Chapter 2
Two
Noir
Of fucking course he’s watching her too.
I clocked her the second she walked in—half naked, glitter under her eyes, that half-dead, half-starved look some girls wear when they’ve got nothing left to lose and want everyone to feel it.
I knew she was going to be a problem the moment she stepped over the threshold.
I just didn’t think Dagger would sink his teeth in first.
But there he is, posted up by the bar like he owns the place. All leather and rings and that smug fucking expression he gets when he thinks he’s in control.
I could see the baggie in his hand from here. Pink skulls. Cyanide.
And she took it from him.
Smiling like she didn’t just sell her soul to the goddamn devil.
It pisses me off more than it should.
Girls like her—wild, reckless, begging for the world to chew them up, they don’t usually get more than a second glance from me. But she’s different. She moves like a fuse already lit. Like she didn’t come here to party. She came here to disintegrate.
Dagger saw it too.
That’s what burns the most. Dagger’s a fucking parasite.
He doesn’t even pretend to care. He deals rot, hands it out like candy, then walks away when someone drops.
He’ll flirt, feed you your favorite flavor of poison, then vanish before you hit the ground.
He’s not a dealer. He’s a fucking executioner with charm, and by the way he’s eyeing her, she’s the next name on his list.
She starts dancing. High, feral, and glowing.
Arms above her head, mouth open like she’s breathing in the bass.
She grinds against strangers like their hands mean nothing on her skin.
She kisses one girl, then another, then pushes them both away with a laugh that doesn’t sound familiar in an eerie unreal way.
Her top’s strap slides further off her shoulder with every spin.
She never pulls it back up.
I shift the set without thinking. Darker. Slower. Designed to burn through her veins.
She doesn’t miss a beat.
It only makes me angrier. I already don’t like what this is turning into. The way I keep adjusting for her. The way I’ve been watching her for almost an hour straight like I’m somehow wired to her pulse. She makes me feel off balance. On edge. Which is dangerous.
She looks up, and everything inside me tightens.
Those brown eyes. Glittering. Daring. She holds my stare like she owns it.
Fuck.
She’s got no idea what she’s doing. Shit, maybe she does.
I flick my gaze toward the bar.
Dagger’s still there. Still watching her.
But now he’s watching me too.
Of course he noticed. He always does. The rivalry never really died. We just got better at pretending it did. But this girl?
She’s about to rip the whole facade apart.
I can already feel it.
This time won’t be any different. It won’t end clean.
Not with her in the middle of it all, and definitely not with Dagger breathing down my neck.
I drop the volume just enough to pull in a heavier beat, then raise it again like nothing happened. Like I’m not losing my fucking mind. Like I’m not two seconds away from jumping down, grabbing her by the wrist, and dragging her somewhere dark where he can’t touch her.
Because whatever the hell this is—it’s mine now.
Not his.
Not anymore.
The lights start to dim. Not all at once, but in slow flickers—pink and blue bulbs dying above swaying bodies, smoke curling into halos over their heads. The crowd’s swelling now—more bodies pushing in, heat rising, movement everywhere like the chaos got bored and decided to multiply.
Glitter sticks to sweat-slicked skin. The stench of booze, weed, and regret clings to the air like fog.
Up here, in the booth, I’m still wired. Not high or drunk.
Just twisted up in that sharp, sinking way that has no name.
My headphones are still looped around my neck, one side pressed to my ear, the other hanging loose.
Habit. Comfort. The only thing that’s kept me grounded through this whole fucking mess of a night.
I scrub a hand over my mouth and cue up the next track. Something slow and bitter. Synth-heavy. A beat that feels like rot blooming under skin. Something fitting.
Then she shows up.
Not her .
This one’s different. The easy type. Blonde, tall, fake tan. Glitter dress riding high on her thighs, lashes clumped and lipstick faded like she’s been begging someone to kiss her all night.
She slinks up to the booth like she’s auditioning for a porn shoot. Elbows on the edge of the table, tits pushed together, pout locked and loaded.
“Hey, Noir,” she purrs, practically melting against my side. Her fingers trail down my arm, light and static-charged. “You’re killing it up there… like, seriously. The way you dropped that last beat? I swear I almost came.”
I don’t even bother to look at her.
Of course she did. They always do—moan and melt the second I hit a build like it’s foreplay. But none of it matters. None of them do. Not when she’s out there somewhere, dancing like the world owes her something and she came to collect.
She leans in closer, voice dropping to a whisper. “You should come back to mine. I’ve got cold beer, Molly, and a big bed with no rules.”
I flick a switch. Adjust a level. Doing my best to fucking ignore her.
She tries again, this time pressing into me, her breath hot against my neck, voice low and needy. “Please? You look like you need it. I promise I’m fun. Real fun.”
Desperate and fucking pathetic.
Exactly what I used to go for when I wanted to forget how empty everything felt.
But not tonight.
Not with her still dancing down there, wrecked and radiant, all wild limbs and hollow eyes.
Not with that fucked-up pill glow making her shimmer under the lights. Not with the ghost of her smile still fucking with my head.
I finally glance at the blonde.
She’s biting her lip now, wide-eyed like a kicked puppy. Waiting for the nod. The green light. The permission.
I tilt my head, one hand still resting on the mixer.
“Not tonight.”
Her face twists. “You’re serious?”
“Dead serious.”
She huffs. Loud. Spins on her heel and storms off, shouting something about assholes. I let her go. Don’t even bother watching her leave.
Because he hasn’t left.
Dagger.
Still lounging against the far wall like the smug bastard he is. Black leather, boots, and chains. That walking red flag aesthetic he wears like a fucking crown. His head’s tilted just enough to catch the best view of her. He’s not hiding the way he watches. Not even pretending.
Fucking prick.
I glare.
He looks up.
Meets my stare and fucking smiles.
Not friendly. Not even smug. Just that slow, teeth-baring grin that says, I saw her first.
Then he looks back at her. Lets his gaze trail down her body like he’s already marked her, already memorized every fucking curve. When he gets to her ass, he lingers. Enjoys it.
Then—
He smirks, just walks the fuck out.
Because that’s what he does. Lights the fucking match and strolls away like he’s not the one who poured the gas.
I take the headphones off. Set them on the table like I’m not seconds from slamming my fist through the glass.
Because if he touches her—if he lays a fucking finger on her—I’ll rip his throat out with my teeth.
She’s the first variable I can’t control, and I hate it.
Hate how I notice the way her hair sticks to the back of her neck. Hate how I memorized the shape of her mouth from three stories up. Hate that she doesn’t even know she’s pulling me apart from the inside out.
I light a cigarette with trembling fingers. Smoke curls between my lips, sharp and bitter.
She probably won’t remember this night the way I will.
She’ll brush it off like a high. Another faceless night, another chemical blur she won’t bother piecing together.
But me? I’ll remember every fucking second—burned into my skull like a bad trip I can’t come down from.
She’ll slip away easy. But I won’t, and I don’t even know her name.
What I do know?
I’m not letting him touch her.
Not again. Not ever.