Page 11 of Overdose
My hair sticks to my face. My lips are tingling. My heart’s sprinting in my chest like it’s trying to claw its way out.
Too much. Too fast. Too loud.
And still, my feet keep moving.
Blair, you dumb bitch.
You should’ve stopped at one.
But no. No, you had to be cute about it. Flash him that smug little grin, bat your lashes like a menace, and drop a “maybe I need another” like you weren’t already five inches off the fucking floor.
He even fucking warned me. Flat-out said Cyanide hits different. That it hasclaws.But did I listen?
Of fucking course not.
Because apparently flirting with danger isn’t just a hobby, it’s a full-blown personality trait. And now I’m out here chasing air like I’ve forgotten how to breathe.
I stumble toward the bar or at least I think I do, until someone steps in front of me. Tall. Grinning. Sweaty hands slide around my waist like I invited them.
“Where you going, little doll?”
The fuck?
I twist, but his grip tightens. And that’s when it hits me?—
I’m not inside anymore.
The bass is still thumping somewhere behind me, but it’s muffled now, like it’s underwater. The air out here’s even hotter than in there—thick and soupy, sharp with sweat, gasoline, and cheap cologne. I blink hard. Neon streaks across my vision. My pupils are doing the salsa.
Cracked pavement. A flickering bulb above. Bodies pressed along the wall—some lighting smokes, others waiting to get in, and most already half gone. A girl’s vomiting behind a dumpsterlike it’s a fucking performance piece, but everyone’s too fried to care.
And this guy? He’s still grabbing at me. Still talking and acting like he’s the main character in some back alley porno no one asked for.
Normally, I’m the kind of girl who doesn’t exactly say no. I mean, I’ve got needs like everyone else. I’m not ashamed to admit I’ve got a slutty streak wider than his jawline. When the high hits right and everything in my head goes quiet, I’ll take whatever body’s nearby if it means I get to feel something. Or nothing. Preferably nothing.
But right now I need water. Not hands. Not dick, and definitely not some dude who fingers the hem of my skirt like we’re gonna fall in love back here.
I shove at his chest, but the sidewalk tilts. Or maybe that’s me. Everything feels like it’s melting—colors too loud, skin too tight, limbs moving half a beat behind the music still pounding inside my skull.
“Relax,” he breathes, getting too close. “You came out here lookin’ for something, right?”
“Yeah,” I snap. “Aqua. Not assault.”
He doesn’t laugh. Of course he doesn’t. Guys like him never do. Just presses me back against the brick like this is some scene he’s jerked off to a thousand times. His knee wedges between mine, body heavy, and breath sour—like rot, Jäger and poor decisions.
“Come on, sweetheart,” he coaxes, fingers trailing up my side like they belong there. “Don’t play shy now?—”
“Oh, fuck off,” I snarl. “You seriously think I came out here to let some off-brand frat goblin dry hump me to death?”
His eyes flash. Guess he doesn’t like being told no. Shocker.
I shove him—hard, but I’m high, sweating, and the ground’s starting to feel like it’s breathing. My pulse is a war drum, and my limbs are two seconds from mutiny.
He leans in anyway. Grimy fingers sliding down and digging into my hips. His mouth hovers just over my throat.
“Get the fuck?—”
And then, like a switch flipped, he’s gone.
