“Let’s not share all our secrets now . . .,” Cas replies, fighting back an embarrassed smile. I can’t tell if they’ve had a thing or not, and frankly, I don’t care.
“So we’re on the run from The Program, but we’re going to a club?” James asks, pointing out the obvious flaw in this plan. “Why not just call the handlers ourselves and ask them to meet us there?”
“You’re so funny,” Dallas says with a mock laugh. “Sure, the Suicide Club has risks, but the proprietors are careful. It’s never in the same place twice—completely underground. Only those of us in the know hear about it, and even then only the day of. It’s not like they advertise.” Dallas leans her elbows on the table. “Not everyone wants to be well-behaved all the time, so they go to the Suicide Club to let loose for a while. And when it comes to rebels, this is the best place to find them. We get to see what they’re really like. We just have to pick through the really disturbed to find the fighters. Isn’t that how Realm found you, Sloane? Because of your bad attitude?”
At the mention of Realm, both James and I turn to her defensively. I don’t take Dallas’s bait. Whether her words are meant to hurt me or to come between me and James, I won’t give her any more opportunities than she already tries to take. She does hurt me though, and I try to squash the memory of Michael Realm and how desperately I miss him, worry about him. Dallas watches with a sort of satisfaction—the girl who told me her secrets is hidden behind makeup and whatever booze is in her cup. She takes our silence as agreement.
“We leave in an hour,” she says. “I’ll get something appropriate for you to wear and I’ll send it to your room, Sloane. They won’t let us in with you looking so bland. James”—she smiles—“you’re fine the way you are.”
James and I stand there like a couple of idiots, staring at her, and Dallas goes back to laughing and drinking with the other rebels as if we don’t exist at all.
* * *
James looks me over skeptically. “I’m supposed to be okay with you going out like this?” he asks, rubbing his chin as he circles me. “I think I can see your womb.”
“You can not.” I laugh and turn to follow his slow assessment.
He looks at me doubtfully. “It’s short.”
“Not that short. The boots are kind of hot, though.” I lift my foot, modeling the spiked black leather boots Dallas sent over. They’re a little big, but I’m hoping that will stop them from hurting me too much.
Neither me nor James had been interested in going out, but now that I’m dressed in this short black skirt, ripped T-shirt, and enough makeup to make me unrecognizable to my family, I feel sort of . . . good. Like I can be someone else for tonight.
“With you dressed like this, I’m probably going to end up in a fight,” he says.
“I know.” I smile. “Dallas and the others are waiting in the main room, so we should probably hurry before she gets even more pissed off.”
“Is that possible?” he asks, walking to the dresser. He pulls a T-shirt from the duffel bag and then turns to me. His cheeks are scruffy from not shaving; light shadows are painted under his eyes. “Sloane,” he asks softly, “are you sure this is a good idea?”
Anxiety knots in my stomach. “I’m pretty sure this is a terrible idea,” I say. “But I don’t know what else to do. We could refuse, or even take off with Lacey—but the truth is we have nowhere to go. We can’t leave without getting some answers or we’ll end up defenseless, getting dragged back into The Program.”
James pauses, absorbing my words, but he must not have a better plan because he just yanks off his shirt before pulling the clean one over his head. I wait at the door, but then I notice I’m still wearing my ring, the plastic ring James gave me at the river. It looks childish next to the very grown-up clothes I’m wearing, so I slip it off and set it on the dresser. James lifts one eyebrow, questioning my motives.
“It’s too sweet,” I say with a smile. James scans my clothes once again, and with a heavy sigh, he agrees. I’m someone else tonight.
* * *
In the front room I find everyone gathered, the scene so out of place I’m starting to think it’s just a hallucination. Dallas stands there, a gothic vision in black and red. Cas is next to her, his long hair wild along his face, black liner around his eyes. Everyone looks like they just walked off some trashy version of The Addams Family, and that includes me.
“I’m underdressed,” James says.
“No,” Dallas says with a smile. “You’re perfect. I was hoping you’d drive us tonight. We need someone normal-looking behind the wheel. Not that you could ever be average.”
I roll my eyes and turn away. It seems petty to tell her not to notice my boyfriend, and I’d like to believe I’m above that. But if she does it again, I might just scratch her eyes out.
“Where is this place?” James asks.
“The club’s on Kelsey, about twenty minutes away. I’ll navigate.”
James nods, but then something catches his eye. I follow his gaze to where Lacey is standing in the doorway. She’s not dressed for the Suicide Club. Instead she’s wearing baggy sweats and an oversize sweatshirt that reads OREGON DUCKS.
“I’m not feeling well,” she says, her makeup-free skin startling in a room of painted faces. “I’ll go next time.”
Cas immediately crosses to Lacey and touches her arm. He leans in to whisper in her ear, and after a moment Lacey pulls back to stare at him before she nods slowly. I want to know what Cas said, what he knows about Lacey that I don’t. She’s my friend—he’s just the guy whose nose she broke. Cas puts his arm across her shoulders and begins to lead her out, but I’m quick to jog after them into the hallway.
“Lacey,” I call to her. She glances back at me, her eyes weary.
“Please don’t worry about me, Sloane,” she says. “It’s not good for you or James. I just need a little sleep, that’s all. Go have fun—we’ll talk tomorrow.”
“I’m going to stay with her,” Cas says. “I’ve been to the Suicide Club enough times. Dallas can do without me for one night.” He turns to smile gently at Lacey, but she doesn’t return it. Instead her eyes drift toward her room like she wants nothing more than sleep. Solitude.
“I don’t think I should leave you.” I start toward her, but Lacey’s posture straightens with agitation.
“Sloane,” she says, “I love you, but please, it’s nothing personal. I promise. I’m just tired, and I haven’t been alone since leaving Oregon. I want some space.” She turns to Cas, shrugging his arm off her shoulders. “And that includes you, Casanova. I don’t need you hovering over me or trying to get into my pants.”
Cas laughs loudly and then bites back his smile. I’m not sure if he really was going to hit on her or if Lacey just knew how to embarrass him so he’d back off. He holds up his hands in a show of surrender, and Lacey thanks him. She starts toward her room, disappearing around the corner before I hear the click of her door shutting.
I’m still for a moment, unsure of what to do. Other than the nosebleed and wanting to be alone, Lacey doesn’t seem to be falling apart. There are no signs of real depression—dark eyes, spirals, erratic behavior. After all, she’s been cured. She lost Kevin—Kevin—and maybe she needs a little more time to come to terms with that. We all do.
Cas walks back into the main room, and I decide to let Lacey have a night of peace, vowing to harass her tomorrow. She’ll have to talk eventually. We’ll get through this together. I reenter the room and scan the area for James. I find him sitting on the table with Dallas standing close by, talking animatedly. James says something I can’t hear, and she laughs, leaning in to casually touch his knee. The tingling burn of jealousy spreads through my chest.
Dallas glances up, sensing my presence, and then lets her hand fall from James. She faces the room. “Well,” she announces with a loud clap. “Now that we’re all back, it’s time for a little fun.” She motions to the stairwell and quickly, the room starts to empty. James turns a
nd finds me, taking in my outfit like he’s just remembered how scandalously I’m dressed. He bites his lip as he approaches, and my earlier jealousy fades when he takes my hand.
Cas appears next to us and Dallas starts in our direction. “I think I’m going to stay behind,” Cas says, exchanging a look with Dallas. “Keep an eye on things here.”
“If this is about Lacey, I don’t think she wants you to bother her,” I say quickly.
“What’s wrong with Lacey?” James demands.
I shrug. “She wants some space.” James tries to discern any hidden meaning in my words, but there is none. “I think she’s just tired,” I say seriously.
“Is that your diagnosis, doctor?” Dallas asks. I clench my teeth and turn to her. “Even if you’re right,” she adds, “we don’t leave people at our safe houses alone—depressed or not. They can inadvertently set us up, or maybe even on purpose. The suicidal aren’t at all predictable.”
“She’s not suicidal,” I snap.
“Sure,” Dallas says. “Either way, Cas is staying behind. And we have a club to get to, so if you two wouldn’t mind moving your asses . . .”
I look up at James, but he’s lost, turning over the situation in his head, analyzing our options. After a second his light-blue gaze falls on me. “What do you want to do?” he asks.
“I need you, James,” Dallas cuts in, more sober than I had guessed. “Lacey will be here in the morning and the three of you can play psychologist. But right now the rebels need you. We’re not exactly deep in muscle around here.” She glances at Cas. “No offense.”
“None taken.” He buries his hands in his pockets, but he doesn’t seem disappointed to miss out on the Suicide Club. In fact, I think he’s itching to get out of his black clothes and wash off the eyeliner.
Dallas grows impatient with James’s silence, and her hardened layers begin to unravel. “Please come with us tonight,” she says. “I need backup, whether for incoming rebels or handlers. I can’t do this alone. And Cas gets his nose broken too often. There’s something about you, about both of you,” she allows, “that’s inspiring people. We’re dying off here. We need more members and I don’t know when the next Suicide Club will happen.”
Her plea must hit James in the right way because, without consulting me first, he nods. James isn’t a fighter, not really. But he has a good heart, and even pretending to be a dick half the time can’t mask that. I love that about him. And now, with a mix of anxiety and outright fear, I let him pull me away to leave for the Suicide Club.
* * *
The building is unmarked. Its gray stone front is menacing with iron bars over the windows, dead bougainvillea crawling up the side. The defaced sign above the door used to belong to a tattoo shop, and a sketchy one at that. Dallas directs James to the back, and we park near the other cars at the entrance. It’s so strange to be out, a group of teenagers without any sort of supervision from a handler. The taste of freedom is overwhelming, like I’m spinning out of control, drunk on life.
There’s a bouncer at the entrance of the Suicide Club, a scary-looking guy with a studded bracelet and an affection for overly tight tank tops. He studies each of us, flashing a penlight in our eyes. They say when the sickness—the depression—takes hold, our eyes actually change. And that if you know what to look for, you can see the deadness there. It’s been only a short time since I met Liam outside of the Wellness Center. He’d gotten sick, spewing horrible words at me. I saw him in the thrall of the epidemic, the way his eyes weren’t quite right.
I guess that’s what the bouncer is checking us for now, making sure we don’t spread our thoughts of suicide to the others. When James is cleared ahead of me, I actually let out a relieved breath. And when I’m in after him, I finally stop shaking.
CHAPTER FIVE
THE INSIDE OF THE SUICIDE club is hazy with cigarette smoke. There are large rooms with stucco walls painted a deep purple, and black lights mingling with the neon, creating a shadowy kind of depth. The people float by, their chatter muted by the music—the beats are transfixing, heavy, and soul-scratching. I’m swayed by it, by something I forgot was there—something dark. A part of me that used to be sad and maybe still is.
James’s hand touches the small of my back as he motions to an empty bartop table. I sit down, and he stands next to me, surveying the room. “This isn’t really my idea of fun,” he says. He doesn’t seem to feel it the way I do—the sadness. He’s not drawn to it, and I think again about our missing past, and what this moment says about it. Maybe James was never sad. Maybe I always was. For a fleeting moment, it’s like I’m slipping away, and I reach for his shirtsleeve to tug him closer, bringing me back to reality.
I must hide my insecurity well, because James kisses the top of my head, brushing his fingers along the black netting on my knee before whispering he’ll be right back. I don’t want him to leave, but I say nothing as he walks away. This place makes me feel vulnerable, exposed. Across from me a couple is in a booth, pressed against each other as they kiss, seemingly oblivious to the people around them. I avert my eyes, but then I notice the lost looks in the crowd. I’ve read The Program pamphlets, the ones my mother used to leave by the phone. The Program says those who are infected exhibit all sorts of uncharacteristic behaviors, including promiscuity, anger, and depression. Maybe it never occurred to the good doctors that sometimes a couple might just be hot for each other or angry or sad. It’s not always sickness.
Just as I think this, I notice a guy leaning against the stucco wall, a ring through his lip and another through his eyebrow. His black hair is half in his eyes as he searches the room. I’m not sure if it’s his posture, or just the setting, but his desperation is palpable.
I’m reminded of where I am, the music suddenly too loud, the air too smoky. I lean my elbows on the table and put my face in my palms. I’m barely able to shake off my newly heightened anxiety before I feel someone next to me.
“You’re kind of a downer, Sloane,” Dallas says. She’s holding a clear plastic cup filled with bright-red liquid. The club probably doesn’t trust its patrons with glass. Dallas takes a slow sip of her drink, running her gaze over me and pausing at the red scar slashed into my wrist. Her pupils are pinholes and I wonder what she’s on—if it’s just alcohol or drugs. “How many times have you tried to kill yourself?” she asks.
A hurt sound escapes my throat as her question brings up pain I can’t associate with any specific memory. But suddenly I hate her. I can see exactly what she’s doing, how she’s trying to provoke me.
“You know damn well I can’t remember,” I tell her. “But I can assure you I’m not going to kill myself now—if that’s what you’re hoping for.”
Dallas chuckles, sipping again from her drink. “Why would you think I’d want that?”
I glance over to where James is waiting at the bar, handing cash to the tattooed bartender before swirling the red liquid in one of the cups with a doubtful look. Dallas makes a tsk sound.
“Oh, please, Sloane,” she says, leaning closer to me as we both watch my boyfriend. “If I wanted James—really wanted him—I wouldn’t need you dead to take him.”
I’m about to slap the drink out of her hand and tell her to sober up before I punch her lights out, when James is there, setting a cup in front of me. He doesn’t even acknowledge Dallas.
“No idea what this is,” he says to me. “But it’s the only drink they serve.”
“It’s called Bloodshot,” Dallas says. “It makes you feel things.” She grins when James glances over his shoulder at her, her lips tinged with the red liquid. She reaches to run the backs of her fingers over James’s bicep, and rather than flinch away, he stares at her like she’s lost her mind. “I’ll see you later,” she murmurs intimately to him before strolling away, earning a few eager looks from the other guys in the club—including the pierced one who’s still against the wall. When Dallas is gone, James sits.
“What the hell is wrong with her?” he
asks, picking up the cup and smelling it before taking a tentative sip.
“She’s psychotic,” I say, and take a long drink to block out the doubt and worry. The taste is unbearably sweet at first, and I make a face after I swallow it. I don’t believe Dallas. She couldn’t have James—not even if I was dead. James blows out a hard breath, examining the drink.
“This is strong,” he says, pushing it aside.
I nod, taking another sip. Heat crawls down my throat, spreads through my chest—but I like it. I like how quickly it makes my body relax, my thoughts blur. I finish my drink, observing the room until James leans closer to talk next to my ear, his arm casually over my lap.
“I think that dude is on something a little heavier,” he says, motioning to the guy I’d been watching. But I’ve lost interest in the suicidal kid.
My mind swirls with comfort, and as James’s fingers draw patterns into my skin, desire. He’s midsentence when I turn and kiss him, catching him off guard for only a moment before his hand is my hair and his tongue is in my mouth. The world fades away and it’s just us, murmuring I love yous in between kisses. I’m feeling so much and thinking so little. Soon I’m out of my chair and dancing in the middle of the crowd, James pressed against me as the music builds walls around us.
Red drinks. Sad eyes. I kiss James, threading my fingers through his hair, wishing we were anywhere else. And then we are. James is leading me through a dark maze before he backs me up against a cool wall. I’m out of breath as he pulls my thigh up around his hip. He kisses my neck, my collarbone. “James.” I breathe deeply, ready to be lost completely, when a bright light floods my vision.
“Hey!” a deep voice calls. James stays against me but turns toward the light, lifting his hand to block the glare. “You two can’t be in here,” the man says.
It takes too long for my focus to clear, to find we’re in some back room next to crates and boxes. My palm touches the exposed block wall behind me as light from the club filters in the open door. I’m not drunk. This is something different, something better.
The Treatment Page 4
