Page 79 of The Toy Collector

It takes a second, but then I catch it too—laughter, familiar voices, loud and a little tipsy, echoing from around the corner. Lena perks up like a bloodhound on a scent.

“I think it’s Josh,” she beams.

I squint. “The one with the man-bun and the aggressive Patagonia vest collection?”

“Yeah. He’s hot in a guy-who-drinks-oat-milk kind of way,” she stage-whispers. “Come on.”

Before I can object, she’s already dragging me toward the noise. And sure enough, there’s Josh, plus two guys I don’t immediately recognize.

“Lena!” Josh calls, grinning. “And… damn, Piper? Is that you? You look different.”

“You must mean feral,” I smirk.

“Respect,” he laughs.

“Well, well, well,” one of the guys with Josh drawls. “I’ll be damned, Piper. I barely recognized you.”

“Ben,” I laugh, giving him a drunken hug. “I didn’t see you there. Is Alice with you?”

He playfully waggles his eyebrows. “Nah, she’s home for Thanksgiving. Doing the whole big family thing.”

“We’re heading to Static after this. Do you want to come?” Josh asks, giving Lena a hopeful look.

She quickly answers for both of us. “Obviously.”

Although I’d probably be better off if I went home and laid in bed while dissecting everything that’s happened, I don’t argue. Right now, I want to live in denial. In this strange, floaty, glittery buzz.

We fall into step with the guys and leave the rest behind.

Entering Static is like walking into a casino in Las Vegas. With no clock, no windows, no reference point to the outside world, time disintegrates. In other words, it’s the perfect place to get lost.

Smirking, I let myself feel the pounding bass as my eyes follow the laser lights slicing through the darkness in violent flashes of pink and blue, strobing across mirrored panels and glossy black walls.

Beneath my feet, the floor vibrates with every beat, like the whole building is breathing. Somewhere overhead, industrial fans whir, stirring the heat into something dizzying and alive.

“Holy shit,” Lena breathes beside me.

The bar glows like a spaceship, tendrils of LED light curling along its edges. The ceiling’s so high I can’t see where it ends, lost in scaffolding and projection screens showing silent, looping video art.

A girl with silver glitter smeared across her cheeks hands us drink menus we’ll never read. Lena grabs us a table near the edge of the dance floor—a mismatched set of velvet chairs that looks stolen from a hotel lobby, and a glass table cracked right down the center.

I can’t stop staring at everything and everyone. There are people in mesh, in latex, in sequins. A guy walks by shirtless with angel wings. Another wears nothing but jeans and body paint. No one blinks.

Lena grabs my hand, her grin sharp. “Embrace the chaos, bitch.”

And maybe that’s what I want—what I need. Something wild, untethered. Something that lets me forget what happened this morning, if only for a little while.

While the guys order beers—lager, as Josh obnoxiously insists on calling it—Lena and I opt for cocktails. Fruity, ridiculous, definitely overpriced cocktails.

My eyes widen when they arrive. They’re not just over-the-top—they’re a whole damn spectacle. Served in oversized hurricane glasses that look like they were stolen from a mermaid-themed resort, the drinks are violently pink, almost glowing under the club’s neon lights.

A carved pineapple wedge is teetering on the rim, three maraschino cherries impaled on a flaming sugar stick, and a spiral of citrus peel wrapped around a candy-striped straw like it’s auditioning for Cirque du Soleil. The top crackles from the firestick as the flame dances, hissing softly before fading into a trail of smoke that smells like toasted syrup.

“What the fuck is this?” I whisper, awe-struck.

Lena clinks her glass against mine with a devilish grin. “An experience, babe.” Then she blows me a kiss. “And you’re still paying.”

The drink is way too sweet, way too easy to drink, and absolutely strong enough to make me forget my name.

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