Chapter Twelve #2
The kind of wrong choice you can practically hear destiny cracking its knuckles over.
“Tanner. Obviously. It was only supposed to be a one time thing,”
The dark-haired girl’s fingers tighten slowly in Georgia’s hair.
Georgia winces, but she’s too drunk to understand danger properly.
“He said you were getting clingy,” she slurs, laughing again like this is gossip. Like this is funny. “Said I was easier, and that my Georgia peach was just so juicy and sweet, he couldn't get enough”
Oh.
Oh no.
The dark-haired girl stares at her for one terrible second.
Then she moves.
Fast.
Her hand fists hard in Georgia’s hair and shoves her face straight back toward the toilet.
Georgia makes a startled, muffled sound, both hands slapping weakly against the seat.
Everybody starts yelling immediately.
“Hey!”
“What the fuck?”
“Stop!”
The dark-haired girl doesn’t stop.
Her face is blank now, almost calm, except for her eyes. Those are wide and furious and way too empty at the same time.
“Aww, you dumb bitch. Bet you thought that was funny, huh?” she snarls, forcing Georgia down harder. “Still laughing now?”
Georgia’s body jerks.
Her boots scrape uselessly against the wet floor.
Someone grabs for the dark-haired girl’s shoulder, but she whips around just enough to shove them back, then plants one hand between Georgia’s shoulder blades and holds her down with terrifying strength for someone that small.
My whole body goes cold.
Because at first my brain tries to file it under drunk girl fight.
Ugly and violent, the usual rave bathroom bullshit.
Then Georgia stops moving right.
The fight goes out of her limbs in this horrible, gradual way. Her fingers twitch against the toilet seat, nails scraping once against porcelain before slipping.
The bathroom goes quiet.
Not fully.
The music still pounds beyond the walls and the sinks still drip.
Someone nearby starts crying harder.
But inside the room, everyone seems to realize at the exact same time that this isn’t a fight anymore.
It’s something else.
The dark-haired girl finally lets go and steps back, chest rising and falling hard.
Georgia slumps half sideways against the stall, head lolling near the toilet bowl, hair soaked and disgusting.
Not moving.
“What the fuck,” someone whispers.
Cold shoots down my spine.
The dark-haired girl wipes the back of her hand across her mouth like she’s annoyed by the mess, not horrified by the body at her feet.
Then her eyes flick upward.
Straight to me, and suddenly I recognize her.
Shay.
The girl from the rave months ago.
The one standing there laughing while some guy overdosed in the men’s room like death was just another funny story to tell between songs.
Holy fuck.
Recognition flashes across her face too. Not surprise or fear.
But fucking amusement.
Like seeing me here is the punchline.
Then somebody screams, and Shay slips through the bathroom chaos before anyone can stop her.
Absolutely fucking not.
I back straight out of the bathroom.
Then immediately leave.
Nope.
No thank you.
I would actually love to stop witnessing crimes at raves moving forward.
The bass slams back into me the second I hit the dance floor again while lasers flash violently across the warehouse.
Bodies and smoke everywhere..
Music loud enough to scramble human thought.
Mina finds me near the edge of the crowd almost immediately.
“You look pale, bitch.”
I stare at her for a second, still hearing the muffled scrape of Georgia’s nails against porcelain somewhere behind my eyes.
My mouth opens.
Nothing comes out.
Because how the fuck do you casually explain that?
Yeah, babe, quick update, I just witnessed friendship become homicide in a bathroom with no working soap dispenser.
Seems like a lot.
Also, can we just take a second?
Damn, Blair.
Bitch, what the actual fuck is this life?
Other people sneak out and get drunk. Maybe kiss a stranger. Maybe lose a vape, or cry in a bathroom stall over an ex named Tyler who absolutely does not deserve that level of emotional investment.
Me?
I apparently collect traumatic rave crimes like limited edition trading cards.
Overdose in a men’s room.
Possible murder Barbie in the women’s bathroom.
Gang war pending.
Really thriving. Super normal era for me.
“I can’t even process what I just saw,” I say finally, voice weirdly flat.
Mina’s expression shifts immediately.
“What happened?”
I shake my head fast.
Nope.
Absolutely not.
If I say it out loud, it becomes real, and honestly, reality’s been doing entirely too much tonight.
“Later,” I mutter. “Or never. Probably never.”
“Blair—”
“Dance with me.”
She blinks.
“What?”
I grab her hand.
“Dance with me before my brain starts unpacking that whole situation and I become fully unusable as a person.”
Mina studies my face for half a second.
Then, because she’s either a good friend or a terrible influence, she nods.
“Okay,” she says, squeezing my hand. “We dance.”
“Great. Love avoidance. Very healing.”
Then she drags me straight back into the crowd like that can save me from whatever the fuck is happening inside my head.
About forty minutes later the world starts melting beautifully around the edges.
The bass feels warmer now.
Heavier.
Lights smear into neon streaks across the crowd while foam blasts over the dance floor again and sweat sticks my hair to my skin beneath flashing lasers overhead.
Mina drags me deeper into the crowd laughing while everybody around us jumps and screams beneath the music.
And fuck.
Freedom feels incredible.
Dangerous and knowing Dagger and Noir, definitely temporary.
But incredible.
We dance until my lungs burn and my thighs ache while the entire warehouse pulses around us like one giant living organism fueled entirely by bad decisions and serotonin deficiency.
Bodies moving together beneath neon lights.
Music vibrating through concrete.
Drugs dissolving reality into something softer.
For a little while, I forget everything.
Brynn.
Dante.
The apartment.
The city swallowing people whole.
Even the guys.
Though honestly?
The second Dagger and Noir realize where we are?
They are going to lose their absolute fucking minds.
Which weirdly just makes me laugh harder while Mina drags me deeper through the crowd beneath flashing lights and foam spraying overhead. She grabs both my hands dramatically while jumping to the music.
For a second, everything almost feels normal.
Then somebody starts screaming for real.
At first I barely notice it.
The music’s too loud.
Everybody’s already yelling.
Then the first gunshot cracks through the warehouse.
Sharp and violent.
The bass keeps going.
That’s the horrifying part.
The music doesn’t stop.
So for half a second, nobody reacts properly. Then another shot rings out, closer this time.
Somebody beside me jerks violently backward, and suddenly blood sprays across my arm.
My brain stalls.
The guy collapses hard into the crowd at my feet while people start screaming around us.
“Oh my god—”
“What the fuck—”
“RUN!”
Chaos detonates instantly.
Bodies slam into each other trying to shove toward exits while foam still blasts overhead, making the entire warehouse floor slick and impossible beneath stomping boots.
More gunshots crack through the air.
The lights keep flashing.
Which somehow makes everything worse.
It feels unreal watching people panic beneath pink and blue strobes while blood smears across concrete floors and somebody near the DJ booth starts sobbing hysterically.
“Mina!”
I grab for her through the crowd just as another shot explodes somewhere behind us.
Too close, way too fucking close.
Mina slams into me hard enough to nearly knock me over, eyes wide and blown with panic now instead of drugs.
“We need to go.”
“No shit!”
People crush around us from every direction while the bass still pounds violently through the warehouse like the building itself hasn’t realized people are dying yet.
Another body drops somewhere near the bar.
Screaming erupts louder.
Then somebody grabs Mina.
Hard.
A man in black lunges through the crowd and catches her arm violently enough she cries out while he tries dragging her backward toward the side hallway.
“What the fuck—”
“Mina!”
Everything slows weirdly for a second.
Lights flash violently across his face.
Screaming rips through the warehouse from every direction.
Panic crushes in around us, bodies shoving, music still pounding, Mina’s arm trapped in his grip while he drags her backward hard enough her boots skid across the slick concrete.
For one horrifying second, all I can focus on is her face.
Mina, who laughs at everything. Who calls emotional instability a lifestyle choice and yet in this moment looks so fucking scared.
Nope.
Absolutely the fuck not.
“GET OFF MY BABYSITTER, YOU TEMU HITMAN!”
Survival instinct kicks in so hard it burns the drugs straight out of my bloodstream.
I rip one of my platform boots off without thinking, stumble half a step on one bare foot, and swing with everything I have.
The heel cracks directly against the side of his head.
A horrible sound snaps through the chaos.
Bone maybe.
Or plastic.
Or the universe finally applauding my terrible decision-making skills, one will never know.
His grip loosens instantly.
Mina tears herself free while he staggers sideways, blinking like his brain just blue-screened. I don’t wait for him to recover. I swing again, harder this time, catching him near the temple.
He drops.
Straight down.
Like a sack of violent trash in a polo shirt that had definitely survived at least three divorces.
Mina grabs my wrist immediately.
“Blair!”
“What?!”
“Those are Dante’s guys!”
Cold shoots straight through me.
“What?”
Mina drops beside the guy I just introduced to my platform heel and yanks his limp hand up by the wrist.
“How can you tell?”
She twists his hand toward me beneath the flashing lights.
There, inked across the back of it in black and red, is a thorned halo wrapped around a split snake tongue.
Dante’s mark.
Subtle, obviously.
Nothing says low-profile criminal organization like branding your henchmen with evil Etsy symbolism.
Mina’s face goes pale.
“Dante’s inner crew all have it. The halo means they work directly under him.”
My stomach drops.
The music keeps pounding.
People keep screaming.
For one stupid second, my brain tries to reject the information like, no thank you, we are closed for trauma today.
Then gunshots explode somewhere near the entrance again.
Mina drops his hand like it burned her.
“They must’ve followed us from the apartment.”
“Oh, perfect,” I say, voice cracking slightly. “Love that for us. Huge night for consequences.”
People shove violently past us toward the exits while smoke, spilled drinks, and blood smear together across the concrete floor beneath flashing lights.
Oh my god.
Dagger’s going to kill me.
No.
Dagger’s going to kill everybody else first.
“Mina—”
“Parking lot. Now.”
We run.
Or at least attempt to.
The crowd’s become a stampede at this point.
Bodies crashing together beneath flashing lights while people scream and shove desperately toward exits. Somebody falls near us and immediately disappears beneath stomping feet while security finally starts screaming into radios near the front entrance.
More shots crack through the warehouse.
Way too many.
The music finally cuts off.
Which somehow makes everything feel even more terrifying.
Because now all I can hear is screaming.
And sirens somewhere far away.
The parking lot’s chaos too.
Cars peeling out. People crying and screaming.
Others too fucked up to even understand what’s happening yet.
My hands shake violently while I yank my phone out of my bag. Dagger’s absolutely going to lose his fucking mind.
I hit call anyway while Mina keeps scanning the parking lot wildly.
“Pick up,” I mutter. “Pick up pick up pick up—”
Straight to voicemail.
“What the fuck?”
Mina tries Noir next.
Nothing.
Then headlights swing hard into the parking lot entrance.
Black SUVs. Three of them.
Mina visibly goes pale beside me.
“Run.”