CHAPTER 5
Riven
Control - Halsey
Walking in heels and a satin dress with a plunging neckline and a backless design that leaves way too much skin exposed for my current level of dignity—drunk.
A bad idea, the worst one I've had.
I live...I don't even know where right now, and that's a problem.
Damn.
With every step, my heels click against the asphalt.
Click. Click.
It's annoying.
I don't even have decent balance in these torture devices that are literally murdering my feet.
For God's sake, where am I? I've been walking for hours. Maybe not actually, but it sure as hell feels like it.
The city lights are killing me, they're way too bright.
The drones buzzing overhead, the neon signs, the holograms—it's all making me dizzy.
Too much shit to process at once.
I sway slightly and spot a little twenty-four-hour convenience store down the block.
Yes, finally.
I'm going to be able to drink some water or whatever the hell they've got, because my mouth feels like it's full of... nothing.
I start heading toward it or at least I try to.
I can't even tell if I'm actually walking fast. I probably look like some expensive, half-dressed drunk doll desperately chasing a bank account.
I somehow manage to reach my destination.
I step inside, and an AI voice greets me.
I only grunt in return. I'm not about to have a conversation with a machine right now.
I spot a one-liter bottle of water in the refrigerated section.
I practically sprint toward it, nearly smashing my face into the glass, grab it and head straight for the self-checkout.
The AI scans the bottle.
I slap my hand onto the payment pad, missing it a couple of times.
I am that wasted, that sucks.
Payment in some shops works through a handprint scan, and if I can't pay, I don't care. I'm drinking that bottle within the next twenty seconds.
“Oh, come on,” I beg frustrated “You fucking machine.”
I slap the scanner like it's somehow its fault that I can't even put my hand on it properly.
When really, I'm just seeing double.
I finally manage it, it scans and the credits are instantly deducted from my account.
I step outside, nearly walking straight into the sliding doors, and uncap the bottle.
I tilt my head back and drink like I've been dehydrated for days. I keep walking, having absolutely no idea where I'm going.
Not that I care.
My water is my only chance of survival right now.
I don't know when or how, but suddenly the world tilts, and I pitch straight toward the concrete. My dress nearly abandons ship on the way down, but somehow, I manage to keep hold of the water.
Priorities.
A hand catches me, stopping my fall abruptly, I yelp.
“Wh-what?”
The hand pulls me upright, and once I'm steady enough, I turn to see a tall young man, probably older than me.
“Oh my—Miss, are you alright?” His voice is soft and worried, by the sound of it.
I blink once, twice, then shake my head.
“Yeah, sorry. I wasn't exactly looking where I was going.”
“You should be careful in those heels.” His hands settle on my shoulders.
His touch isn't warm, it's cold.
That's the first thing I notice about him.
How is he cold in this weather? Even at night?
“Yeah…” I sigh. “I know. I just... drank a lot. I'm really sorry for not paying attention.”
“No, it's quite alright.” the man says, stepping closer.
Not threatening, but the hairs on the back of my neck rise anyway.
Why is he getting closer when he already helped me?
Now that he's closer, I can finally make out his features properly.
He has dark hair and dark eyes, and now I understand why his hand felt so cold—It's bionic.
“Okay,” I say with a polite smile, rubbing the back of my neck with my free hand, even though I probably look like a complete mess. “Thank you for stopping me from eating the pavement... but I have to go now.”
I take a step back, but I don't move.
A slight pressure settles on my shoulder, his grip has tightened.
What the actual fuck?
“Are you sure you're alright? You look like you might need more help.” His eyes slowly drag over me, lingering on my neckline. “A young woman like you... in that dress... all alone... after drinking that much... you could get yourself into trouble.”
My skin crawls, this is disgusting.
Even drunk, I immediately understand that he's not going to let go of me under the excuse of making sure I'm 'safe.'
I have a feeling he's about to become a serious problem.
“Let go of me, I'm meeting my friends. They're waiting for me—”
“Then,” He cuts me off. His grip tightens as he steps even closer, his chest nearly brushing mine. “I'll just stay right here until they show up. Don't you think?”
I can feel the warmth of his body, the smell of tobacco, metal and chemicals.
Probably from his arm.
What the fuck am I supposed to do?
And why is it always when I'm drunk that men decide to start messing with me?
His fingers linger against the thin strap of my dress, tracing slow, featherlight circles.
My jaw clenches, every muscle in my body tensing beneath his touch.
If I don't move or scream, I'm going to end up in a situation I absolutely do not want to be in.
“When are your friends getting here?” He leans in. “Because until then... we can talk, if you know what I mean.”
Oh, hell no.
Whatever alcohol was left in my system evaporates beneath the surge of adrenaline flooding my veins.
“I said,” I shift my feet, sliding one backward into a steadier stance despite the heels, and raise my free arm—the one not holding the water.
“Let go of me, you fucking freak!"
I swing and my fist connects with his nose.
The man grunts, more from surprise than pain, but I see him recover fast.
Blood spills from his nose, and his eyes—They're so dark with fury.
I throw the first thing in my hand—my water bottle and all.
I don't wait to see if it hits him, I turn and run.
Or stumble-run, really.
My ankle twists, making me yelp more in surprise than pain. These heels are going to get me killed.
I bend, yank them off, and throw them at him, one bounces off his chest doing absolutely nothing.
Of course.
The other smacks him square in the nose I'd just punched.
The man stumbles backward.
I grab the hem of my dress and sprint barefoot like my life depends on it, because it clearly does.
“Fucking bitch!” he screams, clutching his bleeding nose. “You desperate cunt!”
“Fuck you, motherfucker!” I yell over my shoulder.
As I run, my gaze catches on someone, only for a split second.
I turn my head, barely registering the figure at all.
I'm a little too busy trying to stay alive—and not smash face-first into a fucking wall because I can't see straight.