2. To own is to… Harbor
Chapter two
To own is to… Harbor
M y head swims as we laugh and dance, Clara, Brady, and whoever else all grinding and swaying together in the middle of a room that seems far brighter than normal. The music seeps through my skin, bumping and buzzing until I can feel it in my veins. It’s disorienting, swirling, but I surrender to the feeling. Laughing wildly as my knees wobble, I let Brady take my weight.
He whispers something in my ear, but I can’t hear him, only feel the press of another drink in my hand. My stomach joins my head in its swirl. Brady misunderstands, supporting my jelly legs with his long arm around my waist as he brings it to my lips, nearly choking me on the strong, spicy, cinnamon-flavored alcohol. My face goes flush as my stomach curdles.
“I don’t want any more.” My words are a mumbled mess of vowels. He just laughs as I look around for Clara, but at some point, Brady and I moved toward the back of the bar.
When my eyes find a dimly hit hall where the bathrooms reside, I shove at his hands, casting him my best rendition of a back off glare as I can muster in my drunken state. Where there was a blur of fun and excitement moments ago, anxiety needles at my chest, vomit burrowing up my throat.
“I need to—” I slur, spinning to grip his arm, the room pivoting around me.
Brady smirks, but his smile isn’t the sickly sweet one I’m used to. This one looks…nasty. Expecting.
I want to yell for Clara, but the bar is packed. The words die on my tongue as the glass he’s holding is pressed to my lips again. The rich cinnamon drink flooding my mouth before I can think, I swallow.
“Brady, stop,” I mumble.
“Are you feeling okay, Chloe?” he asks, steadying me again.
I just shake my head, the action sending my stomach on a rollercoaster ride of climbs and plummets despite me standing still. Well, mostly still.
“Maybe you should step outside and get some air. Let me get our coats. I’ll come with you. Don’t move, okay?”
I mumble my agreement, but my body isn’t waiting. My legs stumble but carry me all the same as I make my way to the bathrooms. Heat and sweat flush my face, the grip of my hand not enough to wrench the sticky, heavy door open to the girls' restroom. My fingers slip on the long handle, making me stumble toward the opposite wall. My palm slaps to my mouth, trying to keep my sick inside when the rush of cool, wet air hits me, the back door of the bar propped open. It’s like a beacon, a respite as I struggle along the short hall.
There’s no way I’m making it to work in the morning. That realization claws at my chest, at the ever-present undercurrent of anxiety there as I wobble into the alleyway. I brace my palm on the rough brick of the back of the bar before I vomit, splattering a few droplets on my shoes. I’m panting, the alley tilting and twirling. If this is what being drunk feels like, I can’t imagine why anyone would do it willingly. I wrack my brain, trying to recount how many drinks I had, what they were, or who gave them to me, but I can’t. The cold water droplets cool my sweaty, flushed skin, calming the torrent of panic as I watch my breath billow around me. The chilly November air gives it life.
I shove myself off the wall, swaying in place, when a sob pulls my attention down the alley to the large SUV at the end. I squint toward the open hood, a small frame crying loudly by the open door. Its body is silhouetted by the interior light. My bad eye waters and throbs, the car doubling, but for once, it has little to do with my poor vision.
“Hey, are you okay?” I call down the alley, but she doesn’t answer, instead running her hands through her long hair and crying some more. Like in anyone, in everything , I find a way to relate it to Renee, like it’s my sister crying, needing me again. Without a backward glance at the open door to the bar, I’m stumbling toward her.
The crying quiets, turning into sniffles and sobs as I near her. “If you’re having car trouble, we can go inside. Someone is bound to know something about cars.” I slur my words, hoping she doesn’t notice.
She’s pretty when she finally looks toward me, although her youthful face is hollow, gaunt. “I’m only sixteen. I can’t go in a bar.” She sniffles, and my heart wrenches. The need to comfort her makes my unsteady steps hasten.
“Hey, it’s alright. I-“
I lose my balance, stumbling in my heels as a man I hadn’t noticed steps around the SUV. “Oh, I didn’t realize you had help?”
He edges closer to the girl, and her sniffing stops abruptly. My eyes narrow in the dim light, zeroing in on a dry face, not a tear in sight. My palms go slick with my sweat, my mind hazy for a moment, prickling with awareness as I take another step back. “Hey, why don’t you step inside with me for a bit to warm up?” I urge her, hoping she’ll follow.
Praying.
The man doesn’t speak. His eyes on me feel visceral, dangerous.
“I can’t come in.”
I open my mouth to speak before casting a look behind me. Relief fills me just as quickly as it empties with an audible sigh as another man sticks his head around the propped open door. “Hey! Can you-“ I call down, my stomach plummeting as a purse, my purse, is tossed into the alley, the man disappearing behind the door before it swings shut .
“Wait!” I spin, the action buckling my knees, sending them crashing onto the wet pavement as the world tilts.
Hands on my back make me flinch before a timid, gaunt face peeks around my curtain of hair. “Let me help you.”
I only halfway fight against her as she grunts and struggles to help me stand.
Adrenaline dumps in my veins, fighting against the fuzziness in my brain. Something tells me I’m in danger long before my body can catch up. A colossal hand completely covers my mouth, silencing my building scream, leaving it trapped inside me. The gaunt little girl fumbles something out of her pocket as the man cages me against his chest. Tears burst free from my eyes as I struggle, something sharp plunging into my thigh as the girl bolts upright, stumbling away with a needle in her hand. If I was panicked before, I’ve got no idea what to call what comes next.
My teeth fight for purchase on his palm, my nails digging into the thick sleeves of his coat. Bizarre, guttural sounds leaving my throat, but it’s all uncoordinated. My grip is weak until I’m bent over his chest as he bows backward into the car. Little by little, my body stops responding to me, my voice faltering as I’m shoved uncoordinatedly over him and inside. Curses and arguing are muffed by the whooshing of my pulse in my ears. When the other doors join in the slam of mine, my body has gone limp, that ripe, scathing panic a footnote to the haze. The car plummets into darkness as it jerks from the alleyway.