Grey

by Aundrea Ascencio

  "Do you ever get tired of hearing yourself?"

  "Nope," he answered. "Because I'm right."

  "You don't know anything about my life or my experiences."

  "I know one thing. You've had more to write about since I showed up than you ever had before. Your life has never been this exciting. Ever."

  "You call this exciting? My life has been Hell since I met you. I'm counting down the minutes to when I can finally be done with you," she said.

  "And then what?" he asked. "Back to writing term papers on Greek plays and counting down the days until you have dinner with your parents? That's the highlight of your week, isn't it?"

  "That is not all I do."

  "So prove it," he said. "Come to Roswell's kickback with me."

  Chantel laughed. "Uh, no. Do I look like a whore to you?"

  "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "Any girl that shows up to a party with you is by default a whore without her having even done anything. I won't be another Tara," she said. "I don't do that kind of drama."

  "So I can't take a decent girl to a party?"

  "Not this girl, and not with you."

  "I understand. I mean, there's an insane amount of pressure on you as editor. People want you to live up to some God-like image, or at least you think they do," Eric said. "No one gives a shit what you do, and they're really not interested in your tree-hugging efforts to bring eco-friendly bottled water on campus. Honestly, would you read that crap?"

  "You've been reading my rough drafts?" she cried, appalled.

  "Just because I sleep through your Fiction club meetings doesn't mean I don't know what's going on," he replied. "I know what kind of pressure you're under. You won the club election for editor, but that doesn't take you off probation. If you want to make it as editor, you have to find a fresh way to connect to your readers. Water bottles. Lame idea. Your issues have to sell, and they have to sell at a larger profit margin than Tara ever brought in."

  "And you think going to some disgusting heavy metal orgy is going to make me a better writer?" she asked, unconvinced.

  "Writing is experience, and you're well overdue for a new perspective on life. Your career as an editor depends on it."

  "I'm not going to your stupid party," she said firmly. "I draw the line there."

  "An hour," he suggested. "That's all a lightweight like you needs anyway. Scope it out. You don't have to stay the whole time. Just get your story and go."

  Chantel sighed, knowing that he wouldn't let it go until she came to some kind of tentative agreement. "I'll think about it. That's it. I won't say no yet until I've thought it through."

  "Fair enough," Eric said, glancing out the window again.

  He had her right where he wanted her.

  The Grand Entrance

  Despite his reputation, Roswell was clean about his parties. He had zero tolerance for any metalhead aggression or drama. He was all about details, and that's what set his kickbacks apart from the rest of the frat parties going on around campus. He was known to drop some cash to make those details, which was why his invitations were often restricted to those who he shared a mutual respect with. If one received an invitation from Roswell, one better damn well take it.

  Though he had a healthy appetite for progressive metal and trance-core, he liked to keep things classy. He never used his own furniture for such occasions, and instead rented art deco style couches and tables so his guests could lounge like characters out of The Great Gatsby. He was never one to pile a bunch of pizza boxes in the corner for guests to knock over while drunk, and always hired a caterer to light up the BBQ pit and serve out steaks and burgers at request. He kept his parties stocked with beer kegs, but left a refined selection of wine and champagne on the table for the ladies.

  Though he called them every name in the book when he was with his homies, Roswell actually respected and catered to his ladies. They were top notch tail, mostly college women in their early twenties, and typically brunettes or redheads. He was never keen on blondes, as they had caused him considerable drama in the past. Most of his girls had boyfriends or worked respectable day jobs as teachers or secretaries. Working for Roswell was only a side job for them, and he let them keep a generous amount of their earnings under the condition that they kept themselves clean. He didn’t abuse his girls, and dealt with handsy customers accordingly, which made him the most desirable employer on the streets. He wanted his girls to be happy about working for him, as happy girls often brought in more money, and they were likely to refer more girls to him. Roswell typically retired his girls out after age 25, when most were graduated from college, and that gave them a chance to establish respectable lives out of the streets. He had to upkeep his reputation in offering his clients fresh and sexy young tail, and often showed off his new additions at his parties.

  Other entertainment for the evenings came with five star DJ’s, fire dancers, waiters in gothic coat and tails who could offer you a cigar or a blunt, and a poker room where guests could challenge the house.

  By the time Eric arrived at the address, the sinfully pleasant stenches of weed, incense, and sex had mesmerized the room. Swirling spotlights of magenta, blue, and purple danced across the walls in the dark, making it almost impossible to distinguish faces in the crowd. Even the music gave off the impression of sex, as rock mingled with techno in a steamy love-hate twist.

  Midnight marked the prime of the night, and Eric sat back to watch the feminine shapes sway and dip against each other in the dark. Roswell tipped a wineglass to him from across the room in greeting. He sat on a couch between two of his newest prizes, a curvy brunette and a busty redhead, who clung onto either of his arms and waited faithfully on his every request. They were both dressed in black fishnets with red cocktail dresses and sweetheart necklines. Each girl was adorned with her own version of a black top hot, which covered half their faces and left only their full seductive lips in plain view.

  Eric could've amused himself trying to discover the mystery of their eyes underneath the birdcage veils, but his attention was constantly drawn toward the door as more guests arrived. Sirens and demons alike danced around the room, biting their lips and inviting him with their eyes, but no face in the dark belonged to Chantel.

  Roswell leaned over to his redhead and whispered something to her. She traced his gaze back to Eric, and the expression on her face indicated that what he had whispered to her was something agreeable. Rising to his feet like a god, Roswell guided his priestesses across the room to where Eric sat alone.

  "So where is she?" Roswell asked him. "Your chocolate idol."

  "Don't jump to conclusions. I haven't lost the bet yet," Eric said.

  Roswell laughed and sat down next to him. His girls took a spot on either side of Eric. "You really thought you were going to win that bet?" Roswell asked, shoving his wineglass into Eric's hand. "Nah. If I saw this coming, then you saw this coming. Girls like her demand more than what it's worth, and in the end, the fuck never adds up to all the trouble. Let it go, man. You're better off."

  "Well, the bet may be off, but it still doesn't help me," Eric replied. "I only came here for one thing tonight."

  "Already done, man. You know I always come through for you," Roswell told him, standing to leave. "Take care of him, ladies. It's on the house tonight."

  The brunette, who had been waiting impatiently for Roswell to leave, perched her hand on Eric's knee and ran her fingers up his thigh like a spider. "You're tense," she said. "It's ok, baby. Relax. I can make you forget whatever it is that's got you worked up. I can take it all away. Let me make it right for you. What do you want me to do?"

  Eric leaned into her ear and whispered something that made her bite her lip. The redhead girl, who was not used to sharing the attention, shoved the brunette aside and straddled Eric's lap, kissing him deeply. Then she pulled him roughly by the collar and dragged him into the dark like a fresh kill.

  ~

  The car charged around the corne
r, drifting as the tail-end swung out and blue smoke retreated from the back tires. The smell of burnt rubber overpowered the front seat and the car shuddered violently as it came to a halt in the middle of the street.

  "Dude, it stalled!" Mia laughed hysterically, resetting the clutch. "That was a badass drift though. Did you see that shit?"

  "I'm walking the rest of the way. Seriously. Let me out," Chantel said, grabbing her white clutch purse and unbuckling her seatbelt. "You're not going to get me killed acting stupid like this."

  "Chillax, chica. We're already here anyway," Mia said, shifting the car into gear and screeching forward to a house that Chantel had never seen before. She gazed at it in confusion and her jaw dropped upon witnessing a drunk couple having sex on the porch. A group of guys with beers and cell phones stood nearby filming it and cheering them on. Even from the street and safety of the car, Chantel could feel the heavy bass rattling from inside the house. Judging by the number of guys she didn't recognize in black jeans, boots, and chains, Chantel quickly realized this wasn't the party she signed up for.

  "Where are we?" she demanded of Mia. "What are we doing here?"

  "I'm saving you from your miserable, pathetically boring life before you regret it later," Mia told her. "This is the shit you're going to remember after you graduate. The wild parties and the steamy sexual encounters with strangers. This is why people go to college, Chant. Now get out."

  Chantel laughed. "No. We're going to a cocktail party. That's what you told me."

  "I lied. Well, not really. I'm going to a cocktail party. You're going to a...whatever the hell that is in there."

  Chantel laughed again, but this time it was a high pitched, nervous kind of giggle. "I would rather die."

  "He invited you. Don't be rude," Mia said, shooing her out the car. "Go on. Go make friends. I didn't fix your hair and makeup so you could sit here and look pretty for me. I got my own girl to meet up with tonight. Go get 'em, killer. Don't forget to use protection. And remember, three guys are fine, but at four you're just being a slut."

  "You are not leaving me here."

  "Chantel. Get out of my car or I will drive you through that goddamn door myself."

  "You won't."

  Mia mashed on the gas. The mustang roared and jumped forward, mowing over the curb and racing for the front porch. She slammed on the break just before she got to steps, leaving a heavy, ugly tire track in the neatly manicured green lawn. The people on the porch scrambled out of the way in fear, shouting obscenities at Mia and banging on her hood. Mia only laughed and flipped them off from behind her steering wheel. "Freaks."

  "Are you crazy?" Chantel cried.

  "You have three seconds to get out this car before I mow that front door down. One," Mia counted. "Two...."

  Chantel grabbed the door handle and stumbled out of the car, terrified of what her friend would do next. Her white, Mary Jane wedges wobbled unstably on the sloping lawn beneath her feet. Her curled updo bounced awkwardly as she retreated from the car for dear life. Mia laughed at her pathetic little pout. She looked so uptown girl, so out of place in the midst of all the goth, dreadlocks, and eyeliner behind her. "You'll be fine, sweetheart."

  "I hate you!" Chantel declared to her from the driveway. "I would never do this to you! Ever! I hate you so much right now."

  "That's my girl," Mia yelled out the driver window. "You be good now. I'll pick you up at two." She reversed and rattled out of the driveway, shooting down the street at only the most dangerous speeds.

  Alone and abandoned, Chantel turned to the porch where the observers still stood looking perplexed and angry. She shrunk under the heat of their eyes, and worked up the sweetest smile she could manage at a time like that.

  "Good evening," she greeted as cheerfully as she could, though in a rather small voice. "I sincerely apologize for all of that."

  She straightened up, and with whatever dignity she had left, walked toward the house and through the front door into a black hole of depravity, apologizing ever more as she went.

  Uhmg knah stahna

  Eric was satisfied.

  The brunette girl's head rested against his right shoulder. She was passed out. The redhead rested her cheek against his left thigh. She drew invisible circles along his jeans, lost in a meditative high of ecstasy.

  She asked Eric if he believed in God. He answered no.

  She asked him why. He told her religion is the synthetic virus of the world.

  She asked him if he believed in angels.

  He was saved the burden of a reply when Chantel Pari walked across the room, catching him off guard. It happened so abruptly that it had to be a mind trick, but there was too much detail there for her not to be real. He sat up quickly, sobering up for a quick moment as he watched her awkwardly navigate through the crowd, obviously not realizing that he was sitting there.

  She pressed herself against a wall, hiding from the crowd and trying to take up as little space as possible. Clinching her handbag tighter, she eyed everyone who glanced her way in critical suspicion. She was the new intrigue of the room only because she was so misplaced, and the way that black dress hugged her shapely hips begged for trouble. Eric watched the magenta and blue lights play on her face, and noted how fiercely her dark eyes and lashes stood out from across the room. He scanned her body from heel to nose, and eventually settled on that strong and ample neckline which had more than once been the topic of his fantasies.

  Damn, he lamented his loss. I should've waited.

  Roswell soon became aware of his new honored guest, and jumped onto Eric's lost opportunity. "Chanel, right?" He slid up beside her, presenting her with a glass of champagne as some kind of peace offering.

  "It's Chantel," she corrected him. "With a T."

  "T for tease," Roswell remarked.

  Chantel ignored the comment. "Where's Eric?" she asked.

  "Eric Chandler? He's occupied at the moment," Roswell tilted his head in Eric's direction. "But I got all the time in the world for you."

  "Bite me."

  Chantel raised a brow at Eric across the room, but he made no attempt to join her. He didn't even acknowledge that he knew her. He lit a cigarette, took a hit, and passed it to the redhead who leaned on his shoulder. Her eyes warned Chantel not to come too close or face the consequences for breaking up their private party. When Chantel remained where she was, the redhead smiled in triumph and seized Eric's chin. She trailed her nose against his neck and lured his lips to hers. He readily submitted to her.

  Chantel turned away, feeling as if she would throw up. "What's wrong with him?" she asked Roswell. "He looks high."

  "You were too late, baby," Roswell told her. "He got what he needed somewhere else. You don't want to mess with Bree. He's her pet now."

  "Good. Keep him away from me," Chantel replied. "Because of her, I might actually enjoy this party."

  "It's your party to enjoy, baby," Roswell said, re-offering the champagne glass. "You got needs too."

  Chantel glanced down at the glass between them, and without another thought, snatched it from his hand. "Whose pet are you tonight?" she asked.

  He grinned and bowed as if to say at your service. Chantel accepted his invitation and carried her head high all the way to the DJ booth.

  Roswell didn't follow her immediately. He glanced over at Eric and waited for a sign of approval. Eric gave a nod, granting his consent to pursue what had once been his territory. Whatever happened after that was Roswell's business. Eric had gotten what he came for, and all he wanted to do was sit back and enjoy his high with the fine women who had given it to him. Chantel Pari was no longer necessary, and he regretted having singled her out in the first place. More than likely his "other head" had hijacked his principles, twisting his thoughts and making him believe things that contradicted his own values. In the perspective of the "other head", anybody could be made desirable, even girls like Chantel Pari. It could make you see things that weren't there. It could trick you into doing
things you'd never do if sex wasn't in the equation. Stupid things. Things you wished had never happened.

  In that case, he owed it to Roswell for not letting him wait. It had brought him back to sound reason, and he now saw Chantel Pari as another face in the crowd. Her presence was more of a burden now than ever. Eric knew exactly what would happen if Roswell got her drunk. It was no secret to anybody at that party except Chantel.

  Because of me, Eric thought, I set the trap. I'm now responsible for that girl's nightmares.

  He watched Chantel down one glass after the other, growing more careless about her surroundings and the many hands that grabbed her ass in the dark.

  "She's your girl, right?" the redhead asked Eric.

  "That's Roswell's problem now," Eric replied, turning away from the scene and putting out his cigarette.

  "He's going to wreck her mentally," the redhead said. "The only saving grace that the rest of us have is that we're his girls. If she's not one of his girls, then he won't care how he treats her. After he's done, he'll leave her for the rest of the guys in here. You won't recognize her in the morning. It's kind of sad. She's like a little lamb, you know. She's so innocent."

  "She'll survive," Eric replied curtly, downing the last of his beer.

  "If she's lucky. That's drink number three he's giving her," the redhead said. "After drink number three, you're done. He's got you."

  The redhead continued watching them and Eric grew more anxious to leave the party.

  "I feel bad for her family," the redhead continued. "She looks like one of those girls who would have a family that gave a shit, you know? Makes you wonder how she got lost and ended up here in the first place. Most of us are never found again."

  "You want another beer?" Eric asked, desperate for an excuse to ditch the scene.