Chapter 11 #2
“I think I had enough to drink at the party,” Zena lied, shaking her head gently as she turned back toward the skyline. “Just water is fine. Thank you, though.”
Lisa scoffed playfully, stepping closer. “Girl, bye. You are not about to waste my good champagne. This is a vintage selection. It's only a little bit. You’ll be fine.”
With a smooth, insistent motion, she pressed the glass stems directly into Zena’s hand, leaving her no polite way to refuse.
Without a second thought, wanting to be a good houseguest and to dull the edges of her anxiety, Zena brought the glass to her lips and took a deep sip.
Her brow furrowed. “Ohh… this is kinda salty,” Zena said, her eyes squeezing shut as she swallowed. The taste was deeply off-putting, with a strange chemical undertone beneath the expensive fruit notes.
“This is grown-woman shit,” Lisa smirked, her eyes tracking Zena’s throat as Zena swallowed. Lisa brought her glass to her lips. “Premium quality has a bite to it.”
They sat outside on the terrace furniture, talking for a few more minutes while Zena, out of sheer awkwardness, finished the rest of the glass. It tasted awful, but she forced it down.
Within minutes, a strange warmth began to bloom at the back of Zena’s neck. Her eyelids grew incredibly heavy, as if it was weighted with lead.
“Would it be okay if I just lay down for a bit?” Zena mumbled, her tongue suddenly feeling too thick for her mouth. The words slurred together dangerously.
“Yes, I can show you the guest room,” Lisa said smoothly, standing without hesitation. “I’m about to turn in. Follow me.”
Zena tried to push herself up from the outdoor sofa, but gravity felt like it had tripled. A sudden force yanked her back into the cushions. The Atlanta skyline began to tilt and spin.
“Umm… could you help me? The wine has me… really tipsy,” Zena giggled, though a sudden surge of panic flared in her chest.
One glass of champagne shouldn't do this.
Looping her manicured hand into Zena’s, Lisa easily hauled her up, supporting most of Zena’s weight. She led her from the terrace down a dimly lit hallway and into a room farther into the home.
Within a few seconds, Zena felt herself pushed forward and collapse onto a mattress as soft as a marshmallow.
Zena didn’t move. She couldn’t. Her limbs felt like mush, unresponsive to her brain's frantic commands. A blinding, vicious headache began throbbing behind her eyes. That’s what she gets for drinking, she tried to tell herself, but a cold dread pooled in her stomach.
“Goodnight.” Lisa’s voice echoed from far away.
Zena heard the bedroom door close, followed by a faint, distinct click from outside the room. Then everything went black.
Blinding sunlight peeked through the blinds, slicing across the room.
Zena awoke with a pounding headache. She glanced around the unfamiliar white room, her disorientation immediate.
“Well, good afternoon, sleepyhead.”
Zena flinched at the sound of the voice. Lisa stood near the foot of the bed, fully dressed in a halter dress, looking unaffected by the night before. She held a cup of steaming coffee.
“Afternoon?” Zena croaked. She glanced at the digital clock on the nightstand. It read 12:34 PM.
“I can’t believe I slept that long,” Zena muttered, pressing her palms against her throbbing temples. She tried to sit up, but a wave of intense nausea washed over her.
“Oh, you were pretty out of it, sweetie,” Lisa said. “You threw up a couple of times in the middle of the night, too. I had to bathe you and change you into something clean. You’re welcome, by the way. I don’t do no shit like that for nobody.”
A cold dread, far worse than the physical hangover, gripped Zena’s chest. She looked down beneath the duvet.
She was no longer wearing Camila’s denim jacket or the clothes she had worn to the party. Instead, she wore a pair of oversized black satin pajamas that didn't belong to her. She had no memory of being bathed or changed. She had been completely unconscious.
The room seemed to tilt again. She had been entirely at this woman's mercy.
“I… I was that out of it?” Zena whispered. The memory of the salty champagne flashed vividly in her mind.
“Like a light,” Lisa said, taking a slow sip of her coffee, her eyes on Zena.
Zena’s survival instincts kicked in. She needed to leave. She needed to get out of her house, away from Lisa. It didn’t feel right.
Swallowing down the bile rising in her throat, she threw the covers off her legs and swung her feet to the cold floor.
“Where is my phone?”
“On the charger in the kitchen.”
Zena brushed past her and went toward the kitchen. She snatched her phone off the charger. Hey eyes scanned the room until she spotted her shoes and Camila’s jacket thrown by the couch. She scooped them up, her hand trembling.
She heard a movement from down the hallway.
“You have company?” Zena asked.
“Nosy much but yes..” Lisa said, appearing in the archway. She wore a smug look. The warmth from the night before was gone. “I had a friend come over last night.”
Zena’s stomach dropped. A friend. While she had been unconscious.
She turned toward the exit, only to find Lisa casually standing in her path, blocking the front door.
“I should get home,” Zena managed, forcing her voice to remain steady. “Tate is probably worried.”
Lisa let out a mocking laugh. “Sure.”
She stepped aside.
“Thanks for everything.”
Zena hand hit the doorknob, cold against her palm. She twisted it.
“Zena,” Lisa said in a venomous tone. “Make sure whatever you saw at the party never leaves your lips.”
The moment she crossed her own threshold, Zena slammed the door, threw the deadbolt, and slid the security chain into place.
She collapsed against the door, gasping for air.
The foreign fabric of the pajamas felt like toxic waste on her skin, branding her with Lisa's presence.
Peeling them off with frantic motions, she left them in a crumpled heap on the entryway floor and sprinted for the bathroom.
Zena scrubbed her skin until it burned, as if she could strip the night off her body if she worked hard enough. She went over the same patches of skin twice. Three times. The washcloth was rough, and she pressed it harder than she needed to, but she did not stop.
When the water turned cold, she did not move.
She stood under the freezing spray until her teeth chattered and her fingers went numb, letting the icy needles prick at her raw skin.
After a few minutes, she turned the valve off.
The bathroom mirror was fogged over. She was grateful for that; she couldn't bear to look at herself. Wrapping a towel tightly around her torso, she sat on the closed toilet lid and stared at the tile floor for a long time.
She expected to cry. She waited for the sob to tear out of her chest, waited for the relief of tears, but nothing came. There was only a hollow inside her. Like her soul had been yanked out through her throat.
She got up eventually and got dressed.
She sat on the edge of her bed and stared at her phone. She thought about calling Tate. Thought about finding the words to explain the unexplainable. Lisa took my clothes. Someone was in the house. The champagne tasted funny.
She put the phone face down on the nightstand.
She stayed in bed, not bothered to attend her afternoon recording sessions.