by Anthology
“Seems fine when I see him.” I shrug and turn away toward the rack of Prince. I wipe my cloth over the sign, reaching up on my tiptoes to get the vinyl on the higher, less-accessed shelf, and I hope I don’t shake. Skittles doesn’t seem so great lately.
My stomach gives an entirely different kind of twist than it had a minute ago, the not-nice kind.
“He hasn’t accessed his trust fund in over three months.”
“His what?” I squawk and back to face Tom.
His eyebrows lift, wrinkling his brow. “He doesn’t make it known?”
“No.” I can’t help a laugh. “Not really.”
Tom leans in. I swear I can smell crisp cologne. I want to put my nose against the soft spot behind his jaw to find out. “Do you know where he’s been staying?”
“See, that’s the thing.”
Closer. He comes even closer. My gaze flicks away toward the front counter, but I can’t see Cindy. I don’t want to. I want something really filthy to happen. I want this man to touch me. Not just a hand on my waist, but I want him to touch me intimately. Molesting kinds of level. Hand straight up my shirt. It’s high cut enough, showing off my midriff above low-slung jeans. I’m not going to stop him.
But he has completely different things on his mind. His jaw tightens in a way that says he’ll chew me up and spit me out if I give him half a chance. “Where does he stay?”
“Nowhere. He’s one of the kids…” I gulp. “He’s one of the kids who crashes. Here and there. If you’re lucky, you might be able to find him up and down Telegraph Avenue.”
Tom is furious. Burning with something like rage. I want to touch him. I want to burn myself on him. But he has a force field around him.
Finding it exciting probably cements my fucked-in-the-headedness.
“And if I don’t find him there? Do you know how I can get ahold of him?”
“Sort of.” I have a beeper number I use for him, but I don’t think he’d be happy with me if I give it to Tom. Just a hunch.
“Care to elucidate?”
“My, my, isn’t that a ten dollar word.” I bite the inside of my lip. He is…remarkable.
“Not in the circles I run in.”
“I have no doubt of that.” My fingertips creep toward my bare waist. I want his eyes there. I want him to notice me.
I have a tendency to act out inappropriately.
“How do I find him, Roni?”
I like that he remembers my name, at least. I head for the front window. The sill is six inches deep and stacked with flyers. Colorful ones in dye-cut shapes, black-and-white ones that had been run off on a Xerox machine. A tiny stack of a really wicked poetry ‘Zine that I’ve left there beyond the six-week cutoff because more people could use poetry in their life, even if it tends toward a little overly pretentious. The flyer I need is bright-as-hell yellow, in the shape of a happy face. On the other side are barely intelligible details for a huge ass party. There are no directions, just a phone number that you should call on Friday, the day of the event. There’d be a voicemail recording with the location. “He’ll be here.”
“A rave.” Tom turns the flyer over and over. Disdain crawls out of his pores. His eyes are a cool blue, his cheekbones high in a way I’m not used to. Most people I know with cheekbones that sharp have heroin problems. Not this guy. He’s too…well bred. “How do you know Corey will be there?”
“Skittles is my dealer.”
Chapter 2
Even by ten at night, the line is long. It wraps around the side of the warehouse. I hope there was enough space inside. I want there to be three rooms at least. The trance room will probably be the biggest, and then the chill out room is practically a safety requirement, but if there isn’t a drum and bass room, I’d go nuts.
I want to do some speaker fucking.
I wait my turn in line alone. I don’t have to. There’d been plenty of people who’d waved and blown me kisses, but it didn’t seem right to jump. I’d see them inside. Besides, this is my calm-down time.
The center of my chest is tight. I want to move, I want to feel the music pour through me, and I want to impress. I guess that last one is kind of vain, but I don’t care. I never do.
I check my small backpack for my supplies one last time, just to be sure. My gloves, my glow sticks. Hopefully they’ll let me keep my water bottle. I’m not sure about the outfit putting this party on. I think I’ve been to one of theirs before, but I can’t be positive. Hard to remember sometimes.
A pair of hands claps around my eyes. “Boo!”
“God, I hope you’ve washed your hands sometime recently.”
Skittles pulls away and pouts. “I am deeply offended.”
“It’s not my fault you don’t have a shower.” I can’t help but look at him differently knowing that he has a trust fund he isn’t accessing.
His hair is shoulder-length. It’s blond, or had been mostly, until he’d dyed it in thick chunks. Parts are twisted into dreadlock-like bindings. His shirt is skin-tight and around his neck is draped more plastic beaded necklaces than I can keep track of. Some have pacifiers, some have tiny toys, others were just stacks and stacks of simple beads that he’ll give out through the night, part of the reason he’s called Skittles.
Naturally, the other part is the assortment of pills and tablets he sells. Which reminds me. “What have you got tonight?”
In his grin, I can see his relation to Tom. Not in the smile itself, but in the way it narrows the corners of his eyes and lifts his cheeks into something sharp and dangerous. Skittles tips his head closer. “I’ve got some pure MDMA of course, but for you? Wanna candy flip?” He pulls a tiny brown-glass dropper bottle from one of his deep pockets and holds it up with a little wiggle.
I grin. “Promise it’s good?”
“The best. The ecstasy is 100% pure, and the acid is the same. They’re made by a bored chemist in SiliconValley.”
“How much?”
“For my favorite white glove girl? Five bucks, as long as you promise to dance for me later, once I’ve sold out my stash and I can get rolling.”
I bite my lip, suddenly guilty. I have a feeling Skittles won’t be getting high tonight. “Look, I should tell you something.” I pull him closer to the side of the warehouse. The wall is dirty, but all I want is some quiet. Luckily the rest of the line is distracted with their own plans and excitement for the night. “Someone named Tom came by work today.”
“Fuck,” Skittles mutters. “Jesus, why is it a crime to not take family money?”
“He seemed kind of…angry.” I swallow. That wasn’t all he’d seemed, but Skittles doesn’t need to know the rest of it. And maybe the rest is all wishful thinking on my part anyway.
“He always does.”
“I…I told him about this party.” I swallow, then the rest of my words spill out like armor. “He was so determined, and it seemed like the smaller thing to give him. Better than telling him where you usually crash, and it distracted him from asking if I knew a phone number for you. There’s going to be what, two thousand people here? He’ll never find either of us.”
“Oh, trust me. Tom will find who he wants to.”
I don’t say anything to that, because Skittles has turned inwards. I shift side to side, rubbing a thumb up and down the strap of my backpack. “Do…Will you still sell to me?”
He laughs, a smile appearing on his face that I know isn’t exactly real. But I don’t care. “Of course, darling. Let him come. It’s no big deal.”
“He’s…he’s not going to hurt you, is he?”
“Not physically.” Skittles shakes his head. “Open up.”
I tip my head back and stuck out my tongue. He turns the tiny dropper over.
“Oops!” He chuckles as he hands over the little round pill of MDMA. It has a spaceship stamped on one side. “I double dosed you. But it’s my fault, so still just five bucks.”
“You sure, sweetheart?” I dig my wallet out of the bottom of my bag.
I’m going to have to pay the cover charge soon too. “Five is way cheap to begin with.”
“I know,” he says airily. “I’ll make up the overhead on some douche in a polo shirt later.”
“You’re an excellent businessman, Skittles.”
“You know it, sister.”
He gives me a kiss on the cheek before he leaves, and I watch him go with nerves in my chest. He has to be right. Tom is his brother, after all.
I make my way into the party, paying the cover. They make me pour out my bottle of water, claiming it could be “illegal substances” but never check the smaller pockets of my bag. I could have a hundred tabs of E and they wouldn’t give a shit. I know why as soon as I’m in the door: a station is selling bottles of water for four bucks a pop. Lovely. There’ll probably be half-warm tap water in the bathrooms that will taste of iron and rust if you’re high and broke enough to give it a shot.
Whatever. I don’t care.
The E is starting to kick in, after all.
I’m warm all over. My chest is loosening up. My shoulders feel more fluid. I am made of happiness. My toes tingle and my fingers tingle and I am flying. Fucking flying. Released and free. I could jump off buildings and survive, but I don’t have to because even being on the ground is beautiful.
The music is moving through me.
I make my way deeper into the warehouse. It’s been cut up into rooms that get smaller as I move on. Soft and dreamy trance with a thumping underbeat fills the huge space that is already swelling with dancing, moving twisting bodies. I follow a short hallway to the drum and bass room. It’s even darker, though flashing colored lights line the walls above ten-foot-tall speakers.
I stan’d in the middle of the dance floor.
I don’t even move at first. I only close my eyes and turn my face toward the ceiling. There is nothing else anymore. Only the music. Only the way I feel hot and cold at the same time. My pulse is rushing and I don’t know which way to move, but every day is like that and yet it doesn’t matter any more. My dead end job is light years away, even though Berkeley is only a couple towns over from the Oakland docks. I don’t care. Didn’t care, didn’t care, didn’t care.
I dance.
Up and down on the beat, my hands fly with the rhythms. I have my white gloves on, even though I’m not sure when I dug them out. I’ve lost that moment in its lack of importance. The music fills me. It strokes up and down my skin. I could be humming, or I could be screaming. I’m not always sure.
When hands touch me, I don’t jump. They slide around my waist and I know him instantly. Tom’s scent weaves around me. His chin brushes my temple. I am instantly more turned on than I’ve ever been in my life.
He is as tall and big and strong as a battleship, but the fact that he doesn’t dwarf me means that I must be strong too. I must be something special.
Lights flash all around us. Cameras, maybe. Maybe just sparklers and fireworks. The miniscule particulars don’t matter. I loved every twinkle individually.
He buries his face against my neck. I can’t hear what he says under the thrumming, swelling beat of the music, but I can feel the rumble of his words in his chest to my back. His every molecule aligns with mine. I shiver again and again, weaving it into my dance.
I don’t know how much time passed. Enough that I’m surprised to find he is still touching me. Enough that I’m sweating from dancing.
He pulls me away toward the chill room. I go willingly, marveling in the way my hand fits in his. In the way our skin doesn’t melt together. What held us separate? Only our will? Rules of the universe neither of us understood.
The room is quiet, even though there are probably at least a hundred people scattered over couches and cushions and even sprawled on the bare floor. Tom’s hair is messy again. I want to reach up and touch him, but he’s busy leading me toward an empty piece of wall. I touch the wall instead, running my fingers over the concrete. It catches strands from my cotton gloves.
“You’re high, aren’t you?”
I like the wall. It’s sturdy. I don’t know too many people who fit that word, so maybe objects could give me that kind of…solidity. I smile. “Depends,” I finally say.
“On what?”
“Do you actually have a silver and black aura?” I can’t help myself then. I reach up, running my fingers near him but not actually on him. The aura shifts. Sparks wash out in my wake. Though maybe that’s the way his gaze is locked on me.
He cups my face in one hand. Breaking our separation, because I’m sure I was melting into him. Or into a puddle, at least. “No. I most certainly don’t.”
“Then I’m high. High, high, low.” I giggle. “You’re going to be an ass, aren’t you?”
“Depends,” he says, and I think maybe he’s echoing me from a minute ago, but his thumb has found the edge of my bottom lip and my thoughts scatter like sunbursts.
“On what?”
“Where’s Corey?”
“Who?” I blink up at him. His lashes are long. So long they cast shadows over his eyes and across his cheeks. The shadows are going to swallow him up. They creep across him. I draw in a deep breath. None of that. His mouth. Look at his mouth and feel the way he’s touching mine and push away any hint of a bad trip.
“Corey.” He sighs, exasperation carving canyons in his expression. “Skittles.”
“Haven’t seen him since we were in line.”
“So he’s here somewhere?”
“How long did you dance with me?”
He’s caught out. There’s something about my question that makes his mouth twist into a funny shape. I have the stupid idea that if the lights weren’t so dim, he’d be blushing. I don’t like that idea. It sits in my skin and burrows underneath and makes me tingle in a way that isn’t only the E.
Lines knit between his brows as he frowns at me. “Does it matter?”
“I’m not sure.” I think of Skittles telling me that if Tom wants to find someone, he will. I think of the fact that Tom’s still touching my face. I think of the way he looked at me earlier in the day, and I want to believe I’m more.
I always want to believe I’m more. It’s a failing of mine.
He kisses me. Presses his mouth to mine. He’s soft in skin and hard in intentions. I want it all, but I hold my hands apart. Away. I don’t want my first touch of him to be through gloves.
My heart is racing. Heart and lungs caught up in one too-fast rhythm. There’s another kick in my sternum.
His tongue strokes mine. I taste mint and rich. Is rich a flavor? Maybe to him it is. Or to me. My eyes are closed and I hope his are too. I hope he’s as lost to the moment as I am.
Someone bumps into us in a mass of apologies and laughs. “Hey there. Now that’s how to roll,” they say approvingly.
“Fuck off,” Tom snarls.
His hand is still framing my face. I could hang from that support. Lift myself and throw myself over to his trust. My trust? Fucked if I know.
“Where’s Corey?” he asks again.
“Well, he’s not in your mouth, I can definitely tes-testi-promise that.” I giggle.
“It’s time for you to go home.” His voice is a grumble, one that makes me feel his voice from the inside out.
“Rave doesn’t stop until four.” I look at my wrist but there’s no watch there. I try to look at his watch, but the tiny Roman numerals swim and dance. “Then I usually end up hanging out for a while, because BART doesn’t open until six on Sunday mornings anyways.”
“You’re taking the train home?” He’s incredulous. Or angry. Or both.
He steps back and my head swirls. I hadn’t realized how much I was leaning on him. My hair is sticking to my neck. “Yeah,” I say, but it comes out weak.
“I’ll drive you home.”
“I’ll be fine. I’ve done this plenty of times.” I don’t feel that fine. Those fireworks in my vision are narrowing. The edges of the room are pressing in. I never did drink any water.
“I’m not giving you a choice. I’m driving you home.” At least he’s touching me again. He holds me by the upper arm and that’s good, because I sag.
“Are you high? I don’t drive with people who are high. It’s a rule.” Blinking doesn’t clear my vision. Neither does swallowing clear the weird burning feeling crawling up my chest.
“I’m perfectly fucking sober.” Then it sounds like he mutters something like “and stupid as fuck,” but I don’t know if I heard him right.
My stomach flips and suddenly…
Suddenly everything is black.
Chapter 3
I’m dehydrated when I wake up the next morning. Someone has expected that, because there’s a crystal pitcher of cool water on my nightstand.
Except it’s not my nightstand. Not my room. Not my bed.
The sheets are luxurious. I slide my legs back and forth under them, which means I feel the smooth texture easily since I’m only wearing panties. And a bra. I’m wearing the same sports bra I’d had on last night.
The bed is huge, too. I stretch my arms as wide as I can and don’t come anywhere near touching the sides. It must be a king, at least. So far from the double loft bed I have in a rented room in Berkeley that I have this weird moment of confusion. I fold my hands over my eyes as if that’ll help but when I take them away, the room’s still there. With its panel walls and creamy pale carpet and the pitcher and goblet on the nightstand.
I sit up and see a silk robe artfully draped across a chest at the foot of the bed. Of course. Jesus, of course. An open doorway has the faintly fluorescent glow that only comes from a bathroom. I put the robe on and head in there and there’s a small selection of toiletry items waiting on the counter for me.
I can’t tell if I’m in a hotel or not. If it is, it’s the fanciest hotel I’ve ever been in. The soap is full sized and wrapped in prettily patterned paper. It smells like flower and sweet citrus.
