Chapter Twelve
Blair
The warehouse sits buried deep in the industrial district near the shipping yards, hidden between rusted fencing, abandoned loading docks, and buildings that look one strong gust of wind away from collapsing entirely.
Which obviously means the rave inside is gonna be incredible.
Bass rattles through the alley hard enough to vibrate straight into my ribs before we even make it to the entrance. Rain slicks the pavement beneath our boots while people crowd outside smoking, making out, arguing, or actively having spiritual awakenings against dumpsters.
Mina grabs my wrist and drags me toward the entrance grinning like a criminal mastermind.
“You feel that?”
“The bass or the impending bad decisions?”
“Both, obviously.”
The second we step inside, heat slams into me.
Good god.
Smoke machines churn through flashing neon while lasers slash across the warehouse in violent streaks of pink, blue, and toxic green.
The crowd is packed shoulder-to-shoulder beneath exposed steel beams, bodies grinding and jumping and screaming while the DJ absolutely assaults the sound system hard enough to qualify as attempted murder.
The entire building shakes with bass.
Sweat. Bodies.
Spilled alcohol sticky beneath my boots.
It smells exactly like every terrible decision I’ve ever made.
Considering the last few days of hell I’ve been forced to ensure, it’s very emotionally healing honestly.
The warehouse itself is massive too.
Concrete floors vibrating beneath hundreds of people dancing like they’re trying to outrun their own nervous systems. Shipping crates turned into bars. Graffiti covering the walls. Chains wrapped in neon hanging from rafters overhead.
It feels familiar enough to make something ugly twist in my chest.
Not the same.
But close enough to Severance Point’s old rave scene that my lungs almost forget how to breathe for a second.
Mina notices me staring out over the crowd and bumps her shoulder into mine.
“You okay?”
I exhale slowly while lights flash across the room.
“Unfortunately I think this might be fixing me.”
“That’s the untreated mental illness talking.”
“Probably.”
Honestly though?
The freedom hits hardest first. There's no Dagger hovering every five seconds like an emotionally unstable bodyguard. And no Noir staring at me like he’s one inconvenience away from murdering somebody.
No apartment walls or rules.
Just noise loud enough to drown my thoughts out completely.
Mina grabs both my hands dramatically. “Okay. First things first.”
“Yes, babysitter,” I say, smoothing both hands down the front of my outfit. “Please enlighten me. What’s the grand master plan?”
Mina looks at me like she’s deeply proud of her own criminal influence.
Which she most definitely should be, because the outfit is horrifyingly perfect.
Tiny black leather skirt with silver chains swinging against my thighs every time I move.
Black mesh sleeves stretched over my arms. A cropped black top with a sharp little zipper detail and flashes of neon pink peeking through underneath, like I’m either going to a rave or auditioning to ruin someone’s life professionally.
Very versatile. Very, I am that bitch.
My split pink and purple hair is pulled up high and messy, with two long braided pieces hanging down the front of my face. It gives the whole look this bratty, don’t-touch-me-but-also-maybe-do energy.
Which feels pretty fucking accurate.
Mina, meanwhile, looks like she walked straight out of some goth fairy thirst trap.
Black corset top, silver hardware, thick chain choker, dark makeup smoked around her eyes, and her hair styled into messy little spiked buns with sharp pieces sticking out everywhere like she got into a fight with a haunted doll and won.
She looks insane, and I fucking love it.
Mina grins, grabs my wrist, and starts pulling me toward the bar like she’s leading us into battle.
“We acquire substances.”
I blink at her, then nod, because hell yes we do.
“Brilliant. Nothing says smart survival plan like getting fucked up when you’re being hunted by a drug lord.”
“Exactly,” she says. “Finally, someone appreciates strategy.”
Twenty minutes later we’re leaning against one of the side bars while Mina aggressively flirts with a tattooed girl named Ivy who sells us drinks and little neon pills from a rhinestone cigarette case like she’s a magical rave fairy.
“Only take half,” Ivy warns casually.
Mina immediately buys extras.
“Love your confidence in us.”
I snort into my drink while Ivy laughs.
The alcohol burns warm going down while bass pulses through the floor beneath us, vibrating straight up my legs and into my ribs. Everything already feels softer around the edges.
Looser.
Like my brain finally unclenched for the first time in weeks.
Which, knowing me, probably means I’m about four decisions away from making everything worse.
Mina turns to say something, but her gaze catches over my shoulder and her entire expression shifts.
Not fear exactly.
More like immediate, dramatic, oh fuck, I’m about to get lectured energy.
I glance back. “That face feels loaded.”
Near the edge of the bar, a girl with lavender hair is leaning against a tall guy with dark, reckless energy.
Her hair catches the neon in soft violet flashes, messy and pretty around her face while she laughs at something he says.
Mina mutters, “Please don’t let Draygon be here.”
“Who the fuck is Draygon?”
“My brother,” she says tightly. “Which means judgment, lectures, and probably a twenty-minute TED Talk on why I make horrible life choices.”
I blink at her. “You do make horrible life choices.”
“Yes, but I don’t need family confirming it, thank you.”
The lavender-haired girl turns then, and her face lights up.
“Mina?”
Mina’s smile appears instantly, but it’s a nervous smile. Guilty. Like she’s already imagining how disappointing this entire interaction would sound if repeated to her brother.
“Cece,” Mina says, leaning in for a quick hug. “Please tell me Draygon isn’t with you.”
Cece laughs, bright and easy over the music.
“No. Relax. He’s not here.”
Mina exhales so dramatically it deserves its own soundtrack.
“Thank fuck.”
The guy beside Cece arches a brow.
“Nice to see you too.”
Mina points at him. “Revel, you’re fine. Assuming you won’t call my brother and tell him I’m out making emotionally questionable choices.”
Revel’s mouth curves faintly. “Depends how questionable.”
“Don’t start.”
Cece’s eyes flick curiously toward me.
Mina gestures between us quickly. “This is Blair. Blair, Cece. And that’s Revel.”
I lift my drink slightly. “Hi. I’m apparently part of tonight’s questionable choices.”
Cece smiles like she appreciates that.
“Nice to meet you.”
“You too.”
Cece glances toward the stage where someone waves at her from behind a mess of speakers, cables, and flashing lights.
“Shit, I have to get ready for my set.”
I blink. “You’re playing tonight?”
“Yeah they had a cancellation and well, I owed the organizer a favor so, here I am,” Cece says with a grin.
Revel’s hand settles at the small of her back, protective without even trying. “As nice as this is, you got about five minutes, we gotta move, mama.”
Mina squeezes Cece’s arm once. “Text me after? We’ll grab a drink.”
“Yeah of course babe, but only if you don’t get arrested first.”
“No promises.”
They disappear toward the side of the stage, swallowed almost instantly by smoke, lights, and bodies.
I turn slowly back to Mina.
“I’m gonna pee before these kick in,” I yell over the music.
Mina points vaguely toward the back hallway. “Okay but try not to die. I swore to your little boy toys that I’m a good baby sitter remember, don’t make me a liar.”
“No promises.”
The bathroom is already a biohazard nightmare when I walk in, so at first I don’t clock the two girls near the last stall as anything unusual.
One girl is bent over the toilet, blonde hair falling forward in messy waves while her shoulders jerk with every miserable heave. Her makeup is destroyed, mascara streaking down her cheeks, one hand braced weakly against the stall wall.
The other girl stands behind her, holding her hair back.
Tiny.
Dark-haired.
Sharp little face softened by drunk concern while she gathers the blonde’s hair in one hand and rubs between her shoulders with the other.
Something about her feels weirdly familiar.
Not enough for my brain to grab onto though.
Honestly, my brain is busy trying not to inhale too deeply because the toilet is full of puke.
Chunky pink liquid.
Yum.
Probably three new strains of disease waiting patiently to be named by science.
“Georgia, breathe,” the dark-haired girl mutters, voice low but gentle. “You’re fine. Just get it out.”
The blonde groans into the bowl.
“I’m dying.”
“You’re not dying. You’re dramatic.”
“Fuck you.”
“Yeah, yeah. Love you too.”
Okay.
Friends then.
Messy rave friends, but still.
Normal.
Gross, but normal.
I move toward the sink, fully prepared to wash my hands, pee, and return to my scheduled bad decisions, when Georgia lets out a wet little laugh against the rim of the toilet.
“God,” she slurs. “You’re so nice to me.”
The dark-haired girl snorts.
“Don’t get used to it.”
Georgia lifts her head slightly, mouth smeared, eyes glassy and completely gone.
“No, like… seriously.” She laughs again, loose and stupid. “I don’t deserve it. Fuck, when I’m sober, I’m gonna feel so bad.”
The dark-haired girl’s hand stills in her hair.
“What?”
Georgia turns her head clumsily, smiling with drunk, ruined confidence.
“I fucked him.”
The bathroom noise seems to dip around us.
The crying girl near the mirror goes quiet.
The girl fixing her eyeliner pauses with the pencil hovering near her eyelid.
Even I freeze with my hands under the sink.
The dark-haired girl’s expression changes so fast it makes my stomach tighten.
Soft concern disappears.
Gone.
Like somebody turned off a light inside her.
“Who?” she asks.
Georgia giggles.
Wrong choice.