Chapter 9
Idon’t remember the dream, just the feeling it left behind.
Waking up feels like surfacing from a dark ocean in need of air, lungs burning, heart thudding, skin clammy. I sit up in bed with a gasp, my shirt clinging to me with sweat, sheets tangled around my ankles like vines.
My stomach cramps, sharp and sudden. I curl forward, gripping my sides.
It’s the third morning in a row. The headaches started two days ago. Then came the shakes. The nausea. The irritability. And the nightmares.
It’s not just hangover anymore.
It’s withdrawal.
For the past three days I haven’t had a drink, a line coke, or pills. It feels like agony ripping from the inside trying to pull me back in. This is the fourth day I haven’t touched anything and I thought it would get better.
It wasn’t some dramatic decision. It just happened. Like my body had hit a wall. Like my skin finally screamed, no more.But I know it wasn’t that. It was him.
Knox.
And now here I am — stuck between two hells: the one where I used, and the one where I don't.
The worst part is how quiet everything is besides the noise in my head has been replaced with static. I keep waiting for it to clear, but it doesn’t.
I force myself into the shower. The water is too hot. I turn it cold. Then hot again. I don’t know what I want. I scrub myself raw, but I still feel dirty.
When I get out, I dress in jeans and an oversized sweater. Something soft. Something that doesn't cling.
I glance at myself in the mirror. I look tired. But underneath the exhaustion, there’s something else.
Something... alive.
And it scares me.
I make it to the Velvet Room by 5:30 p.m. I’m early again.
That’s new.
Jazz is already there, doing inventory. “You’re glowing,” she says with a smile placing a box on the floor.
I blink at her. “What?”
“You just look... lighter.”
I shrug. “Must be the fluorescent lighting.”
She doesn’t push. Just hands me the clipboard and walks off.
The night starts slow. It’s Tuesday. The crowd is half-full, mostly suits and the lonely. People who want to be seen without having to talk too much.
I like these nights. There’s room to breathe. Not that many people.
I’m pouring a drink when I feel him. Knox. He’s sitting at the same stool he always chooses now. Like it’s his.
I pretend not to notice. I finish the drink and serve it. I wipe down the counter. I pour another order. I do everything but look at him.
But I feel his eyes.
Eventually, I walk over. “Seriously?” I say.
“I’m just here for a drink.”
“You have a whole city of bars and a black card.”
He grins. “This one has better company.”
I sigh. “What do you want, Knox?”
He shrugs. “To see if you’re okay.”
“I’m working.”
“I noticed.”
He’s drinking soda tonight. No alcohol.
I raise an eyebrow. “Not drinking?”
“Didn’t feel like it.”
I cross my arms. “You just like watching me squirm?”
He places his elbows on the bar and leans forward. “No. I like watching you fight.”
That hits something deep.
He adds, “I see you’re not wearing eyeliner.”
“I ran out.”
“You’re prettier without it.”
I roll my eyes. “Are you trying to piss me off?”
“Sometimes the truth does that.”
I lean in slightly. “What are you doing here, Knox? Really?”
He looks at me — really looks at me — and says, “I don’t know.”
And somehow, I believe him.
We fall into silence. Comfortable. Tense. Real.
Then he says, “Want to get out of here?”
“What?”
He rolls his eyes. “Not like that. Just... away from this place. For a little while.”
I stare at him and I can see he means it.
No agenda.
Just escape.
The idea is so foreign that I almost laugh.
Instead, I nod. “Give me an hour before closing time.”
By 2:30 a.m., we’re in his black Pagani, windows down, music low. He drives with one hand on the wheel, the other resting loosely on his thigh. I don’t know where we’re going.
We end up at a lookout point above the city. The skyline stretches in front of us, glittering and endless. It’s quiet. Peaceful. I step out of the car and lean against the hood. He joins me.
We say nothing for a while. Just breathe. The silence is clean.
Finally, I say, “I think I’m losing it.”
“You’re not.”
“I haven’t slept right in weeks. I barely eat. I’ve been sober for four days and it feels like my skin is turning inside out.”
“That means you’re waking up.”
“I don’t know who I am when I’m awake.”
He looks at me. “You’re someone who still shows up.”
I scoff. “Barely.”
“Still counts.”
Then I whisper, “I don’t know how to do this without falling apart.”
“Then fall apart.”
I turn to him. “What?”
“You don’t have to hold it together for anyone.”
Tears sting my eyes. I blink fast. “No one’s ever said that to me.”
“They should have.”
We’re quiet again. The wind brushes my hair across my cheek. Knox reaches out and tucks it behind my ear. His touch is light. Careful. Like he knows how fragile I feel. I lean into it without meaning to. He lets me. And for a moment, I don’t feel broken. I just feel human.
I can’t lie to myself and tell myself it’s not because of him being here with me. Because for the first time, someone showed up.