Overdose (Rave To Ruin Duet #1)

Prologue

Blair

I wake up on the bathroom floor of a place I don’t recognize.

My cheek sticks to the tile—cold and slick with something that smells like bleach, blood, and last night’s worst decisions.

The ceiling spins above me, the edges curling in like burning paper, and for a minute, I honestly can’t tell if I’m going to vomit or just quietly cease to exist. Both options sound kind of poetic.

So I just lie there. Blinking. Breathing. Tasting ash and regret on my tongue like it’s the breakfast special. I’m alone.

Again.

I groan as I push myself upright, every joint cracking like I’ve aged a decade overnight. Nerves fire off like broken wires, my body stiff and aching like I’ve been hit by a truck and dragged through someone else’s nightmare.

The mirror across the room catches me mid-rise. Rude.

I freeze.

Hair tangled in a high ponytail, pink fading into purple like bruised cotton candy.

Glitter clings to my cheeks, mascara streaked halfway to hell.

My lip’s split. One earring gone. A boot print smudged on my thigh, and not in a fun way.

My lilac feather bandeau is wilted, sagging pathetically over my chest, and the pastel swirl bottoms I’m wearing ride high on my hips, the attached rhinestone chains draped like a joke no one laughed at.

Fishnets—ripped, obviously. The whole look screams “rave royalty with a death wish,” but all I see is a ghost. The kind that haunts herself.

There’s something wrong with the reflection. Something too smug. Too still. Like it’s seen me like this before—bent, bruised, barely a person, and it’s just waiting for the encore.

And honestly? Same.

Even I don’t know who I am in this moment. Just that I’ve been her before, and I’ll be her again. Over and over like some broken mixtape on loop.

The last thing I remember is bass, bodies, and the sound of the ocean crashing on the shore, and for one split second—the way my heart stopped when I thought I saw her.

Brynn.

My sister.

My twin.

The reason I came back months ago to this cursed, sand-choked beach town in the first place.

They say she overdosed. Wandered off high and alone. That it was an accident. No foul play suspected. Just another girl lost to her own demons.

But they’re wrong.

I know they are.

I feel it—deep in my bones, in the pit of my stomach where dread sits like lead. The air still changes when I say her name, like the world’s listening. Waiting.

Something happened to her.

Something worse than what they’re willing to believe, and I’m going to prove it.

I’m going to make sure the people responsible get theirs.

No matter what it takes.

My surroundings are still a blur of grime and chaos. Cracked tiles. Graffiti bleeding down the walls. A mattress in the next room that looks like it’s seen more trauma than therapy ever could.

One of my platform boots is missing. Probably ditched me for someone with standards.

My purse? Gone.

Phone? Deader than my will to care.

I rinse my mouth with metallic-tasting tap water and force myself to look up again.

She’s still there. The girl in the mirror.

And she looks exactly like someone who’s about to make the same mistake twice.

I stare harder.

Still Blair.

Still standing.

Just barely.

I swipe a streak of black from under my eye with the back of my hand, but it only makes things worse.

Doesn’t matter. I’ve done the walk of shame so many times, I should’ve charged it rent. Got clean for a while—gold star, round of applause—then relapsed like a fucking pro. Turns out rock bottom has a goddamn revolving door.

I exhale, hit the lights, and push the door open.

Sunlight slams into me like a goddamn accusation.

I raise a hand to shield my eyes, breathing in deep.

Sea salt.

Weed.

Desperation.

Fucking California.

Home sweet hell.

I don’t remember how I ended up at that afterparty.

Some run-down house in a part of town where streetlights go to die and the sidewalk smells like piss and stale beer.

The stereo’s still bumping something bass-heavy and broken.

Someone's passed out in the hallway, hugging a bottle like it's a lover. Another guy’s drooling on a pizza box in the in the living room.

A girl in nothing but glitter and one fishnet leg is curled up under the kitchen table like she belongs there.

No one knows whose house it is.

No one cares.

But this, I remember.

My boots stick to the floor on the way out. Something slick and sharp beneath my heel. Broken glass. A puddle of something amber. My best guess? Tequila, tears, and trauma. Classic combo.

Then—oh hey, my platform.

Just lying in the hallway like it took a nap mid-chaos, half-submerged in someone’s regrets. I scoop it up, wipe off whatever’s on the sole (don’t look too close), and shove my foot back into it. It sticks for a second. Like it’s judging me, then slides into place with a resigned little squeak.

Next to it, my purse. Slumped against the wall like it’s been through war.

I grab it, already knowing what’s inside because it’s always the same: chaos in a zippered shell.

Gum wrappers. An old eyeliner cap. A crumpled receipt from the laundromat three days ago—because yes, even a walking disaster like me occasionally washes her clothes, thank you very much.

And then, at the bottom, glittering like regret in a rave light?—

A holographic baggy.

Empty.

Except for a whisper of pink dust clinging to the inside like a memory I’m not ready to shake.

I rip off last night's entry bracelet, and stuff it into the purse with the others. A collection of bad ideas on woven plastic. Souvenirs from nights that almost took me out.

Then I find it, tucked in the inside pocket like a secret that still wants to be mine.

A cigarette. Bent, but not broken.

Just like me.

I slide it between my lips and fish out my lighter—bejeweled, pink, obnoxious in a way that feels personal. I flick it. The flame stutters in the breeze pushing through the warped screen door, then catches. Smoke fills my lungs like apology.

The burn’s already there, though.

It always is.

The truth isn’t hiding. It’s just buried under basslines and blackout memories.

It’s in the pills passed around like candy and the hands that touched too much but meant nothing.

It’s in the boys who watch you like a promise, and the silence after the screaming stops.

My name is Blair.

And I didn’t come back to Severance Point to heal.

I came to disappear.

To find what they tried to erase.

To figure out what really happened to my sister.

Even if it takes me with her.

I drag another inhale, cough like it personally offended me, and blow smoke into the kind of muggy morning that sticks to your skin like a bad decision.

The street’s quiet in that hungover, beach-town kind of way.

Gravel crunches under my boots, and the air smells like hot asphalt, salt, and sunscreen that’s given up.

The ocean’s close enough to taste—humid, thick, and vaguely fishy, like California’s trying to remind you it’s not just pretty sunsets and palm trees. It’s rot underneath, too.

Then I see it.

A black bike idles at the curb. Matte chrome, purring low and dark, like a secret that’s been waiting to be whispered.

And him, leaning against the frame. Cigarette burning lazy between two fingers, sleeves shoved up, inked arms on full display. His boots planted wide. Head tilted just enough to say yeah, I see you. Like he knew I’d look. Like I always do.

His eyes track me. Slow. Steady, like he’s not surprised.

Like I’m his favorite fucking fix.

He flicks the ash to the pavement. Smirks.

And just like that?—

The overdose begins.