in the other.

            Aaron looked between us for a moment, stared at me, avoiding the gaze of the other man. Then, he scowled and left. His friends laughed, slapping him on the back, and they disappeared downstairs.

            “Quinn,” the new guy said. His teeth were too bright, eyes mossy-green and intense. My belly tightened and I forced myself to stay calm. Yeah, it was him. I already knew his name, knew him better than his own mother did. I’d like to think she’d disown the bastard if she knew what kind of a monster she’d raised. Wishful thinking. These arrogant bastards, they always found some way to justify their behavior. Quinn—full name Tarquin Worthington—was the epitome of smarmy public school entitlement, a patronizing piece of shit, and tonight, I was taking this fucking bastard down.

            “I’d shake your hand,” I said, “but—” and held up my two drinks.

            Quinn was junior associate at daddy’s investment firm. He’d glided through life with all the ease of a lump of shit sliding through a greased chute. Oh, a few bumps along the way. In high school, there’d been an ex-girlfriend quietly moved out of state; an abortion soon followed. An au pair, unexpectedly deported; I saw her bruised face in the emigration photos. And then the younger sister, sent to a distant finishing school, thin, wan and sad in her graduating yearbook.

            I hated him, instantly. Even without knowing the things he’d done, I would’ve hated him. Born with a silver spoon in his mouth and every other orifice, he wanted for nothing but demanded everything. Maybe his dad hadn’t played ball with him as a kid, and mommy never hugged him enough. Maybe the whole capitalist-patriarchal system that valued wealth and power over character and kindness made him into the monster he’d become. Nature or nurture, it didn’t fucking matter. The cause was inconsequential. This bastard drugged young women, brought them back to an apartment somewhere in town, raped them and posted the videos online—for fun.

            He watched Aaron’s retreat before turning to me, a curious half-smile dancing across his lips. Then he inclined his head in a gesture of greeting.

            “How’d you know my name?” I placed both drinks on the counter and then, feeling hot, reached for the blue one.

            “Don’t drink that,” he said, “Some guy you don’t know buys you a drink? Stranger danger.” He smiled, somewhat wryly. “Your name, I know the bartender. He told me.”

            “You’re a stranger.” I pointed at the espresso martini, dark depths, frothy white top. “Danger?”

            “Fair enough,” he said. He took the drink, brought it to his lips, smiled around a sip. “Actually, that’s pretty damn good. I’m keeping this one.” He grinned. “I’ve seen you around. You’re a regular.”

            I giggled. “I’ve seen you around, too.”

            “And you never came over and said hi?”

            “Too shy.”

            “Yeah, I’m totally getting a shy vibe off of you.”

            “Besides, it’s the boy’s responsibility to walk over.”

            “How very traditional of you.”

            I held one hand to my chest. “Tradwife in the making right here,” I said. “Don’t let appearances fool you, I’m a good girl at heart, I swear.”

            He took a step back and looked me over, with such seriousness that I shivered involuntarily. He enjoyed the unconscious, affable charm that came with the utter confidence of wealth and a privileged upbringing. Quinn, I had to reluctantly admit, was very good-looking; fucking hot, Mel would say, then probably add, but too fucking short; she loved her heels but wanted her guys taller than her. I put him at about one-seventy, so yeah, I only reached his chin, even in stilettos.

            He was slim, but muscular, pointy chin and hair styled in a fashionably floppy fringe. Not effeminate but still a delicacy to his features: long eyelashes, sharp cheekbones, muscular without being bulky, expensively dressed without being flashy. White shirt, tailored, unbuttoned at the neck, and silver cufflinks inlaid with ebony; fitted pants just tight enough to show off his ass; a gorgeous, understated watch at his wrist. Hell, at a glance, his shoes alone cost more than my whole outfit. He was easily one of the hottest guys here tonight, and the best dressed, if you were into that kind of thing, which I wasn’t.

            His eyes clouded over, and he sneered, and I saw a glimpse of the man I came looking for, though it happened so quickly I might have imagined it. “You are, aren’t you?” he muttered. “You’re a good girl.” He gave his head a shake. He signaled the bartender, ordered me a fresh martini. “See you around, Cindy. Have a good night. But keep safe, and don’t accept drinks from strangers.”

            He walked away and left me at the counter.

            I watched him walk over to an empty table, molded transparent plastic glowing faintly from within with dark shimmering reds, deep swirling purples, glittery pinks, and from overhead spotlights cast glimmering columns of pale white light. Other girls watched him, too, ready to pounce. Fuck, I wasn’t going to blow my chance, not again. Too many nights hanging out in bars on my own, legs trembling with exhaustion, feet aching in heels, and a sick feeling at the back of my throat.

            But God, I was just so tired, sick to death of the whole thing, playing Cindy, this version of her, dragging myself out every night. It’d been hard, fucking hard. I’ve barely slept. Nightmares. The usual, of course, Persephone’s death in all its grotesque ways. But there’s new grist for the horror mill, Tom joining the repertoire of fevered and incoherent night terrors, and I’ve been waking at 3am with my jaw clenched so tight it ached, or phantom pain in my ass and the lingering sensation of cruel hands at my tits. And not just Tom, but a vague and indefinite gallery of men taking center stage at times, guest stars from the past, lined up and eager for their turn, cocks like spears standing erect in unending rows.

            Then bleary-eyed trudging to work, half-asleep, half-awake and I’ve barely held on, days like a ghostly imprint on a week that never begins or ends. Overheard comments in the break room, conversations going silent. Emma won’t say anything but keeps watching with this concerned look on her face. Mel’s more upfront: what the fuck’s wrong with you? You look like shit, she said. And yeah, it’s true, some days, I look like shit, haven’t been able to rally, muster the effort to paint the pretty face for the day. Just too damned tired. Can’t bring myself to give a shit. Worn down by—all of it, the whole fucking charade. Ever since that night at Julia’s. Impossible to focus. To care. Like I said, the only thing keeping me going is my silent promise to Emma. That, and Darius’ promise of revenge.

            Gritting my teeth, I pulled my shit together. He’d told me to have a good night—damn straight, mister, I was going to have a good night, and that meant going home with this asshole, or wherever the night took us, the place where he did his—work. After all, I knew where he lived, the luxury penthouse condo downtown, just a few blocks from Julia’s, actually.

            My first instinct had been to make an unsolicited visit. Keep it simple, just grab the fucker one night as he came home from work. Make him pay. But Darius convinced me otherwise. There were more suitable forms of revenge than battering the guy to a pulp. Killing him wouldn’t take down the video of Emma. Also, we didn’t know where he took the girls, where he did his filming. Darius said if we were going to do this, that we ought to shut the whole operation down, once and for all. And for once, I agreed with him.

            I moved quickly, grabbing the seat opposite him before some other bitch swooped in. “Hey!”

            His look was all innocent curiosity. “Yes?”

            “What the hell?” I clambered into the tall stool, poorly designed for short people in tiny skirts and high heels. I glared at him, prettily. “Buy a girl a drink, and just walk off? What the actual fuck? Who does that?”

            He performed an elaborate shrug. “Earlier, you gave off the distinct impression you’d rather be alone.”

            “You were watching?”

            He tapped a finger on the table, as if thinking, then said, “would it be creepy if I said yes?”

            I considered that. “Depends on your intentions.”

            “My intentions?” The table shone red and limned the open collar of his shirt, chin and tips of his ears in red, as though he glowed with fire. Crimson teeth burned bright as he leaned close. “Honestly? My intentions were, first, to buy you a drink. Then, to get to know you better. After, we dance and I hold you close and then we kiss, deeply and I feel those gorgeous nails of yours dig into my back and later, we leave this bar together.” He said all this calmly, matter-of-factly. “And you come back to my place.”

            My throat felt dry. “And then?”

            He smiled.

            “But you walked away.”

            Quinn shrugged. “Like I said, you didn’t look like someone up for a drink, a chat, a dance, or….” He rolled his hand to suggest whatever came next. “Anything, really.”

            “You were right.” Then I crossed my arms beneath my breasts and pouted. “I changed my mind.”

            “A woman’s prerogative.”

            “And I might change it again.”

            He inclined his head, took a sip of his beer. “Your name, it is Cindy, right?”

            I licked my lips and smiled, lightly rested my fingers at my throat. His eyes followed every movement. Beneath my fingers, a black choker and I nearly balked at that, at wearing it and the memories associated with its presence. The humiliation of Noir, what happened at Icarus. A phantom sensation of Julia’s shock training prickled the skin.

            But Darius insisted. You’re bait, he said, what if it’s the final piece, the trigger? Along with access to the Tartarus security system I’d given him, Darius also harvested Jonas’s recent work correlating behavior and presentation, dress and drink and the hundred other data points defining an individual on a night out, and the person they take home with them. Quinn was an occasional patron with data reaching back years, and the predictive model generated a plausible profile. We knew what this asshole liked, possibly better than he did, what he looked for in a woman—and in a victim.

            Quinn liked his girls young (average age, twenty years, three months), with a preference for slim, blue-eyed blondes. Yeah, him and half the male population, but then the AI got more granular: he preferred his blondes in skirts (and his brunettes in trousers), long hair in high ponytails, and had a thing for chicks in leather—though mostly on a Friday. Bright clothes on Mondays through Wednesday, but black on the weekends, and makeup scaling up to vivid and bold by Saturday, though more subdued earlier in the working week. Heels, obviously and always, so long as she remained shorter than him. Tattoos, piercings, not so much. And attitude: a little petulance, somewhat immature, but not stupid. She should drink cocktails, not beer or shots, but nothing too cheap or childish, something that looked good clasped between vibrant nails, sipped at shining lips. Socio economics skewed towards working class, but aspirational, a thing for first- and second-year college girls from run-down suburbs; and he preferred his girls left-of-center even if his own views skewed heavily right.

            All this, but he also had to be the one to make the first move. According to the data, if the girl had the audacity to approach him, no dice, the chance of pick-up rapidly approached zero. Lucky them, but I needed that asshole to take me home and so needed to make myself an irresistible, but passive, target. Then, once he made contact, it seemed he enjoyed attentive listeners. Someone who agreed with his opinions, said the right things—complimented him, but not too much. Oh, and escalating touches, too: nothing too aggressive at first, but by the end of the night I’d have my arms around his neck, be sitting on his lap, his hands on my ass and tits.

            Fucking hell. But it was a part I could play, Hell, I’d happily play it, for Emma’s sake. She still didn’t have any clear memory of what happened. A pounding headache and a vague sense of meeting some guy, followed by a white haze punctuated by moments of intense pain, the profound realization that something horrible had happened. She still woke up in the middle of the night, Willow told me, whimpering, hands clenched so tightly it took her ten minutes to relax and uncurl her fingers.

            “Mm-hm,” I said. “My name’s Cindy. Can you guess what it’s short for?”

            “Lucinda.” He answered without hesitation. “It means light.”

            “That’s right!” Enthusiastically, tip of tongue between my teeth. “Everyone always guesses Cynthia.”

            “Cynthia’s a good name, too. Artemis’s name, the hunter.” He sounded pleased by the opportunity to show off. “But you don’t strike me as a hunter.”

            “You might be surprised.”

            “And I’m the prey?” He hid a smile behind his hand, as though laughing at a private joke. “But ‘light’ suits you better.” I inclined my head, and he added, “because your beauty outshines all the others here, obviously.”

            It was cheesy, and I blushed because he expected it, but also because I couldn’t help myself, the way he said it got to me, warmth flickering to life in my belly. “You like it when I compliment you,” he said and the red in my cheeks was confirmation enough.

            We talked. He ordered drinks. I watched carefully as they were brought over to us. He didn’t slip anything into my glass. Then again, maybe he didn’t need to. He struck just the right balance of confident talk and empathic listening. The simple fact he listened elevated him above nine-tenths of the guys I’d met on nights out. He heard what I said and responded, a real conversation, and when did the bar get that low, that the simple ability to talk to a woman helped a man stand out from his peers? With the exception of Mr. Connor, I wondered, when was the last time I’d had a real conversation with a man?

            By the end of my third drink of the night, I felt drunk, surprisingly so. Hot, too, despite being half-naked. More than a little aroused, too, that slight tingle beneath the skin accompanying the heat, a yearning to be touched. Of course I was turned on, dressed as I was, the constant swirl of sensuous skin, all these other girls flowing past, primitive response to the constant parade of flesh, the lights, the scent of sex on the air, and the distant primal beat of the dance floor, felt if not quite heard. And opposite me, this guy, stupefyingly charming, with his hand over mine, and when did that happen, with his finger gently stroking my hand. That feels good, he said, and it did, focusing my attention through the simple, rhythmic touch of his finger on the back of my hand. You like it when I touch you like that.

            Then my thigh. Sat next to each other on a low, curved sofa in a dark corner, soft cushions and a view across the bar, and I couldn’t remember moving there. New drinks sat on the table in front of us, half-empty. His fingers traced repetitive patterns across my skin, cupped my knee and stroked the sensitive place behind, and I squirmed with pleasure. You like this, he said, and I did. Close your eyes, he said, follow my touch.

            Eyes fluttering shut, I sighed, and he was right. With my eyes closed the sounds of the bar, though amplified, seemed to retreat as did the presence of other people until all that remained was his presence next to me and the looping, rhythmic stroke of his touch, sliding across my skin, and his voice, soothing, deep, and rich, with a relaxing cadence within which a girl could lose herself, that masculine timbre that shivered up and down my spine.

            The words themselves were immaterial, just the sound, the feel of his voice as I sank deep into the seat, every fiber of the fabric soft against my skin, head thrown back, lips slightly parted, a soft sigh, a tingle in my lips, belly warm, and his fingertips, sliding, slowly, across my thigh and beneath my skirt. He touched me—there, and….

            …. I knew what kind of man he really was and felt as though I should shudder rather than squirm at his touch. But his touch felt so good, and I liked the way he touched me, and besides: you like me, he said, and I did.  Impossible to reconcile the profile of this man with the reality of the guy sat with me. Quinn was—okay. He was charming and I liked him. He’d walked away instead of forcing himself on me. Bought me a drink and then warned me against drinking it.

            I groaned, squirmed, nearly moaned with need, his breath hot on my ear. Quiet, he said, and I shuddered with the effort of repressing desire. I felt rather than saw his delighted smile, wicked joy at denied pleasure.

            You want to dance, he said next, and he was right, I did. Stretch my legs despite the distant drag of exhaustion, shake off lethargy and redirect unresolved lust into movement. I wanted to dance; no, I wanted to dance for him and feel his eyes on me. Give him another excuse to say something nice. I liked it when he said nice things to me, because it meant he was mine, he’d be taking me home with him, and that was good, that’s what I wanted.

            He stood and I did too and swayed, legs weak, nearly twisting an ankle but he was there to catch me. You okay, he asked and I giggled, yes, stopped, and then shook my head desperately, hair bouncing, face twisted in consternation. I need a piss, I whispered, and he laughed.

            Go, I’ll wait, he said, then just as I went to leave, he pulled me into his arms. His hands at my waist held me close, so that I had to bend my head back to meet his gaze. He looked—anguished, a sort of self-mockery curling his lips; and the way he looked at me, my breath caught in my throat. I felt sure he was going to kiss me. I—wet my lips, glanced away shyly, then back to him, and he was all confidence again, and pleased. Go, he said, with a pat to my skirted bum. But then he gently touched my face, brushed his fingertip across my lips, applying just enough pressure that had I wanted, I could part those lips and draw his finger into my mouth, and suck; and I nearly did, mouth watering at the thought, and growing wet down below, and God, how embarrassing, could he tell?

            Fuck, he said, you’re so fucking cute. I trembled to hear him say it. He continued, finger lightly tracing my face, nose, cheekbones, chin: I love it when a girl’s not afraid to be—you know, girly. But I bet you can look even prettier. You want to look your best. You need to freshen up a bit, he added, why don’t you show me just how pretty you can look?  

            He was right. I hadn’t checked my makeup once all night. I blushed with shame, shit, what must I look like? I hurried—had to hurry—if I kept him waiting, he might leave with some other girl, a prettier one, one who ticked all his boxes, had her makeup just right, what the fuck had I been thinking? I wouldn’t get another chance. I stood in the line-up, almost writhing in an agony of need and anxiety. When I got in, I scurried to a stall, took care of business and then found a space at the mirror, between a tall, pretty redhead to one side, hair in short waves to her shoulder; and a gorgeous dark-skinned lady in a shimmering gold dress. Both were mid-twenties and taller, and I felt like a child standing between them both, envied them both, their masterful projection of beauty. Their makeup was perfect, an instinctive femininity that had me feeling like a child, a fraud fumbling for mascara, thinking only, pretty, I had to get back before he saw these girls, Christ, look at them.

            The redhead cracked a smile, lay a comforting hand on my shoulder. Hey, you okay there? You look stressed, babe, relax.

            I forced a wan smile, took a deep breath. Try this, the woman in the gold dress said, passing me a little tube. For your eyes.

            I found him at the bar, his eyes sweeping across other women, and my stomach flipped with apprehension. Then he looked at me, and smiled approvingly, touched me on the shoulder and I gasped with the release of stress, and felt warm and happy, and from that point on his eyes were only on me. He took me by the upper arm and led me downstairs, and in the absence of fear, a dreamlike haze descended, and both stumbling in heels but also floating, grinning, happy and light on my feet, I followed him, and it was the best I’d felt in weeks.

            The lights flashed overhead, and their colored patterns spoke an unheeded warning in the language of chroma, hue and tone. Music swelled, rose and twirled then dropped, hammer blow of bass, treble swirl, whole body shuddering as each incandescent note penetrated, breached the liminal illusion separating self from senses. I felt filled, utterly. Something cracked and melted, and I was left gooey and soft and fuzzy. Hand at my back; another at my waist, and his tongue at my ear, an exhalation against my cheek, a voice to drown in, louder than the music and, Dance, he said, For me. Only for me.

            Sinuous column of flesh and sound, reaching for the flashing lights with incandescent nails, hips swaying, dropping, bare shoulders dipping, empty of anything but the instruction—to dance—and the music and an ephemeral sense of my own absent self, watching, as this girl, this pretty, gorgeous, hopeless girl swayed and spun—for him—pressed her ass up against his crotch, swayed and floated down, nearly to her knees then rising, spinning to face him, arms thrown around his neck, falling into his, tittering and breathless, eyes wide, earrings flashing, lips parted and with his hands circling my waist pulled back into the flesh, limits restored and once more focused on his touch, fingers drawing across my forearm. My heart pounded, my skin shone with sweat, the room spun and dipped.

            We parted, danced together and he was a good dancer. Distantly, I knew where this was leading. He’d already told me. We would dance, and then I would leave the club with him. This is what he wanted, and I wanted it, too. He whispered in my ear, called me sexy, told me I loved feeling sexy, he saw that about me instantly, the first time he laid eyes on me.

            And he was right, I was sexy and exulted in the my own glorious sensuality, youth and energy, beauty, clothes, makeup, hair and heels, the whole fucking package, the vibrancy of feminine flesh—I swelled with it—like I might suddenly erupt, hot and tingly, and realized my nipples were rock hard, my groin wet, I was breathing heavily and on fire, full of need.

            His touch focused this frenzied erotic state to a singular point, and I felt lost, chewing my lower lip with eager anticipation, trembling, waiting. We stood as if alone in a cone of dimly lit silence. His finger at my chin urged me upwards. His lips curved in a triumphant smile. Kiss me, he said, you—

            I crushed my lips to his. He seized my ass, fingers curling beneath my short skirt, holding me close and tight and I gasped at his touch. We kissed deeply. I giggled happily and eagerly into his open mouth and our tongues danced as the music resumed, the lights flashed and we stumbled from the floor until he pressed me up against the wall, his hand roaming across my chest, squeezed and I wiggled gleefully under his rough touch. Then he took me by the neck. He squeezed and for a moment I couldn’t breathe. Then he slammed me forcefully against the wall and I laughed, you like it rough, he said, he grabbed my boobs again and then licked my ear, bit down hard, and kissed me again, tongue snaking into my open and willing mouth.

            And he was right, held close like that with my tits crushed up against his firm chest, it felt fucking amazing, I felt delightfully small and weak trapped between cold concrete and this strong man. With his shirt half-unbuttoned, I slid in my hands, palms flat against his chest, luxuriated in his strength, reached around, and dug my nails into his back, dragged them back. He hissed and his eyes were dark and full of need. Good; I delighted in his need, his naked desire for me. Quinn seized me by the waist, grunted, lifted and twirled me under the flashing lights—

            —swirling, the gorgeous girls, and me, our sparkling clothes, gleaming flesh, beautiful bodies, all of us, gorgeous, burning like stars in the night sky. And the boys too, in their own way, glorying in youth and strength, virility and irresponsibility. Freedom, manifest for a night, an hour, less, a minute, even, but free nonetheless, the ineffable revealed in the shine of a girl’s lips, the sheen of sweat flecking off a boy’s skin. Priceless, this time, for its brevity; and all of us flaring brightly in the music and lights and the longing for something more.

            Breathless, I leaned into him, and the joy swelling my chest was enough to give me pause. It was too much; it wasn’t me. The dance faltered and the lights turned blinding, the familiar music, a driving Sin-DI remix, twisting haunting and discordant. Quinn standing behind me now felt oppressive and in the shadow of his presence I felt the weight of a man in a hotel room, his terrible weight pinning me to the bed. I felt a man standing behind, hands on hips, pushing into me. I felt a man’s strong fingers curled through my hair, pulling my open mouth, down. Surrounded, my stomach twisted and churned. I wrapped my arms around me and shivered. My gut ran to water, knees weak, and I stood, wavering and slack.

            Then I saw him: this young, attractive boy. Plain t-shirt and ripped jeans and sneakers, short- cropped hair, bottle of beer. He danced, poorly. The fear of a moment ago was swept aside and instead sudden and terrible envy gripped my heart, with an intensity that left me gasping and confused. This boy, he shuffled his way across the dance floor, he tried to catch the attention of a pretty young thing in a short skirt and crop top. She saw him, smiled, then laughed. She turned her back on the boy. Grinning ruefully, he slipped away to try his luck elsewhere.

            With an intensity that left me reeling, I suddenly yearned to be that boy and suffer his rejection, or rather, to have within me a memory of the same, of dancing poorly and flirting with some pretty girl under flashing lights to the driving beat of a recent hit.

            Instead, I was creating memories I never wanted, experiences that belonged to Cindy, not me. And yet—this time, these lived memories, they were good, passionate and fun, worth cherishing, one day, vibrant recollections of youth and passion. She was twenty and this was her life, sinuous movement under colored lights, glowing with sweat and a glossy smile, fleeting glances, a touch, and always the company of others, memories defined in relation to others.

            Luke never knew this. At twenty, he was already broken and homeless and alone. I felt burgeoning anger, the unfairness of it all.

            Out on the dance floor, the pretty girl in the short skirt and crop top glanced back over her shoulders. She caught the eye of the boy once more. Her hip twitched. The boy grinned, padded closer. Their hands met; she reeled him in close, and they kissed.

            And now instead of resentment, I felt inexplicably happy, smiled, suffused with pleasure for the unknown boy and girl. True, I would never know that boy’s lived experience. That life could never be mine. I would never be, nor had I ever been, that boy. But I could be that girl. I’d been given a wonderous opportunity, a second chance at youth. Luke was long gone, and I was—Cindy, a tragic death given a second chance as well, a new life expressed through mine.

            The earlier dreamlike haze descended once more. I felt fully embodied in the moment, an instant that felt as though it stretched out and in it I felt everything, from the slight tack of lipstick at my lips, to the arch of my feet, the flow of hot air against my bare thighs, the weight of breasts, pleasing warmth between my thighs, collar at my neck, earrings. A gentle breath caught between my lips. I wrapped my arms around myself and gave a fierce squeeze, cherishing who I had been and what I’d become. I was Cindy, and there was joy in her life.

            Look at me, Quinn said.

            He seized me roughly by the shoulders, forcefully spun me around so that I stared up at him. In his eyes, I saw nothing of the charming and charismatic man of before. Look at me only, he said. Not other men. His voice was fierce and possessive and his fingers digging into my shoulder hurt. Then, he relaxed his grip and sighed. Now he sounded disappointed. I thought you were different, he told me. But you aren’t.

            Confused, I opened my mouth to reply. He pressed his finger to my lips.

            No, he said. Don’t speak.

            He led me upstairs and I trailed after him, back to the relative quiet and coolness of the bar and then up another set of stairs, into the VIP area. A bouncer pulled back a velvet cord. The fog deepened and I lost track of where I was or what I was doing. Occasionally, I felt dimly aware of his hand guiding me, or his voice, telling me what to do. There was reassurance in being told what to do. When he didn’t—those moments in which I surfaced, like a swimmer from turbulent waters —anxiety gnawed at me, the sense that something wasn’t right. He kissed and touched me. His hand reached beneath my skirt. He gently guided me as I stripped off the crop top, leaving me bare-chested beneath the mesh shirt, and he touched me there, too.

            Eventually, I rose to a vague awareness of place. We sat in a private booth behind darkened glass with a view over the bar below. The sounds of the club and the murmur of the other patrons seemed distant. The cushioned seat beneath my bum was delightfully soft. He sat next to me, his arm across my shoulders, one hand resting easily over my naked tit, gently stroking, the mesh rough against my nipples. The fabric of the seat felt so good I wanted to rub my face in it, but I also wanted to rest my head against his shoulder and close my eyes.

            Look at me, he said, and his eyes searched mine. He seemed pleased by what he found, his happiness made me happy, too. You’re enjoying yourself, he said and from somewhere distant I agreed, yes, I was happy. Good, he said. You’re not angry anymore, he said, when I first saw you tonight you looked so angry. I nodded. Now he sounded genuinely curious. What could a pretty young girl like you have to be angry about? Tell me. What’s wrong?

            A toxic swell of emotions churned my belly, guilt foremost, and I shook my head, and the audacity of my refusal surprised me.  My left hand rested gently on my thigh. My fingers curled inwards, nails digging deep into the smooth skin, pricking painfully. The pain brought a moment of clarity, a chilling realization of where I was that set my heart pounding. Then, he reached up and smoothed back my hair, tucked it behind one ear and the back of his fingers trailed along my cheek. At his touch, doubt fled. I followed his touch, leaning into his hand, chasing the pleasure of contact.

            I’m being nice, Cindy, talking to you like this. Asking a simple questions. What’s wrong with you that you won’t answer me?

            What’s wrong with me? I felt my lower lip quiver, shook my head. No.

            He frowned. You want to tell me, he said, you trust me.

            I trusted him. But I also trusted Mel and Willow and Emma, and there was so much that I’d never told them. I trusted them and they trusted me, and I lied to them, constantly. They were my friends but if they knew what I’d been before, a man, that friendship would be lost. They could never know my truth. The sense of my own falsehood left me feeling sick and my hand gripped my thigh again, painfully.

            “Well now,” Quinn said.

            Time blinked, and now he sat opposite me on a low velvet stool, white shirt, white teeth, eyes too, wide and brilliant and impossible to look away from. Between us, another cocktail, swirling crimson in a slim, elegant glass. In his hand, a tiny phial held between forefinger and thumb. He snapped off the top and poured a few glittering drops into the cocktail.

            Quinn slid the drink to me. “Here you go, pretty girl. Down the hatch.”

            I stared blankly at the drink, hearing all this from far away.

            “Go on,” he said. “Drink.”

            But I didn’t want to, didn’t want to do anything this man asked me—this charming boy, this horrible man. My stomach curdled, I nearly doubled over for the sheer ingratitude felt as pain, a psychic discomfort distinct from the prick of nails against my own skin. I whimpered.

            “How?” An audacious exertion of will, gasping the question between spasms of pain. “When?”

            A wide smile of genuine glee split his face. “Oh, you are a stubborn one, aren’t you?” He clapped his hands together and leaned close. “But I’ve got to tell you, it’s been fun, really fun, Cindy, tonight, I mean. For a while there, I was worried—yes, worried!—it’d be too easy, too boring, you know? You went under so easy, it’s like you wanted it. A few drops here and there to top up the dose, and…”

            He sighed, sat back, studied me over steepled fingers. “To be honest, I wasn’t even going to do it, tonight. I like you.” He frowned, shook his head. “Rather, I liked you. You were—different.” He stared over my shoulder, into the glass looking down over the bar below. Perhaps he studied his own reflection, as for a moment, his gaze darkened and his face paled. Then he shook his head, passed his hand across his face, and when he returned to me, his lip curled into a thin, cruel smile.

            “But you asked me how. I already told you. I know the bartender. Kev. Kev has the misfortune of being poor. He also made the mistake of having a kid, a sick child, one who needs medicine, expensive medicine, and he’s fallen into debt with the sort of people you really shouldn’t owe anything to. So, I help him out and in return, he helps me out, too.

            “Your very first drink tonight, Kevin spiked it. I’d already made an arrangement, you see, I’ve had my eye on you for a while. You’re a very pretty girl, Cindy.” A little thrill ran through me, and I remembered: I liked it when he complimented me. “Annoying when that twerp stepped in,” he continued. “I thought he might mess things up, those early instructions are crucial. Had to clean up some of his accidental programming. You were already slipping into the twilight state when I got to you.”

            He indicated the cocktail. It was in my hand, though I had no recollection of picking it up. “Go on.”

            “I—” I tried to release the glass, tried to push away from the table. “Don’t want to.”

            Quinn rubbed his hands together with pleasure. “Oh, but you do, Cindy, look inside and you’ll find that you really do. A pretty girl like you—” and a little thrill ran up my spine— “where would you go? You don’t want to be alone—” and he was right, as terrible, anxious dread filled me, horror at the thought of heading home and sitting in my apartment in the dark, alone with nothing more than nightmares and an abiding sense of my own failure. “Angry and bitter and lonely. You want to be happy,” he continued, and he was right, of course, I did want to be happy. “And to feel sexy.” I nodded, now, along with his words and remembered, yes, feeling sexy made me feel happy, feel good, and I was sexy, these tits, these clothes, the sensuous way I moved on the dance floor and—“to be touched”—and yes, his touch—and I gasped, softly, as he lay his hand on my shoulder. “To feel pleasure.”

            I moaned, bit my lip and squeezed my thighs together, felt hot, and wet, and wanted his touch—any touch—and most of all, I wanted—

            “To be a good girl, don’t you, Cindy, isn’t that you want?”

            Yes, I sighed, and this time when he told me to drink, the cold at my lips felt wonderful, though I barely tasted it. The same haze as before descended, a pleasant stupor in which everything but his voice felt distant and phantasmal. He called me pretty and good and the way he looked at me and touched me made me shiver. Guilt and anger and fear faded; docility filled me instead; and my hands rested limply over my thighs, nails gently pricking the skin.

            “This drug, fuck, it’s scary shit, you know?” Quinn said. The door behind him opened, a drink was delivered, he took a sip, grimaced, settled back in his seat. “I know this guy, he sources it from a military lab. Colorless, tasteless. Dissolves instantly. Fascinating stuff. I won’t bore you with the details. All you need to know, a few drops, and it just opens your mind, unfurls it like a flower.” He laughed and made a little buzzing sound, like a bee, his hand floating about before tapping me square in the middle of the forehead. “Leaves you open, right there, to suggestion.”

            He held his touch there, and I went cross-eyed looking at his finger, and he laughed. “God, you look dumb. Cute, but dumb.” With a shove he pushed me back into the seat, where I stayed, blinking slowly, docile. “For what it’s worth,” he said, “I’ve tried it myself, you know, been where you are, though I did it on my own, a bit of self-hypnosis, like. Don’t really remember what happened but man, best fucking night’s sleep I’ve ever had. Woke up feeling fucking great. You, on the other hand, you won’t be getting a whole lot of sleep tonight, and when you wake up...” he trailed off, shrugged.

            He gave my knee a comforting squeeze.

            “A drug like this, you’d think it’d be totally locked down, right? My supplier, he’s always eager for me to tell him how it’s gone, what I’m doing with it. My theory, it’s a government-sanctioned trial run of the drug on a civilian population.” He paused for a moment, staring into the distance, then shrugged. “Which is kind of terrifying, but like, who gives a shit, right?” He waved a hand in front of my face. “You getting any of this?” He shrugged. “But just think, if I’m right? What I’m doing here, with you, right now, the government knows, hell, it even approves.”

            After that, he lapsed into silence, took a few contemplative sips from his drink.

            “It took a few tries to get it right, though. First couple girls, I cracked a few, I think, came in too hard, too fast. Left them drooling in a ditch afterwards. No good telling ‘em ‘you want to fuck me,’ goddamn female psyche is so messed up that even if they do, they can’t admit it, no, it’s always fucking games, right?” He gave me a playful pat on the shoulder. “I mean, you’ve been desperate for me to take you home, haven’t you, ever since you first laid eyes on me, just dripping wet for a good fucking, aren’t you, you little whore? But you couldn’t just come up and admit it.”

            He leaned back in his seat. “It’s not your fault, I suppose,” he mused. “You’re just a girl, it’s what you’ve been taught, it’s what you are, born flirts, driven to mate with as many partners as you can find. That’s a little anthropology for you.

            “That’s the study of human societies. if you didn’t know.”

            Quinn stood up, slowly circled around the table and stood over me. His hand darted out, grabbed my tit. He tweaked my nipple, pinched it, hard. Then he took my ponytail, ran his hand its length and brought it to his face, inhaled deeply, exhaled and sighed.

            “And here’s the thing, I learned that if I started small, slowly layer in simple instructions—you know, like ‘you like being complimented’, ‘you don’t want to be alone’—and especially when it already aligns with what your little girly brain wants, even if you can’t admit it—well, it builds a foundation, walls, an edifice of instruction.” He smiled. “A prison. And by the end of the night, I’ll have you eating out of the palm of my hand. I don’t know how the drug does it, but eventually, the subject—that’s you, baby—you just start rationalizing everything for yourself. For example. I’ll give it another ten, and then I’m going to give you a choice. Not a real choice, obviously, just an illusion of one. I mean, we’re leaving here together, obviously. But you’re going to have to prove to me you want it. And deep down inside, maybe you’re thinking, no, I’m afraid, whatever, I don’t want to do this, but you will, babe, you’re going to suck my cock, or whatever, you’re going to prove yourself to me and more than that, you’re going to want it.” He stroked the side of my face, ran his fingers over my hair, then tapped me, hard, in the middle of my forehead. “In there, you’ll convince yourself, you’ll rationalize it in that fucked-up female way of yours: this is what you want.”

            He sat back. “You always do.”

            Meanwhile, I stared at him, blankly, and very slowly dug my fingernails deep into my flesh.

            “You won’t remember any of this,” he said. “The whole night, pretty much, it’ll be a blank come morning. It’s a shame. It’s been fun. I really had high hopes for you. When we were talking but especially on the dance floor, I thought you were different. But you’re not. You’re just like all the other bitches. I should’ve known. I mean, look at what you’re wearing. But when we talked—I don’t know—you seemed different. Like, attentive, really listening to me, I appreciated that. You have no idea, Cindy. How hard it is to find a girl, a good girl, one who appreciates what she’s got. I thought you did. You listened. I mean, you’re obviously not the brightest.” He chuckled. “But then, most guys, they’re not chatting you up for the conversation, right? You surprised me, you really did. I enjoyed talking to you, even if you’re just another uneducated little slut.

            “But you fucked it up.” He shook his head, growing angry, and my stomach lurched with fear as he grew more animated. “You think you’d know better. Couple years and when those looks slip, what’s next? I’d have thought you’d want to hook those claws of yours into a good man, a rich man, man like me. You almost had me fooled, too, you know. And then, the way you danced!” His lips curled into a smile. “Fuck, you had me feeling—”

            Then, a sigh. “But you had to go and fucking ruin it by checking out other guys, you dumb fucking slut, some tall dickhead, when all you had to do was keep your eyes on me. Just like all the others.” Now he leaned closer, spitting the words through clenched teeth. “Stupid!” he said. “Dumb. Dumb bitch,” he said. “Me! Those other guys, what the fuck you think they’ve got, huh? Over me? Nothing!”

            Tears stung my eyes. “I’m sorry.”

            “Yeah.” Quinn’s tone softened, and once again he stroked my hair. “You are,” he said. “And you will be.”