Strobe Lights & Lifelines
Cohen
Her hand is in mine.
It’s the only thing I can actually feel.
Everything else is an assault on the senses:
the music rattling my ribcage,
purple strobe lights slicing through the dark like blades,
the cloying mix of alcohol and synthetic perfume.
But Sloane’s hand is solid.
Warm.
Steady.
I’m letting her pull me along like a kid—or like a drowning man who’s just found driftwood in the middle of the ocean.
I watch her from behind as she cuts through the crowd.
Her coat swings with every determined step, her snow boots thud confidently across the sticky floor, her spine a straight, unwavering line.
She’s incredible.
She’s powerful.
Right now, in this hellhole of bass and sweaty bodies, Sloane Heart might be the most extraordinary creature to ever walk the earth.
Not because she’s beautiful—though God knows she is—but because she’s fearless.
I, on the other hand, am terrified.
Panic is a living animal chewing through my stomach.
Grace.
My sister’s name pounds inside my skull louder than the techno blasting through the speakers.
She’s my responsibility.
I promised myself—promised her when she was little—that I would handle everything.
That I would protect her from the toxicity in our family, from our father’s pressure, from the entire damn world.
And instead here I am, searching for her in a grimy club while she’s not answering her phone.
I’ve failed.
I try to scan the room, but my vision is going blurry.
Too many people. Too many faces blurring together, too many drunken laughs.
Every brunette makes my heart lurch until I realize it’s not her.
My chest is tight. I can’t breathe. I feel helpless.
Sloane squeezes my hand—firmer this time—a silent signal:
I’m here. Don’t fall apart.
How does she know exactly what I need?
How does she know that if she let go, I would probably collapse or start swinging at strangers?
Those questions evaporate the second I finally see her.
Grace.
She’s slumped on a half-moon velvet couch tucked into the shadows, far from the dance floor.
Her head is tilted in a way no head should tilt—like a puppet with cut strings.
“Grace!”
The shout tears out of me, raw and animalistic.
I drop Sloane’s hand and sprint forward, knocking into a waiter and shoving past two guys who get in my way. I don’t care.
I reach the couch and sink to my knees.
She’s pale.
Horrifically pale under the neon lights.
Her eyes are closed, mascara streaked down her cheeks.
“Grace… Gracie, look at me.”
I touch her face. Her skin is cold and clammy at the same time.
She forces her eyes open. Thin slits. Glazed. Confused. Wet with tears.
“C… Cohen?” she slurs. “I…”
“Shhh. It’s okay. I’m here.”
“Everything’s spinning… I wanna go home…”
She starts crying—quiet, broken sobs—and her body trembles in uneven jerks.
Something inside me snaps clean in half.
Seeing her like this—reduced to this—kills me.
And beneath the devastation is a cold, murderous rage I didn’t know I was capable of.
“We’re getting her out. Now.”
Sloane’s voice appears at my shoulder. I didn’t even hear her come up.
She crouches beside me, and there’s no judgment in her expression—only competence and genuine concern. It hits me right in the chest.
I press my forehead to Grace’s for a second.
“I’ve got you, baby. I’m taking you home.”
I stand and scoop her into my arms—one arm behind her knees, the other around her back. She curls into me automatically, just like she did when she was little, burying her face in my shirt.
“Let’s go,” Sloane says.
She steps in front of me without hesitation. No asking, no second-guessing. She cuts through the crowd using elbows, intention, and pure force of will.
“Move! Let us through!” she commands a group blocking the exit.
They scatter instantly.
I follow, clutching Grace to my chest.
I look at Sloane’s straight spine, her hair swinging as she leads us, and I know—without question—I would follow this woman anywhere.
Even into hell.
And honestly, I think we’re already there.
We burst through the VIP exit.
The freezing night air hits like a slap, but it feels like salvation.
Clean.
Quiet.
Grace sobs against my neck, soaking my skin.
“I’m sorry… I’m sorry, Co…” she repeats in a broken loop.
“You never have to apologize,” I whisper, kissing her hair.
I feel hollowed out.
My legs shake as the adrenaline drains, replaced with bone-deep exhaustion.
My mind keeps replaying the image of her limp on that couch.
“Cohen.”
I look up.
Sloane stands in front of me. She shrugs off her coat and wraps it around Grace.
I want to tell her not to be an idiot, that she’ll freeze, but… I’m in a T-shirt. I have nothing to give my sister.
Sloane does.
“How can I help?” she asks.
Not: What happened?
Not: Is she high?
Just: How can I help?
I try to speak, but my throat locks up. I’m wrecked. I’m a man who just lived his worst nightmare and has no strength left to fake being tough.
“I… I can’t…” I swallow hard, clutching Grace tighter. “I can’t drive, Sloane. My hands won’t stop shaking. Can you… can you take us to Elm Hollow? To Dom’s place?”
It’s a massive ask.
I know it.
But she doesn’t even blink.
“Give me the keys,” she says, palm out.
I stare like an idiot. “The keys? But your SUV—”
“The keys to the Porsche, Cohen. Come on.”
I jerk my chin toward my jeans pocket—I can’t reach with Grace in my arms.
Sloane doesn’t hesitate. She slips her hand into my pocket—quick, efficient—and fishes out the keys. Her knuckles brush my thigh in the process, sending a shock through me even now.
“We’re taking your car,” she says as she unlocks it with a sharp beep. She opens the back door so I can settle Grace inside.
“Why?” I ask stupidly.
She turns to me with her Let me explain how the world works expression.
“Because if we leave Cohen Becker’s Porsche abandoned outside the Velvet Room all night, by tomorrow morning the press will have invented three different stories about who you slept with, how much coke you did, which fight you started.”
She looks straight at me.
I can read a thousand questions in her eyes, and I know she’s starting to wonder how many of my so-called scandals are actually true.
“I’ll get my SUV tomorrow. Now get in. You sit with her. I’ll drive.”
My mouth falls open.
She thought of everything.
While I was falling apart, she thought about my sister, my reputation, the logistics—every detail.
She protected me.
I settle Grace across the backseat, then slide in next to her, lifting her head into my lap so she’s comfortable. She grips my hand and closes her eyes, exhausted.
Sloane gets behind the wheel.
She adjusts the mirror. The seat (her legs are way shorter than mine—an absurd detail that somehow squeezes my heart). Then she starts the engine.
The Porsche purrs to life.
I look up at the mirror.
Her eyes meet mine in the reflection.
“Everything okay back there?” she asks softly.
I nod, unable to form words.
I run a hand over my face, then go back to stroking Grace’s hair.
I’m grateful.
Silently, desperately, irreversibly grateful for this woman who is becoming my terrifying, unexpected lifeline.