Dead Daze (Story Fodder #3)

Chapter 1

Scarletta

I'm half-awake when the words come.

They always come like this—slipping in through the cracks in my consciousness before I'm fully present, before I can judge them or shut them down.

Ivy stands outside the sleek black door of Velvet Underground, clutching the embossed invitation Logan slipped under her apartment door three days ago. Her hands shake. Inside, masked strangers are doing things nice girls don't think about. Things she's been thinking about for months.

"You won't actually go," Logan told her last week. He was leaning against the doorframe of her apartment with that infuriating smirk. "You'll fantasize about it. Write about it in that little journal you think I don't know about. But you won't walk through my door."

She hates that he's right.

She hates that her pussy is already wet just standing here.

My hand slides between my thighs on autopilot, fingers finding the familiar path. I press against my clit, trying to chase the heat. Trying to follow Ivy into Logan's club where masked attendants will strip her bare and—

Nothing.

I'm not even wet.

I keep trying anyway, circling my clit, waiting for my body to catch up to the story playing in my head. Ivy's embarrassment, her shame, her desperate need for Logan to see her—

Nothing.

I pull my hand away and stare at the ceiling of my new apartment.

Six months.

It's been six months since Story Island. Six months since I destroyed every camera. Six months since I've heard Caleb's voice.

Six months since I've been able to come.

I throw off the covers and get out of bed because what's the fucking point of lying here pretending?

The master bathroom gleams with imported Portuguese tiles—soft blues and whites arranged in geometric patterns that conjure up images of Saint Lawrence.

The walk-in closet attached to it is mostly empty except for the few things I bought when I moved in, but I like what it represents. Space I could fill if I wanted to.

After I pee, I wander back out into the living room, my bare feet silent on the hardwood.

This apartment is four times the size of my old place. Twenty-five hundred dollars a month—that's what this much space costs in downtown Idaho Falls.

The walls are painted a sophisticated sage green with tan and ecru accent colors highlighting the baseboards and crown molding. The floors are dark walnut hardwood, polished to a subtle sheen, and the floor-to-ceiling windows are framed in six-inch wood boards stained to match.

Like an actual interior designer sat down and made deliberate choices instead of just slapping beige paint over everything and calling it done.

The building itself is gorgeous. A four-story brick walkup from the 1920s that used to be the town's central bank.

Only four units total—one per floor. I'm on the third.

My balcony is big enough for a full patio set, though I haven't bought one.

Two bedrooms, two baths, and it came completely furnished with butter-soft leather couches in that same ecru tone and a dining table I've never used.

The whole place really is beautiful in a way that still makes me uncomfortable—like I'm house-sitting for someone who actually belongs here.

I drift toward the far window, the one facing south, and pull back the heavy curtain.

Natural light spills across the hardwood, warm and golden even though it's barely past dawn.

Beyond the glass, the view opens up—the Snake River Greenbelt unfurling like a ribbon of green through the downtown corridor, the water itself visible in slivers between tree branches.

Early morning mist still clings to the surface, and I can just make out the shape of a jogger moving along the paved trail.

I stand there for a long moment, my forehead nearly touching the cool glass, watching the jogger disappear around the bend where the trail curves toward the Japanese Friendship Garden.

The light shifts as the sun climbs higher, burning through the last of the mist, turning the river from pewter to something almost silver.

They say that a view like this can save you.

That if you just look at something beautiful enough, peaceful enough, long enough—if you let the green and the water and the wide-open sky do their work—eventually the noise in your head will quiet down.

Eventually you'll feel something other than the dull, persistent ache of going through the motions.

I'm counting on it.

Because I've tried everything else.

I turn away from the window, leaving the river view behind, and make my way back through the bedroom to the walk-in closet. I haven't accumulated much in the months I've been here, haven't felt the urge to fill it with things that might anchor me to this place more permanently than I'm ready for.

I pull on a pair of black running shorts with the kind of moisture-wicking fabric I never used to care about, then reach for the matching sports bra hanging on the hook beside them. The tank top is a muted shade of grey-blue that reminds me of storm clouds.

I sit on the edge of the bed to lace up my running shoes. They're the kind serious runners wear, the kind I researched obsessively before buying, reading reviews and comparing cushioning technology like it mattered.

Like any of this matters.

When they're tied, I head to the kitchen and grab a bottle of water from the fridge, sliding it into the back pocket of my running vest. The vest itself is a relatively new addition to my collection of things I never thought I'd own—lightweight mesh, reflective strips, multiple pockets for phone, and keys, and energy gels I don't actually use.

I slip my phone into the front pocket, feeling the familiar weight of it settle against my ribs.

Six months ago, I didn't even know what a running vest was.

I certainly didn't need one—it's not like I'm out here making TikToks about "The Running Effect" or documenting my fitness journey for an audience of strangers, though I do record my runs on the app just for the sake of having something to show for the hours I spend on the Greenbelt.

The data, the metrics, the proof that I moved my body through space, and burned calories, and logged miles. I just felt left out, I guess. Like the new girl on the Snake River trail, watching all the serious runners go by with their gear, and their purpose, and their easy confidence.

I hate that I bought this shit. The vest, the shoes, the expensive athletic wear that makes me look like I belong in this version of my life.

I love that I have it. That I can put the vest on and become someone who runs, someone who fits in, someone who looks like they have their shit together.

Life shouldn't be this contradictory.

Why is it always so confusing?

I descend the stairs and step out into the late August morning, breathing in the crisp air that still carries a hint of coolness before the day heats up.

The sun is just beginning its climb over the eastern horizon, painting the sky in soft shades of pink and orange that fade into pale blue.

The streets are quiet—most of the downtown shops won't open for hours yet, and the serious morning runners have already completed their first loops.

I walk the couple of blocks to the river at an easy pace, rolling my shoulders, shaking out my arms, letting my muscles gradually wake up.

It's something I learned the hard way during those first brutal weeks after I moved here—how you can't just throw your body into motion without warning, how tendons protest and joints lock up if you don't ease them into it first. How much it hurts when you're too impatient, too desperate to outrun whatever's chasing you through your own head.

Then, once I reach the Greenbelt, once my feet hit the familiar paved trail that runs alongside the Snake River, I start to jog. Not fast. Never fast. Just a steady, sustainable pace that lets my mind drift while my body moves on autopilot.

And I let the words come.

The story.

Third person now, not first.

Ivy and Logan.

Logan opens the heavy door of Velvet Underground, his hand firm on the small of Ivy's back as he guides her through.

The lighting inside is dim—ambient reds and purples that cast everyone in soft shadows.

There are people everywhere. On couches, on platforms, against walls.

Some are dressed in leather and latex, others are completely naked.

Ivy's breath catches when she realizes what's happening on the central stage—a woman bent over a padded bench while a man fucks her from behind, slow and deliberate, his hands gripping her hips.

The woman's face is visible in profile, and she's not faking.

Her mouth is open, eyes squeezed shut, and when she moans it echoes through the club.

"Everyone's watching," Logan murmurs against Ivy's ear. "Everyone can see how hard she's taking it. How much she loves it."

Ivy's pussy clenches involuntarily.

Logan leads her to a private alcove separated from the main floor by sheer black curtains. Not truly private—anyone can see through if they look—but removed enough to feel like a secret. There's a leather couch, a low table with bottles of water and condoms, and mirrors on two walls.

"Strip," Logan says. Not harsh. Just certain.

Ivy's hands shake as she pulls her dress over her head. She's wearing the black lace lingerie he told her to buy and his eyes darken when he sees it.

"Fuck," he breathes. "You did exactly what I told you."

He's on her before she can respond, his mouth claiming hers, his hands everywhere. He unhooks her bra with practiced ease, cups her breasts, thumbs her nipples until she's gasping against his mouth. When he slides his hand into her panties, his fingers find her dripping wet.

"Christ, Ivy. You're soaked." He pushes two fingers inside her without warning, and she moans so loudly someone beyond the curtain laughs.