Chapter 10
Ten
Blair
I’m not high anymore.
Which should be good. That’s what they all want, right? Clear eyes, steady pulse, no one foaming at the mouth.
But if I’m being honest—which is rare and overrated—I fucking hate it.
Everything's louder now. Sharper. Like my skull’s an empty hallway echoing with the things I don’t want to think about. Like Noir’s voice. Like Dagger’s hands. Like Brynn, always fucking Brynn, bleeding through the static like a song I can’t delete.
I’m slumped on a barstool, arms folded on the sticky counter, chin digging into my forearm like I’m auditioning for Most Pathetic Bitch of the Year.
Cass is behind the bar, moving like she’s trying to break a personal record—shots poured, bottles flipped, eyes rolled.
She already tried to send me home in an Uber. Twice.
I begged.
Said I’d stay. Help, even, since she’s running solo tonight and half the warehouse seems committed to dying of dehydration or J?ger-induced stupidity.
She didn’t look thrilled.
But she didn’t fight me either.
Guess pity beats protocol when your only backup’s a girl who can barely remember her last name and once took a nap in a walk-in freezer.
I tap the bar lazily, watching a couple suck face over a spilled drink like it’s the only thing keeping them alive. My head’s mostly clear now. No neon fuzz. No floaty euphoria. Just the familiar comedown, like someone yanked the floor out from under me and replaced it with cold, hard reality.
Well. Lukewarm, sticky reality that smells like spilled rum and regret.
Better than the motel room, though. Better than silence. Better than the kind of quiet that lets thoughts crawl out of the walls and whisper things you don’t want to hear.
Cass drops a tequila flight in front of some girls who look like they’re about to lose their lashes in the battle. She whirls around, grabs a bottle, shoots me a look.
“You good?”
“Define good.”
My voice is dry, eyes unfocused, but my head’s already spinning, just not from the drugs this time.
Because the second Cass moves to pour another drink, my brain does what it always fucking does lately. It circles the drain and lands dead center on them .
The boys.
The war.
This fucking tug-of-war they’ve got going, like I’m the rope, not a person. Like my ribs were made to be yanked from both sides until something snaps.
And maybe I am the prize, sure. But I’m not stupid enough to think I’m the reason it all started. Nah. This shit? It’s older. Deeper. Built on bad blood and unfinished business they don’t talk about. Something sharp they’ve both been bleeding from for years.
But still, they drag me into it like I’m theirs to fight over. Like I’m the spoils. A fix. A stand-in. A way to win without ever saying what they’re really after.
And the worst part?
I don’t hate it.
I like the way Dagger looked at me that night in the motel. Like he wanted to ruin me slow, savor every crack. Like he planned to own every shattered piece when he was done. His mouth on my stomach, his tongue hot enough to burn through the drugs still buzzing in my system.
And Noir—Noir fucked me like I was a fever dream, something he couldn’t let himself believe was real. And then left. Just walked away like none of it touched him. Like I didn’t touch him.
Fuck him.
Fuck both of them.
Now I’m here, pretending I’m fine, while my chest’s torn up like a battlefield with both their names carved into the wreckage.
I lean closer. “What’s the deal with those two anyway?”
Cass pauses. Barely a beat. But it’s there. “What two?”
I shoot her a look. “Don’t play dumb.”
“I don’t know anything.”
“Cass.”
She sighs, heavy like she’s been carrying this too long. “It’s not my story to tell.”
“But you do know.”
Her silence is answer enough.
Figures. Everyone’s got secrets but no one ever wants to hand over the damn receipts. And I’m sick of being the only one stuck trying to solve the puzzle without all the pieces.
I sink back on the stool, eyes scanning the crowd. Dagger. Noir. Two sides of the same cursed coin. And I keep flipping it like I won’t lose no matter how it lands.
But I know better.
This war didn’t start with me.
But it just might end with me.
The rave still pulses behind me, even from here.
Red lights strobe across bodies slick with sweat and sin, dancers grinding like they forgot the world outside even exists.
Some girl with silver glitter under her eyes is making out with a guy in a mask while another couple next to them argues and laughs in the same breath.
A group of guys pass around a vial like it’s communion, pupils blown wide, hands jittering with too much serotonin and not enough sleep.
Because nothing says enlightenment like licking Molly dust off your best friend’s palm and pretending it’s some kind of holy ritual instead of a shared spiral.
A girl in a lace bodysuit spins alone, eyes closed, lips parted like she’s mouthing the words to a song only she can hear. She’s probably high as hell.
She’s probably free.
Or she’s about to vomit in the corner and mistake it for a spiritual awakening. Been there. Five stars. Would not recommend unless you’re into crying in a bathroom stall with glitter stuck to places glitter should never go.
Fuck. What a mess.
And the sick part?
It still feels safer than silence.
And shit, I get it.
God, Brynn used to thrive in places like this. Said the chaos made her feel real. Said the music could stitch you back together if you let it. She loved the rush. The noise. The blur between too much and not enough.
Me? I just wanted to feel close to her again. Just wanted to know what happened to her.
The memory cracks open without warning. Her clothes on the beach. The police telling us they couldn’t find her. My texts piling up. Her phone pinging off a tower that didn’t make sense in their investigation. And then… nothing.
No goodbye. No clues. Just this void I’ve been trying to fill ever since—with neon, bass and strangers’ pills. Some things I remember too clearly. Others? They're foggy. Off. Like someone’s tampered with the reel.
Like something’s been buried.
“Blair,” Cass calls, slicing through the static in my skull. “You gonna help me or just sit there perfecting your sad-girl slouch?”
I lift my head with a smirk. “Depends. You offering free drinks for my hard work?”
She tosses me a glare. “Ha, ha so funny. Vodka. Back room. Bottom shelf. Go, now.”
I hop off the stool, flip her off casually, and head toward the storage room. My boots scuff over sticky tile, my head pounding with too many thoughts and not enough distractions.
The second I push through the door, the bass dulls like someone shoved cotton in my ears.
The room hums with fluorescent buzz and the low whir of a mini fridge in the corner.
There’s a battered leather couch shoved up against the back wall, cushions sagging and stained like it’s seen too many passed-out nights and sweaty hookups.
A folding table’s stacked with liquor boxes and spare bar mats, and there’s a row of prep counters smeared with sticky residue and empty Red Bull cans.
A pair of security monitors flicker on a shelf above the fridge—grainy footage of the front entrance and the bar floor. Nothing exciting. No one dying.
But then?—
I’m met with a wall, floor to ceiling, completely covered in Polaroids.
There’s a girl with smeared eyeliner and a bleeding knee sitting on someone’s shoulders, flipping the camera off like a war cry.
A guy doing a line off a record player—because of course that’s what vinyl’s for.
A couple mid-fuck in a bathroom stall, faces blurred but not enough to hide their shame if they ever sobered up. (Not that they ever do.)
Another with a knife in her teeth, glitter on her chest, eyes saying stab me or fuck me, your call . A dude passed out on a couch, someone’s panties draped over his face like he’s the unofficial king of bad decisions.
It’s chaos. A gallery of beautiful disasters.
Exactly the kind of mess Brynn used to chase. Exactly the kind of mess I keep pretending I’m just accidentally falling into.
I shake my head. Jesus. These people make rehab clinics look like church retreats.
And then I freeze.
My fingers tighten on the vodka case. My pulse stutters.
There.
In the middle row. Third photo from the right.
Brynn. My sister.
Hair wild, pupils blown, laughing into a kiss. Not just any kiss.
His.
Noir.
Mouth locked on hers. His hand fisted in her hair. Her fingers hooked in his collar like she wanted to drag him under with her.
Blair, you dumb bitch. How did you not see this coming?
Because of course. Of fucking course. The stares. The tension. The way his kiss felt like he knew me. The goddamn ghost he turns into when I’m high on whatever pills I could find. I thought it was just trauma, some mutual brand of broken.
But no.
He knew her.
He touched her.
He kissed her like that.
I drag a hand through my hair, tug at the roots like maybe pain will knock the static loose.
I mean, who needs therapy when you’ve got a rave, a vodka crate, and a visual gut punch waiting in the back room?
I lean in closer, like an extra inch will change what I’m seeing.
It doesn’t.
She looks alive in that photo. Electric. Like this world didn’t swallow her, it worshipped her.
And him?
He looked right at home.
Of course he did.
Because apparently, they both belonged to this world long before I ever clawed my way in.
The bottle box thuds against the ground, but I don’t notice until I hear the slosh of vodka inside. My hands are shaking.
What the fuck.
What the actual fuck .
My stomach drops.
I rip the photo off the wall with a shaky hand. My legs move before my brain catches up, carrying me back to the bar with the photo clutched like evidence. Like proof that I’m not crazy.
Cass is still behind the counter, double-fisting tequila bottles like she’s bartending for the apocalypse.
I slam the photo down on the bar between us.
Her eyes flick to it and then widen.
Her mouth twists. “Shit.”
“That’s one word for it.”
“I can explain?—”
“Can you?” I bark a laugh. “Because I’m having a real hard time understanding how my deadass missing sister is making out with Noir in a photo I just found while hauling your vodka.”
Cass sighs like she just got handed the worst tab of the night. “I can’t tell you that. Just take an Uber back to your motel and talk to Dagger when he gets there.”
“Not fucking likely.”
“Blair, you’re making this a bigger deal than it needs to be?—”
I snort. Loud. “My missing sister showing up on a rave shrine making out with the guy who just the other night had his cock buried so deep inside me I thought I was going to die, and you think I’m overreacting? Nah, you’re right. That’s totally casual. Totally fucking normal.”
She throws a bar rag at my face, but I dodge it with a grin that’s all teeth.
“I have customers,” she says, exasperated. “Look. I get it. It’s shit. They lied to you. They—fuck, they kept a lot from you. But it’s not my place to tell you. Besides, I don’t even fully know everything. Only what I saw.”
“Cool. Then tell me what you saw.”
She shakes her head. “Go back to the motel and talk to Dagger?—”
“You were supposed to be my friend. Shit, I thought us girls were like, supposed to stick together and shit. But you never said a fucking thing?”
“Blair—”
“Tell me where I find Dagger?”
“I can’t tell you that.”
I lean in across the bar, voice dropping low.
“Cass, I’m not gonna sit in some shitty motel room like a good girl while everyone around me keeps lying to me like they don’t think I can handle the fucking truth.
So either you tell me where the fuck to find him, or I go out there, alone, still kinda high and pissed off, while I walk the streets looking for him, and we both know he won’t fucking like that. Not one bit.”
She mutters a curse under her breath. “Fuck. You’re exhausting.”
“Yeah, well. I’m also right.”
Cass breathes out a long, soul-deep sigh, like I’ve just aged her five years. She leans in, eyes darting around, and gives me the address. Quiet. Fast. Like it’s a secret she’ll pretend she never told.
I don’t thank her.
I grab the Polaroid, shove it into my bag like a loaded fucking weapon, and sling the strap over my shoulder.
Let Dagger be pissed. Let Noir rot in his shadows, brooding like some tortured little puppet master.
I’m done playing the pawn.
Done being lied to. Touched. Twisted up in whatever sick little game they’re waging like I’m too stupid to see the strings.
They both broke something in me—but at least, so far , Dagger hasn’t fucked my twin.
Small mercies, right?
He’s got answers.
And I’m not waiting for them to be gift-wrapped and handed to me like I’m some obedient, drugged-up doll waiting by the door.
He wants me safe in that motel room? Too fucking bad.
Tonight, I get the truth.
Even if I have to tear it out of him with my nails.
One bloody lie at a time.