Chapter Text
Riley falls back to the bed like her body has been levitating six feet above the mattress.
“Fuck me.”
She is over-warm beneath the flimsy bedsheet, which sticks to the sheen of perspiration covering every inch of her skin, shining. She is a wreck of heavy breathing, pink-faced, ruined, caught fast between shivering aftershocks and dazed satisfaction. When she opens her eyes, she swears the air above her bed is sparkling. Between her legs, the bedsheet begins to move as it’s inched slowly down over her stomach, only to reveal a head of mussed, black hair.
Blake frees herself with a smug grin, wiping her knuckles against her chin.
“I thought I just did.”
Riley’s head falls back to the pillow with a groan.
“You’re not even a little bit funny, you know?”
“And yet, you still let me hit it,” Blake murmurs, nuzzling her throat with a kiss that quickly turns into several. Just as Riley is beginning to give in to the overwhelming drag of fatigue, the sharp pinch of teeth against her throat startles her awake. She opens her eyes and finds Blake’s stupid, grinning face above her. “What does that say about you?”
Riley narrows her eyes at her, but already Blake is beginning to shift in the bed, her appetite unquenched. She drags a lazy hand down the full length of Riley’s side, over her hip, around one thigh, where she parts it just enough to give herself better room.
“That I keep you around for other purposes,” Riley answers, finally, but anticipation has turned her mouth dry. When Blake’s fingers coax between her legs, the gentlest brush of fingertips against her oversensitive flesh, she sucks air in through her teeth. “Blake.”
Above her, Blake’s dark eyes glitter with intent.
“Come on, baby, I know you’ve got one more in you.”
Protest sticks with a breath in Riley’s throat, not yet making itself heard, as Blake slides two fingers down either side of her swollen clit. An involuntary tremor shakes in her legs as Blake reverses the movement, then repeats, so slowly that tears prick in the corners of Riley’s eyes.
“You’re gonna fucking kill me,” she whispers, and Blake grins at her, wolfish and unrepentant.
After, the room holds their heavy breathing in its quiet.
Riley feels her body, leaden, while Blake shucks the sheet completely and slips out of bed. She stretches feeling back into her arms and legs, then pads around Riley’s bedroom in search of her underwear and the tank top that Riley had almost torn in her haste to get it off her not long after she’d arrived. Partially dressed, she dips her face down into Riley’s bedroom mirror and begins to fix her hair.
Riley rolls herself onto her side with a groan so that she can watch her.
“Do you have to leave already?” she asks, and hates how pathetic it sounds.
Blake catches her gaze in the mirror, dark eyes sparkling with mischief.
“I don’t think you could survive another round,” she says, then spins around to see her.
She plants her hands on her hips and Riley takes a second just to appreciate her. Blake’s skin is pale where it’s not covered in black ink, and stretches over her lean muscles in a display of obvious athleticism that’s been honed inside a gym. Her hair is still ruffled from their antics, but that just rolled out of bed, freshly fucked style suits her vibe. She makes even this dishevelled state appear intentional.
“You’ve practically only just got here,” Riley says, and tries not to pout so that it doesn’t sound like she’s whining, even if she is. “And you’ve been gone for ages. You don’t need to rush away right now, do you? I can make us something to eat, if you want.” When that doesn’t immediately seem to entice her, Riley goes one further. “If you let me catch my breath, I’ll even be ready for round three.”
Blake’s lips twitch, amused.
“Tempting.”
She looks it, too, tempted. Then she shakes herself.
“Don’t you have that thing with your friends?”
Riley blinks, surprised that she’d forgotten—or that Blake had remembered.
“Shit, what time is it?” She casts her gaze around the room, then just as quickly gives up the search for her phone. “The offer’s still there, you know, if you wanted to come with.”
A well-familiar expression crosses Blake’s face.
“I’ve already told Jane and Ansel I’ll meet with them soon. I’ve gotta setup, make sure the sound’s running fine. You know the drill.”
“I do,” Riley groans, she just doesn’t see why Blake has to be there for it yet. “What time’s the show?”
“You know what time the show is,” Blake smirks. “You’ve got tickets.”
Riley rolls her eyes and sits up, taking the bedsheet with her.
“That you practically begged me to buy,” she teases, and Blake grins without refuting it.
“Well, I didn’t plan to end our tour in your home town for nothing, did I?”
Mollified, Riley smiles at her. “Then I’ll see you there?”
“You will,” Blake nods, and grabs her jeans from the floor.
This is typical, if frustrating.
Blake does not linger longer than she needs to, and Riley can’t seem to stop asking her to stay. Penitence, she thinks, for some past-life sin—or one she’s yet to make. Either that, or she’s more of a masochist than she’s ever had reason to explore. Riley shelves the thought as she stands from the bed, the bedsheet barely preserving her modesty as she drapes it around her naked body. She meets Blake by the door of her studio apartment just as she’s unfastening the latch.
“It was nice seeing you today,” she says, leaning her shoulder and hip against the wall. “I’ve missed you, you know?”
Blake smiles like she’s caught off guard by the sentiment, quickly replaced by smug over-confidence. She reaches out to Riley and then tugs her closer, both hands on her hips not letting her get far. Riley lets herself be dragged in, the way that she always does when it comes to Blake, one hand keeping the bedsheet secured while the other loops around her shoulders.
“Maybe we can catch up properly,” Blake offers, almost tentative, “after my show.”
Her hands creep around Riley’s hips and down to her ass, squeezing until she makes her gasp.
“I’d like that,” Riley nods.
When Blake leans in to kiss her, Riley is already on her toes, waiting.
She sinks herself into it and Blake lets her. It’s warm, the way Blake secures her arms around her waist and holds her close against her chest, and it’s lingering. When Blake finally pulls away, Riley falls back down to her heels, dazed, and opens her eyes. They don’t say goodbye, but that’s not uncommon. Blake smiles as she releases her, and Riley steps back to give her space to leave.
As soon as the door opens, Blake makes it a single step outside, then stops completely. Riley hesitates with the door half-closed, trying not to get her hopes up, before she realises that the hallway outside her apartment is not empty. Blake stiffens before she forces her body to relax.
“Seven,” she says, and Riley can hear the smirk in her voice.
She does not have to see Seven’s face to picture the scowl upon it.
“Blake.”
Tension turns the hallway into a pressure chamber, until Blake snorts and steps around her.
“Bye, Riley,” she calls, lilting, and Seven sneers as she watches her pass.
“Bye,” Riley sighs, leaning against the doorjamb.
Seven rounds on her, immediately after, her deadpan expression speaking volumes.
“You’re here early,” Riley tells her, not entirely certain if she’s right, but she’s known her long enough to learn her habits. “I just need to take a shower, but I’ll make it quick.”
“I seriously don’t get what you even see in her.”
Groaning, Riley kicks the door open wider.
“Come in,” she says, stepping back. “Make yourself a drink, or something. I’ll be ten minutes, okay?”
Outside, early afternoon sunlight staves off the autumn chill.
Riley’s nose turns pink as she and Seven walk side-by-side into the town centre. The air is crisp in a way that’s pleasant beneath their hats and scarves, the sidewalk littered with fallen leaves in varying shades of reds, yellows, and oranges. The shop fronts that they pass already have their Halloween decorations on display, a touch early for the season, but Riley can’t deny the pleasure it brings her to see them out.
Her home town is no metropolis, but it’s not without its backwater charm.
“Has your mom put her decorations up yet?” Riley asks, hands stuffed in the pockets of her aviator jacket.
Seven turns to her with an arched eyebrow and an almost imperceptible smirk.
“Are you trying to change the subject?”
Riley puffs out a visible breath.
“No, I just don’t think we need to keep rehashing the same argument all the time,” she says, sniffing. “At this point, we’re just going ‘round in circles.”
“It’s not an argument.” Despite her words, Seven sounds decidedly on the cusp of argumentative. “It’s just the truth, and I get why you don’t want to hear it. How long have you guys been doing this for, now? If she actually gave a shit about you, she’d make it official, instead of—whatever this is.”
“How do you know I want to make it official? Maybe I’m the one keeping her at arm’s length.”
Seven casts her a long side-eye until, scoffing, Riley relents.
“Fine, but it’s not like that. You only see the side of her that you want to see.”
“Don’t tell me, she’s a totally different person when it’s just the two of you together?” Seven makes her voice sound airy and girlish in a way that does not suit her, until Riley nudges their shoulders together. It makes Seven laugh, low and raspy and visible in the crisp air between them. “Sorry, I just don’t buy it. She’s a snake, Riley. I don’t like her.”
Riley rolls her eyes. “So you’ve said.”
“And I don’t like how she treats you.”
“She doesn’t treat me badly.” It sounds defensive, but it’s not exactly a lie. Riley turns to Seven until she catches her gaze and forces her to hold it. “I mean it, it’s not a normal relationship, sure, but she’s not a bad person. We’re… casual. It’s not a crime. Between her music taking off and us trying to get the band off the ground, it’s not like we’ve had a whole lot of opportunity to spend time together recently.”
“Yeah,” Seven agrees, “she’s gonna be running in different circles, soon. You know what happens to people when they make it in this industry.”
“Don’t be jealous,” Riley teases.
“I’m not jealous, Riley, I’m just being honest with you. I don’t want to see you get hurt. I don’t like watching her come and go as she pleases when you deserve someone who actually puts the effort in to be with you. You do deserve that much, you know? Someone who will make it official. Someone who’s there to go through life with you, not make you a stop on their tour because they’re otherwise too busy to be seen in public with you.”
Her words cut through the layers of Riley’s autumn ‘fit and let in the cold.
Weaponised sincerity, Seven’s good at that without even realising that she’s doing it. Riley can’t help that she loves it about her, even when she’s on the receiving end of its bite. In the quiet that falls between them, Seven looks away, a vaguely guilty expression on her face.
“I’m not saying all this to be a bitch,” she winces.
“I know,” Riley tells her, and loops her arm through one of Seven’s, bringing them shoulder-to-shoulder against the chill. “It comes to you naturally.”
The teasing lilt of her words draws a mock-offended scoff from Seven, but she squeezes Riley’s arm in her own until both of them feel warm.
“You don’t have to worry about Blake,” Riley tells her. “I know what I’m doing, and it’s… really not that deep, you know? I’m young, I’m hot, I deserve no-consequence hookups with emotionally unavailable baddies. Now, if the sex was bad, then I’d level with you.”
Seven groans loudly, lip upturning to reveal a row of white teeth.
“Besides,” Riley grins, swinging on Seven’s arm in a way that almost unbalances the pair of them, “if things got too serious, how would you make an honest woman out of me, huh? Middle school promises of future proposals are legit, you know? Don’t go wishing me away to another woman when I’ve spent half my life preparing to be your arm candy.”
Seven makes a startled, if amused, noise in the back of her throat.
“I’m considering retracting that offer,” she deadpans.
“Sorry, no take-backsies!”
Any lingering tension from their conversation dissipates, after that.
Riley keeps her arm looped through Seven’s as they move as one unit to cross the road, a skip in her step to keep up with Seven’s ever so slightly longer, but much quicker strides. They part briefly to pass a crowded bus shelter on opposite sides, but when they reemerge, Seven sticks her elbow out until Riley squeezes her arm back through it.
“It’s busy out here today,” she mutters, shivering.
Seven’s arm squeezes her in close.
“Yeah. I hope the others found a table.”
Riley opens her mouth to agree, but what comes out is a gasp, so loud that Seven actually startles and stops walking.
“What?”
“Oh, wait,” Riley breathes, teetering backwards to get a better view at the shop front they have just passed.
Seven pivots around to follow her gaze. It takes her a second to realise where Riley’s gaze has fallen: to a pair of black leather knee-high boots that have been displayed just below eye-level. Groaning, she tries to tug Riley back on their way, but Riley just slips her arm free to get a closer look. With a reluctant sigh, Seven shuffles closer.
“They look like my size,” Riley says, and Seven makes a face. “I can feel it. It’s like they’re calling to me. I’ll just ask to try them on, okay?”
“They’re giving cowboy goth,” Seven deadpans.
“Yeah, I’m obsessed.” When Riley whips around to see her, her big brown eyes are pleading. “I’ll be so quick.”
The particular strain of Seven’s reluctance is well familiar, by now, that Riley already knows she’ll cave before she does. This is the theatre behind their friendship, built on a foundation of mutual co-dependency, complementary flavours of trust issues, and over ten years’ worth of inside jokes and commitment to the bit. When Seven breaks, she groans and rolls her eyes, and Riley trills happily and leads the way.
Inside, the door closes with a jingle. The shop is warm and carries the faint scent that lingers in every second-hand store of their small-town high street—of patchouli, and leather, and old people. While Riley threads herself between clothing rails and hat stands to find a store assistant, Seven lingers by the window, peering out.
That’s where she remains, hands in her pockets, as Riley makes a catwalk of an aisle.
“What do you think?” she asks, angling her leg in a most unnatural way so that Seven can really appreciate the pattern stitched into the leather. “They fit perfectly. Tell me that’s not fate.”
“It’s not fate,” Seven answers immediately, but tilts her head, appreciative. “They look better on, I’ll admit.”
“I need them.” Riley turns back around to the smiling shop assistant. “How much are they?”
“You’re in luck,” the shop assistant grins, “this particular pair has been reduced to sell. They’re currently only three hundred dollars, but if you sign up to our newsletter then you get an extra ten percent off!”
Riley’s expression freezes, ashen. Above the outdated pop song playing on the shop’s speakers, she hears the unmistakable sound of her wallet crying. Beside her, Seven bites her cheek to hide her reaction.
“Okay,” Riley manages, recovering the shreds of her smile. “I guess I can live without them.”
As they leave the shop, Riley shoves her hands deep into her pockets and scowls.
It feels colder, from having been inside, but Seven sets a punishing pace that soon warms them up.
“Stop pouting,” Seven tells her when she can take it no more.
“I am not pouting,” Riley says, then pouts harder. “Three hundred dollars for a pair of second-hand boots? Reduced to sell? Who the hell does she think she is? Where does she think she is? Who’s going to spend that much money on a pair of shoes somebody else has already had their sweaty feet in?”
“In this economy,” Seven nods along gravely, and Riley throws her a nasty look until she’s laughing.
“If you sign up, you get ten percent off—off three hundred fucking dollars, man, come on.”
Snorting, Seven throws an arm around her shoulders, and Riley lets herself get pulled in close. Almost immediately, her anger unfurls—which is just as annoying as if it lingered, actually. Seven has a way about her, always has. It’s almost impossible to be in a bad mood when she’s in her presence.
“When the band takes off, we’ll buy you those boots,” she says, and Riley can hear the warmth in her voice, as present as her humour. “Better ones, even. That cost four hundred dollars! No discount, ‘cause you know a bitch doesn’t give her email address out like that.”
Laughing, Riley nudges her with her whole body.
“Easy, tiger. With the way our luck’s going, it’ll be a miracle if I can make my rent without picking up shifts at every dive bar in town.”
Seven makes a noise of amused agreement.
“Maybe you should have a word with your girlfriend. You know, tell her to put a good word in for us on her next tour.”
The dramatic retching noise Riley makes in response causes several passers-by to glance their way. Seven grins at them as they throw the pair of them dirty looks.
“Shut up, she’d love that. Do you have any idea how smug she’d be?”
“Yeah, well, you know how to pick ‘em.”
“I sure do,” Riley grins, and bats her eyelashes up at her until Seven shoves at her shoulder.
By the time they make it to the diner, the lunch time rush is in full swing.
Seven leads the way inside, pulling the scarf from around her neck while Riley unzips her jacket.
Lucy’s diner is not the most upscale eatery this side of town, but it’s definitely one of the most popular amongst its blue-collar workers. The scent of fried food lingers in the air above the sweet and sharp of this season’s pumpkin spiced specials. Strings of halloween bunting hang across the walls, and a fake pumpkin with a battery powered candle sits on the edge of the breakfast counter, flickering menacingly at the few patrons eating there solo.
“I can’t believe she didn’t ask us to carve a real pumpkin,” Riley says, betrayed, when her gaze settles upon it.
“After last year, you’re lucky you still have all your fingers.”
“It was the tiniest cut,” Riley protests. “And the blood was thematic.”
“Tell that to OSHA.”
Before Riley can respond, a booming voice calls their names from across the diner. The pair of them glance over in time to see Rowan half standing from his seat, waving both arms above his head like a conductor guiding in an airplane. Seven snorts when she sees him, while Riley waves almost just as enthusiastically back.
The band has secured their preferred corner table. The window just behind it displays a brightly coloured mixture of halloween related stickers, and is already glazed with condensation from the warmth within. Rowan cheers as they join the table like he hasn’t seen them in years, while Iris and Devyn’s greetings are bright, if slightly more subdued.
“Where’s Jazzy?” Riley asks as she throws her jacket over the back of an empty chair.
Seven slides herself into an empty space on the leather booth and begins plucking off her favourite, near-shredded pair of fingerless black gloves.
“Last I saw, she was trying to convince Lucy to add the complete Nightmare Before Christmas soundtrack to the jukebox,” Iris supplies.
Seven grins ruefully at the idea. “Godspeed.”
“I’m gonna get a drink,” Riley tells the table, making sure the others already have one before she turns to Seven. “You want coffee?”
Seven nods her head with a smile, and Riley leaves them to join the queue at the counter.
She does not have to wait long. By the time the queue recedes enough for her to take the next spot to be served, Lucy steps back behind the counter and waves her closer. Riley’s entire face brightens when she sees her. Lucy Duckstein has a way of making any day brighter, just for being in it. It’s been the case since she was still in braces and dungarees, but then she could say the same of Seven. The Duckstein women could have her wrapped around their little fingers, and they know it. Before Riley can so much as get out a greeting, however, she is being crowded in at one side.
“Not to mention,” Jazzy stresses, an arm sliding around Riley’s back in a half-hug, “the artistic merit of Elfman’s arrangement. His work is timeless. It’s ageless! Calling it kids’ music,” she makes air quotes around the words with one hand, “is not only insulting, it’s so wrong I don’t even know where to begin.”
Lucy’s deadpan expression slides from Jazzy’s face to Riley’s, proving exactly where Seven gets it from.
“Riley, tell her it’s not happening.”
“Just one song,” Jazzy pleads.
Lucy does not bother to hide her smile when she sighs.
“I’ll think about it.” While Jazzy celebrates, Lucy turns her smile on Riley. “Hi, sweetheart. Your usual?”
“For Seven,” Riley grins back. “Give me something overpriced with sprinkles.”
Lucy makes an intrigued noise as she punches buttons into the cash register.
“What are we celebrating?” she asks.
“Not blowing my rent on a pair of the sexiest boots I’ve ever seen in my life,” Riley deadpans back, digging change out of her wallet, then turns to Jazzy. “Hi. No Chris today?”
Jazzy pouts. “He’s working.”
“I swear, that’s all we ever do,” Riley groans, “and I’m still in my overdraft by the middle of the month. Have you got a drink?”
“Yes, but can I have a cookie?”
“Sure, go wild.”
“You know,” Lucy says, using a pair of metal tongues to pick out the exact cookie that Jazzy points to through the glass display, “you guys would save a whole lot of cash if you stopped coming in here so regularly. Why don’t you make these hangouts an at-home thing?”
Riley and Jazzy share a baleful glance.
“Nah.”
“Not happening.”
“It’s just not the same,” Jazzy insists, accepting her cookie with a grin.
Behind the counter, Lucy shakes her head at the youth of today and accepts Riley’s payment.
“Go and sit down,” she tells them. “I’ll bring the drinks over.”
When they rejoin the table, a conversation is already in full swing. Jazzy squeezes onto the end of the booth with Seven, the pair of them sharing a quiet greeting amidst the chaos, while Riley finally takes her seat. She plants her boots at shoulder-width apart and slumps back against the chair, watching with quiet amusement as the conversation turns heated.
It’s not uncommon.
At least once a week, Lucy has to remind them that they’re not her only patrons, nor are they her best paying customers, so if she’s forced to choose between them and her daughter and co, they’re losing every time.
“It’s literally called a pass,” Devyn is explaining, using their hands, which is when you know she means business. “You have to give the pass to the other person, which is what makes it not-cheating. There’s a whole discussion behind it, an agreement and rules, whatever. It’s the only way it works!”
“And it’s not a blanket thing, either,” Rowan adds. “Like, you could say, Devyn, I give you a pass to fuck Amy Lee. That doesn’t mean they get to use it to fuck Jared Leto.”
Devyn makes a face. “I would never.”
Iris looks between them, distraught.
“You want to fuck Amy Lee?”
“Oh, my god,” Devyn whispers, hiding behind her hands. “I think we need a different example.”
Rowan presses his palms together like he’s praying for strength.
“I give up.”
“No, I get it,” Iris insists. “But it doesn’t make it any less sleazy. How can you be in love with one person and want to fuck another? It’s just not for me.” She turns to Devyn. “I do not give you a pass to fuck Amy Lee.”
Devyn’s laughter trills out of them, but Iris doesn’t look like she’s joking.
“What if you fuck them together?” Seven asks, barely holding back her smirk.
Rowan snaps his fingers and points in her direction.
“That is an excellent point,” he agrees. “It’s not cheating if it’s a threesome.”
Riley snorts loudly, drawing his attention.
“It wouldn’t be cheating anyway, would it?” she asks. “Not technically. And you’re going for, like, celebrities.”
“Well, that’s usually how it works,” Devyn points out. “If it’s someone who’s actually attainable, then there might be a problem.”
That makes Rowan laugh, but Riley makes a noise of uncertain disagreement.
“I don’t know. I don’t think it’s that black and white. Especially if there are feelings involved.” She feels the table’s attention on her and fiddles with the ends of her scarf. “I mean, you can be in love with one person and still have feelings for another, right? It doesn’t take away from either of them. So, if you can manage to come to some kind of agreement, something that everybody’s happy with, why would that be such a bad thing?”
When she glances around the table, every pair of eyes is trained on her, their expressions caught between various degrees of discomfort and sympathy. All except Seven’s, whose focus is on the empty sugar packet that she’s began to twist into a knot.
“It’s not a bad thing,” Iris speaks up, finally. “It’s just… rare.”
“Yeah,” Rowan agrees. “Most people are way too insecure and jealous for that kind of setup.”
Devyn hums agreement.
“Well,” Jazzy says, smiling encouragingly at Riley when she meets her eye. “It’s rare, but not impossible, right?”
“Oh, totally!” Rowan quickly agrees.
Riley snorts at the pair of them, but there is genuine warmth behind her smile.
The awkward conversation is not given a chance to turn stale in the tension that it’s created; at that exact moment, Lucy nears their table with two drinks on a tray. The band perks up with her presence. While a simple coffee gets placed in front of Seven, the table casts dubious eyes on the whipped-cream, chocolate-sprinkles topped monstrosity that’s set down for Riley.
Riley thanks her with a grin, received with a wink before Lucy retreats again.
“Yikes,” Iris deadpans, then looks somewhat hopeful. “Wait, has it finally happened? Are we celebrating?”
“Why does everybody keep asking me that?” Riley frowns, swiping a finger through the cream and then licking it off. “Has what happened?”
“Have you finally seen the light and ended things with you-know-who?”
“Ugh, not you, too.”
“You know we’re only concerned,” Devyn starts, tentative.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Riley tells them before the conversation can grow legs. “Let’s just… put a pin in this intervention, okay? Can’t a white girl enjoy her pumpkin spiced beverage without it having any deeper meaning than that?”
Across the table, put off none, Rowan meets her gaze with an almost comically solemn nod.
“Your decadence in this period of great economic strife is inspiring.”
Riley squints at him. “Thank you?”
“Well, I’m glad you haven’t ended things with her,” Jazzy announces, and Riley throws her a grateful glance, until she continues. “I really need to get out of my house tonight, and it would be so awkward if we went to this gig and you guys were fighting. Total vibe killer. I’m just trying to get my boogie on.”
“Nobody in the history of ever has spoken those words aloud since the seventies,” Rowan tells her. “Congratulations.”
Jazzy pokes her tongue out at him.
“Well, we’re definitely still on,” Riley tells her. “For the gig, I mean. I think they go on around nine, if you want to meet there at, like, eight thirty?”
Jazzy waves her off.
“I’ll pick you up. Seven, you need a ride, too, right?”
“What?” Iris gasps. “You’re not drinking?”
“We can always just get a cab home,” Jazzy shrugs. “Or walk! I keep meaning to get more steps in.”
The entire table stares at her, horror-stricken.
“The venue’s in the middle of bum-fuck nowhere,” Rowan protests. “And that’s saying something, for this town. I can’t believe Underground Wastebasket are actually bothering to deign us with their presence.”
Iris snorts at the look on his face.
“I think we know who to thank for that.”
“It was the only place big enough to hold the numbers they’re expecting,” Riley points out, frowning.
Devyn makes an unconvinced hedging noise. “That’s a stretch.”
“It’s not actually that far from mine,” Seven points out. When Jazzy shoots her a hopeful look, however, she winces. “But there’s no way I’m walking home through the woods in the middle of the night. We can just pool together to get an Uber.”
“No, it’s fine,” Jazzy sighs. “I wasn’t actually planning to drink, anyway. I’m meant to be out early tomorrow. Chris has his thing with his parents, remember?”
The table groans collectively.
“Not even married yet, and you’re forced to spend time with the in-laws,” Iris grins.
Jazzy pouts in response. “Don’t remind me.”
“Well,” Devyn hedges, shooting Iris a glance. “If you’ve got space in the car…”
Jazzy makes a quick noise of affirmation, then catches the look on Rowan’s face.
“Why don’t I just pick you all up?” she asks, sighing. “We’ll, uh… make it work.”
“So,” Riley says, balancing her phone between her ear and her shoulder, “what are you wearing tonight?”
Seven takes a second to respond.
When she does, her voice sounds distant and echoey, the way it does when her phone is on loudspeaker. Riley can detect music in the background, too, so far an eclectic mixture of songs turned just low enough for her to make out the beat and little more. She imagines Seven’s old CD player, the one with the stickers and nail varnish stains from their youth, and the collection of CDs that she still insists on burning for it.
“Like, jeans?” Seven calls back, and Riley can hear the frown in her voice. “My docs, probably.”
“I don’t know if I should wear something nice.”
She runs a hand through the standing clothes rack that is her wardrobe, the metal hangers whining against the rail as she sorts through them one by one. She hesitates between a dress that’s far too short for the season, and the skin-tight black jeans that come with a built-in ass.
“Why?” Seven asks, her voice moving closer to her phone. Riley imagines her moving around her room, stepping over her guitar. Pictures the polaroids blu-tacked to the walls, a collage of the last decade and change. “We’re going to a dive bar on the edge of town. You’ll be walking through three inches of mud and deer shit before you even reach the door.”
“I know,” Riley frowns. “But still.”
In the groan that follows, she can practically hear Seven’s eyeroll.
“You don’t have to impress her if you’re already fucking. Like, that’s not how that works, you know?”
Riley scoffs into her phone and juggles it back into one hand.
“I like to make an effort, okay? I could be ten years married and I’d still want her eyes on me as soon as I walked through the door.”
“Oh, something for me to look forward to, then?”
“You know it, baby,” Riley grins.
Seven’s laughter chokes over the line. She’s closer, now, Riley can hear it—the loudspeaker off, her heavy sigh right above the microphone. Riley smiles at the sound of it as she tugs on the sleeve of a sweater. Her apartment is not large enough for the mess she has made of it. Her bedroom spills into the living area, which spills into the kitchenette; she can’t take two steps without tripping over a pair of discarded shoes.
“Go with the dress,” Seven says with a sudden decisiveness, surprising her.
“Which dress?”
A groan.
“You know exactly which dress. I’m hanging up now, okay? I need to shower.”
“Fine.” Riley rolls her eyes, smiling. “I’ll see you later.”
Tossing her phone back onto her bed, Riley turns to her clothing rack with fresh determination. She does, in fact, know exactly which dress Seven means. Filtering back through to find it, Riley unhooks it from the rail and holds it up to better assess it. It is tight fitting and black, but then ninety nine percent of her wardrobe is, too. It’s short, that she’s already picturing the exact pair of pantyhose that she wants to pair with it. The sexy ones, with the garter belt, maybe. The ones still new in the pack since she bought them.
That settled, Riley tosses the dress onto her bed and hurries into her bathroom.
She has maybe an hour before Jazzy will arrive, and she knows better than to keep her waiting.
By the time Jazzy’s car pulls up outside of Seven’s, Rowan has settled on a playlist for the remainder of the drive.
Riley shoves the door open as Seven bounds down her driveway, then pats her lap to signal her to squeeze inside. Seven takes one sceptical look at her and shakes her head.
“Absolutely not,” she says. “Get out.”
Groaning, Riley undoes her seatbelt and slips outside, hugging her arms to her body as Seven moves around her and into the seat she’s just vacated. As soon as she’s settled, Riley climbs in on top of her, and Seven closes the door on the chill autumnal breeze. It’s a tight fit, but not one they’re unused to. Seven shifts beneath her, getting comfortable, then slips an arm around her waist to pull Riley into a better position. Riley feels her heart choke up into her throat, stomach rolling where Seven’s hand has settled against it through the fine material of her dress.
“Comfy?” Seven asks, voice low against her ear.
It’s all Riley can do to shove the awkward sensation aside.
“Super.”
“Alright, hold on tight, everyone,” Jazzy tells them. “And one of you get ready to duck if you see a cop.”
The Carousel is their final destination.
It’s not far from Seven’s house, as the furthest from the town centre, but still plenty out of the way that its secluded location out on the edge of the woods has given the place a reputation. To call it a dive bar is to let it off the hook, but the sheer size of its footprint has made it an unlikely host for up-and-coming talent. Even their band, still waiting to catch their break, have performed during local talent nights at The Carousel.
Still, the crowd expected tonight might just push the venue to its limits.
As Jazzy takes a turn off the main road, the tarmac falls apart beneath her wheels. Riley grabs the oh, shit handle as they start hitting crater-like potholes, tensing her stomach to keep from jostling too much on Seven’s lap. Beneath her, and just as tense, Seven holds her breath. Outside of the car windows, the regularly spaced streetlights fall away to tall trees on either side of the road. Beyond them, a black mass of unlit woodland, a river, and the waterfall that gives their town its name.
Clearing her throat, Riley pushes her thoughts away from the tense grip Seven has around her waist.
“It smells so good back here,” she says, breathing deeply in, then frowns. “Oh, shit, that’s what I forgot.”
Iris makes a noise and reaches for her clutch.
“I got you,” she says, digging inside for a bottle of perfume, and Riley exposes her throat for her to spray.
“Life saver, thank you.”
Beneath her, Seven gags when she catches a mouthful.
When the car makes a bend, sharp artificial light cuts through the trees and The Carousel comes into view. Despite its name, there is nothing enchanting about the bar. It’s a squat, single storey building, one of the newer refurbs in town, but looks like it hasn’t seen a fresh lick of paint since it first re-opened some ten years ago already. Jazzy slows down as she peels into the parking lot. Beside her, Rowan releases a high-pitched whistle, and the car comes to a complete stop. The parking lot is not marked out in paint, but a spill of gravel that seems to encroach further and further out of bounds as the years go on. Jazzy leans into the wheel and strains her neck to see out into the dark.
“Damn,” she frowns. “I didn’t think it’d be this busy.”
“Try around the back,” Devyn suggests. “It hasn’t rained all week, you should be fine in the grass.”
“Maybe we should’ve got that Uber.”
She pulls around to the rear of the building, where the cars have begun to spill over into the surrounding woodland, and parks in the first empty spot that she finds. It’s further away from the building than she’d have liked, but nobody complains as they disembark onto a strip of dewy grass.
Immediately, Devyn tucks Iris close to stave off the chill, and Rowan leads the way inside.
Seven stands exactly in place for three full seconds, her neck craned back to show the full moon her face.
Before they even reach the door, their senses are assaulted by the sound of raucous music and the pervading odour of cigarettes and alcohol. It only gets worse as they head inside, where it becomes immediately apparent that the venue is already filled to max capacity. The regular layout has been shifted around to make more space in front of the meagre stage, where the supporting act are playing to the densest part of the crowd.
Their small group stops in the first empty space that they spill into, taking in the carnage.
“Drinks?” Rowan throws out when nobody makes a move, and the others agree and push their way to the bar.
“Who the fuck are all these people? Underground Wastebasket aren’t even that big,” Jazzy says as Iris flags down a bartender, then cuts a sheepish glance to Riley. “No offense.”
“Uh, none taken?”
Seven twists around with a frown. “Half the people here look like they’re still in school.”
“Only bar in town that accepts fake I.D.s,” Devyn sighs, nostalgic. “Wait, that’s bad, isn’t it? Why has this place not been shut down yet?”
“Because,” Iris trills, voice triumphant, as she turns around from the bar and passes two drinks back to the others, “if all the reckless youth are in here, drinking, the cops don’t have to worry about what they’re doing out there. Jazzy, this one’s virgin, did you want a straw? I got you a straw.”
“I love a straw. Fuck them turtles.”
“Girl, it’s paper,” Iris winces.
“Oh, thank god, I’m actually really trying to cut down on my single use plastics.”
“Let’s find somewhere better to stand,” Riley suggests, accepting her drink from Iris and passing the other over to Seven without needing to be asked. Their fingers briefly touch as the glass is handed over, Seven’s green eyes so bright that they catch every stray beam of light and reflect it back in her irises. Riley smiles at the effect. “You look good, by the way. This top really suits you.”
Seven looks down at herself, smiling sheepishly.
“Thanks.”
The moment is broken when Rowan dips his face into their conversation.
“Yeah,” he teases, “is that a new bandana?”
“Fuck you and your beanie,” Seven deadpans, but there’s a curve in the very corners of her lips.
“Damn, she’s touchy tonight. Riley, have a word.”
“Go, go, go,” Riley chants, instead, drumming her fingers on his back until Rowan, as their tallest member, carves a path through the bar.
There is space just off to the side of the crowd and their small party fills it with relief. There in the dark, they sink into the music, becoming one with the mass of bobbing heads and swaying bodies. The supporting act run through the remainder of their set and meets with raucous applause as they say their final goodbyes. In the interval that follows, Riley collects their empty glasses and deposits them back at the bar on her way to use the bathroom.
By the time she returns, the crowd feels perceptibly thinner.
“Those must be their friends,” Rowan notes, nodding towards the far end of the bar, where the drummer from the supporting act swaps greetings with a tight knit circle of his peers. Several of them take turns slapping him on the back, teasing and familiar. “They’re so much younger than I thought. Wow, did I just say that? Are we getting old?”
“We are aging gracefully,” Devyn decides. “But I lowkey feel like some kind of hag around this many teenagers.”
Iris immediately coos in their ear, offering platitudes that are muffled by the sound system.
Riley startles when an elbow finds her ribs. Blinking, she twists away from the conversation and around to face Seven, only to find her smiling at her like she’s on the wrong side of a joke. Despite herself, Riley feels her mouth automatically mirroring the gesture, and follows Seven’s lead when she leans in to be heard above the music.
“You sure you don’t want to get closer to the stage?” Seven asks her, and her eyes glitter with amusement. “There’s a bit of space, now, we could squeeze you in front and centre.”
Riley scoffs, reeling back.
“I’m not that desperate.”
“Sure,” Seven grins, then slides her gaze towards the stage. “But it kinda looks like you have competition.”
As if on reflex, Riley’s head snaps in the direction, only to find the space where Seven is looking filled with a group of older, grizzled men. Something in her deflates, pacified, until she hears Seven’s teasing laughter. Riley rolls her eyes into the sound and accepts it in good nature.
“Very funny. I’m so glad you can still make yourself laugh.”
“Me, too,” Seven grins, then grips her by the shoulder, shaking. “As if you even looked. You’re the hottest girl in here, by far.”
Ball lightning in her belly.
Riley laughs it off, but beneath her makeup she’s blushing.
Before there’s time to think any deeper on it, the lights begin to dim.
The backing music playing over the speakers cuts, revealing the sound of every voice in the crowd that’s talking, until the air cuts with the distinct sound of an electric guitar being plugged in. A hush falls upon the patrons of The Carousel, and Riley’s view of the stage immediately narrows as the crowd in front of it disperse to better see. She lingers back where she is, content in her group, and waiting.
Blake is the first member of her band to run on stage.
“Devil’s Kettle,” she yells into her mic, and the crowd roars in greeting, a sea of hands lifting into the air. “Let me hear you make some fucking noise!”
The venue bounces with Underground Wastebasket’s performance.
Primed by the support act, the crowd eats up the energy coming from the stage and returns it, tenfold, creating the kind of rare infinite feedback loop that Riley is all too familiar with herself. Blake is on fire, tonight, but then she’s rarely ever off when she’s performing. She makes herself the single most important point of focus in the room, pulling every eye in her direction as she bounds across the stage, unafraid to take up space.
At the height of the performance, Riley pulls herself so gently out of the spell that the music has created and casts a wide gaze around the room. The crowd is electric. Heat and sweat hang heavy in the air beneath the choking perfume of inhibition. Blake has the crowd eating out of the palm of her hand. She throws her arms up in exultation and a sea of bodies mirror the move. She hits a high note, and the crowd shivers and holds its breath.
Even her own band, Riley realises, are not free from the spell.
Rowan has made himself music, his body moving with the beat as though it’s the only thing sustaining him. Iris has her arms around Devyn from behind, holding the crowd at bay away from them; their glassy eyes do not leave the stage. Jazzy, sober, is flushed with a different kind of intoxication.
And then Riley turns to Seven, and finds her already looking.
For a breath, they are the only two people in the entire venue, meeting eyes above the spell.
Then Riley lifts her eyebrows, a coy kind of teasing expression on her face, as though to say—she’s good, isn’t she?—and Seven, grinning, rolls her eyes.
Laughing, Riley’s attention returns to the stage.
In the next interval between songs, Blake returns the microphone to its stand and strides to the very front to grab a bottle of water. She is sweating, now, deep shadows of it visible in the white tank top she’s wearing when she lifts her arms. As she drinks, Blake shakes one hand out through her hair, and then releases the bottle with a gasp. Behind her, the rumbling of a quiet drum beat. Blake saunters back behind the mic and grins into the crowd.
“Devil’s Kettle,” she cries, like an announcement. “You’re fucking alive tonight, aren’t you?”
The crowd responds with cheering affirmation.
“That’s what I thought,” Blake grins at them, sweeping her gaze along the front row. “This next song’s something special. In fact, this’ll be our first time performing it live. I wouldn’t play it for just anybody, but something tells me I’m in the right place at the right time, tonight.”
At the back of the venue, a single high-pitched hoot crows above the crowd, setting off a chain reaction that makes Brake laugh, breathless.
“That’s right, Devil’s Kettle, I know your dirty little secret.”
Beneath her words, the steady thrum of an electric guitar meets the drumbeat. Subtle, building, providing a platform for Blake to build her introduction.
“Thirteen years ago, at this very spot, a rock band from the city came to play their music to the humble folks of this small town.” The glint of a strobe light catches Blake’s eyes, flashing. “But they had an ulterior motive, didn’t they? They knew that just outside of this bar, in the woods that surround your peaceful town, there lies a waterfall that’s rumoured to be a portal to hell.”
The electric guitar squeals with a high note, jostling the crowd.
Beside Riley, Rowan leans down to shout against her ear.
“Where’s she going with this?”
Dazed, Riley shakes her head.
“Using one of the worst days in our town’s history to promote a song?” Iris frowns. “That’s kind of sleezy.”
“Shh,” Jazzy hisses, flapping a hand, her enraptured gaze focused on the stage.
“Stop me if you’ve heard this one before,” Blake smirks into the mic, and the crowd murmurs with mixed reactions. “But rumour tells it that they went to that very same waterfall, that night. That they took a local girl—a virgin. And do you know what they did to that poor, unsuspecting girl that night?”
More murmuring from the crowd.
A few overzealous shouts voice their opinions, inciting laughter from their friends.
“That’s right,” Blake agrees, the hard glint of her smile shining, white, beneath the spotlight. “They sacrificed her soul to the devil and asked him for one thing in return.”
She holds up a single finger to the crowd, and the entire venue hangs itself off her every word.
“They asked to become so disgustingly rich and famous that there wouldn’t be a soul alive on this god forsaken planet who didn’t know their names.”
The crowd responds with a roar of approval. Right beside Riley’s eardrum, Rowan throws both arms in the air and hollers. Back on the stage, Blake’s laughter disappears and returns again as she plucks the mic out of its stand and saunters towards her audience, where she drops her water bottle and does not spare it enough of a second glance to check if it hasn’t rolled off the stage.
“That’s all we want, isn’t it?” Blake asks the crowd, grinning at their responses. “That’s all any of us want. Well, Devil’s Kettle, seeing as I’m in a generous mood, and t’is the season, tonight I’m going to give every last one of you the chance to achieve it.”
A beat.
Blake lets the rumbling vibrations from her bandmembers’ playing stir anticipation through the crowd. Then she reaches into the pocket of her impossibly tight leather pants and retrieves a single folded sheet of paper.
“Because I have the ritual that they used that night.” She produces the sheet like a medal, holding it high for her audience to see. “And I’ve been practicing my Latin.”
When she winks, at least five voices separate themselves from the crowd, high-pitched and raving.
Blake eats up their enthusiasm like it’s the only thing sustaining her.
“All you’ve got to do if you want to participate is pick your sacrifice.” Her dark eyes level the crowd, making a show of scanning the open, enthralled faces who stare up at her from the ground. Then, too quickly that she had to have known exactly where to look, her pointed gaze falls on Riley. “I think I just found mine.”
Riley feels the full weight of her gaze like a tightening in her belly.
Blake is not quick to look away.
There is the briefest sound of rustling paper as she unfolds the sheet.
“Are you ready?” Blake asks the crowd. “Repeat after me.”
The audience accepts her request with surprising enthusiasm, a wall of voices that mimics Blake’s words line for line until it comes to the very last in the ritual. Here, Blake holds her breath, building anticipation as she lowers the sheet of paper down to her side and recites the final line from memory.
“With the deepest malice,” she says, lips brushing the mic, “we deliver this virgin unto thee.”
Before the crowd can repeat her, the electric guitar screams through the speakers, chased by the drumbeat that kicks like a pair of size tens directly against the audience’s chests. Immediately, the energy in the venue catches fire, the floor shaking in response to the wave of bodies jumping in place.
“Open up that pit!” Blake orders the crowd, who parts beneath the point of her finger to create a wide circle, quickly filling with thrashing bodies. “We are Underground Wastebasket, this is Ritual. Devil’s Kettle, let me see your fucking hands!”
“Well, it wasn’t the weirdest euphemism I’ve ever heard,” Jazzy diplomatically decides.
The Carousel looks less crowded, now. The lights are back on and the bar is busy, drawing a current of constant bodies. The speakers dotted around the open space have returned to their regularly scheduled classic rock, and the music plays loud but not deafening over their heads.
Leaning against Devyn’s side, Iris hums, uncertain.
“Weirdest, maybe not. But definitely not the sexiest.”
“Obviously,” Seven chimes in. “Are you forgetting about the lyrical wonder that is Hot Wonderland?”
Devyn snorts into their drink and immediately begins choking.
“Look what you did,” Iris cries, patting her back. “Baby, don’t die at The Carousel. I really don’t wanna drag my Ouija board all the way out here every time I want to sext.”
“Not…” Devyn wheezes, “…helping.”
Riley cuts her narrowed gaze to Seven.
“Hater,” she accuses her, and Seven blinks her eyes innocently in response.
“What? I’m saying it’s memorable, how is that hating?”
“Like Riley’s at any risk of forgetting it anytime soon,” Rowan laughs. “Hot Wonderland is her reality.”
“Hot Wonderland was the reality in my bed this morning,” Riley claps back without missing a beat.
Rowan laughs and throws both hands up for high fives.
Matching his energy, Riley slaps her own against them.
“Children,” Jazzy sighs.
The crowd has thinned significantly now that the performance is over. Their small party lingers at a standing table that wraps around one of the support beams in the middle of the room, creating an insulated circle that their bodies fall into naturally after so many years of practice. Across the room, a separate, smaller crowd forms around a popup merch stand.
Riley’s eyes are drawn in its direction, again, when she catches the sound of Blake’s laughter above the din. It’s seconds later that the crowd shifts enough for her to catch a glimpse of her between the bodies, a wide smile on her face as she talks with a fan. Riley turns away before Blake can catch her staring. That her gaze meets Seven’s as soon as she looks away sends a curious shiver down her spine.
“Should we start making moves soon?” Jazzy asks the group, checking the time on her phone.
“It’s still pretty early,” Iris says, looking over her shoulder. “I was gonna get another drink when the line at the bar went down.”
She turns to look at Devyn.
“You want another?”
“Sure,” Devyn answers with a lingering scratchiness in their throat. “But nothing carbonated. This one hurt my nose.”
“Riley?” Iris offers, but before Riley can answer, Seven makes a stunted, quiet noise of irritation.
“I’ll have one,” she tells Iris as she pushes herself away from their table. “I gotta pee.”
Riley stares after her, briefly confused by the speed of her departure, until a presence settles over the group. The change in atmosphere is instant, every set of eyes around their table shifting to just over her shoulder. A prickle of uncertainty bites at Riley’s neck, until she jerks her head around and spots Blake, having untangled herself from the crowd, making her approach.
“Drinks,” Rowan declares, clapping his hands, and the group disperses from around the table as though the move was choreographed.
Riley turns back to watch their retreat with a vaguely annoyed, almost amused, scoff of breath.
“Was it something I said?”
The sound of Blake’s voice, deeper with amusement and performance fatigue, immediately draws her attention. Riley’s grin wins the fight against her attempt at nonchalance. Blake has changed clothes since her departure from the stage, having shed her sweaty tank top for a simple white shirt that does very little to disguise the black bra she’s wearing underneath.
“Sorry,” Riley winces, tipping her head in the direction of her friends.
Blake holds her gaze and shrugs, unbothered.
“Don’t be. I wanted you all to myself, anyway.”
“Smooth,” Riley laughs, and Blake’s eyes twinkle with her grin.
“So,” she says, stepping in close to Riley’s side and resting her elbow on the table. “What did you think?”
Riley purses her lips. “Honestly?”
Blake dips her head, amused.
“I think,” Riley starts, “that you know exactly how good you were up there.”
Surprised laughter catches in Blake’s throat.
“True,” she agrees. “But I wanna hear you say it.”
Rolling her eyes, Riley shoves gently at her belly, but Blake only captures her hand in response. For one dizzying breath, the pair of them look down at their hands to watch how Blake threads their fingers together, her thumb stroking the length of Riley’s own. There is energy thrumming just beneath her skin, so close to the surface that Riley can feel it like static electricity at every point of contact. She understands the comedown of adrenaline, the shake in Blake’s fingers, the unrepenting urge in her to sink all that remains of her energy into something—someone.
She lifts her gaze, looking up at Blake through her lashes, far too happy to receive it.
“I think,” she repeats, quieter, forcing Blake to lean closer if she wants to hear, “that you have to kill me if you intend to complete your ritual.”
Blake teeters back out of her personal space with barely concealed amusement.
“I had more little deaths in mind.”
“I could be amenable,” Riley decides. “Anything to see your career reach the stratosphere.”
Blake gasps with mock delight.
“My biggest fan.”
Laughing, Riley curls herself closer.
“I liked the new track, by the way,” she says, and takes no small amount of pleasure in the way that Blake’s expression immediately shifts into receptive focus. “It’s catchy.”
“What did you think about the bridge?”
There is keen interest in Blake’s eyes. She waits for Riley’s answer with the kind of patience that stems as equally from her ego as it does from respect. Riley is reminded immediately of the night that they met, purely by chance, when Blake was just another head banging in the dive bar where Suture were performing. Blake had waited for her, after. Bought her a drink at the bar and stayed there with her until closing, much to the annoyance of their respective friend groups at the time. That had been just before Underground Wastebasket had picked up real momentum, and Blake’s schedule exploded across half of the continent.
“I think the guitar came in too quickly,” Riley tells her honestly. “It works fine how it is, but… if you give it just a few seconds longer, let that space really open up?”
Blake’s eyes narrow in thought.
“You don’t think that high note will fall a little flat without it?”
“No.” Riley shakes her head. “I think it can carry itself just fine.”
“Hm,” Blake says, and her expression closes briefly with introspection. When she returns, there is a crooked smile on her face, confidence regained, ego unbidden. “I see the vision. I’ll speak to the band.”
Riley tips her head, smiling coyly.
“So, that was it,” she says, leaning into the table. “Tour complete. What will you do now?”
Blake takes a second to consider it.
Then her expression sours.
“Pay my bills. Replace some broken gear. Find a seamstress who specialises in latex, otherwise I’m throwing out my favourite bodysuit.”
“Ooh,” Riley laughs, nose crinkling. “Glitz and glamour.”
The corner of Blake’s mouth curls with a smirk.
“You know it,” she agrees, then her expression softens. “I promised my mom I’d spend some time with her before we start working on the next demo.”
Riley nods her head, having expected it.
“You’re heading back home after this?” she asks, keeping the hope out of her voice.
Blake hears it, regardless, and her smirk turns unrepentant.
“Not immediately after,” she teases, drawing her words out. “I could be convinced to stay. Do some sight-seeing, you know?”
“Sight-seeing?” Riley deadpans.
“Sure. I think there’s a corner of your mattress I haven’t been acquainted with, already. I’d hate to leave not knowing what I’m missing.”
Sucking in a breath, Riley captures the tender flesh of the inside of her mouth—and every last ounce of her amusement—between her teeth, biting hard. Blake’s dark eyes shine as she watches her fight with it, until she can swallow it back down again along with her relief.
“Okay,” Riley says, finally, nodding her head. “I guess I can work with that.”
Blake’s fingers squeeze around her own, promise and intent.
She is so wrapped up in her that neither of them first recognises the sudden commotion across the bar for what it is. Not until another scream sounds above the first—high-pitched, this time, distinctly feminine in its shrillness—and their attention is ripped away from one another and towards movement at the stage.
At Riley’s side, Blake stiffens. It takes seconds longer for Riley to see the cause of the disruption for herself, as the lingering crowd nearest the stage begins to push up further into the venue, revealing a column of acrid black smoke. It moves quickly, so thick that it almost entirely obscures the flicker of orange flame beneath it, and billows in a dense cloud towards the ceiling.
It all happens so quickly that the venue appears to react in slow motion.
Blake’s grip on her hand tightens.
Her reaction is so immediate that for one panicked moment Riley allows herself to be dragged mindlessly into the thick of the crowd. Up ahead, she thinks she spies pink hair and the bobbing of a familiar red beanie beelining towards the exit. The screaming of hundreds of voices fills the air, disorienting in its volume and its frenzy, as panic spreads from body to body. A pop from the sound equipment on the stage lights up the room, causing a sudden flash of light, and then plunges the entire venue into darkness. The crowd screams in reaction.
Riley can hear Blake yelling at her to move above the noise of them. Her grip around her fingers is crushing.
Up ahead, the crowd thickens as it bottlenecks in the entryway, and the screaming turns into a different kind of panic.
Seven.
At once, every muscle in her body locks.
Blake jolts with the sudden force of her inertia, their linked hands causing her to rebound and stumble backwards into Riley’s body, where she grips her by the shoulder as though to check that she’s okay. In the darkness, Blake’s face is obscured, but Riley can see the glint of panic in her eyes—and the growing flicker of the flames, reflected back. When Blake tries to get them moving again, Riley puts up a fight.
“We have to go,” Blake shouts in her face, and attempts to drag her forwards again. “Riley, what the fuck?”
The smoke is getting thicker, now. Riley gags on it through her next breath.
“Seven’s in the bathroom,” she chokes out as Blake covers her own face with her wrist. “We can’t leave her.”
“There’s an exit back there, she’ll be out already.”
She tries again, turning into the crowd and forcing Riley with her. Riley stumbles forward with her effort, scant distance that she is so reluctant to give up, and then slips her fingers free. Blake’s reaction is immediate. She twists, grasping backwards with open, empty hands, but the bottleneck at the door has cleared and the crowd is beginning to move again, carrying her forward as it closes around her.
“No, Riley! Riley!”
“I’m not leaving her,” Riley chokes out, retching on the air, and cups a hand around her mouth and nose.
In the mass of parting bodies, she thinks she can see Blake, still reaching backwards for her hand as she’s carried out on a riptide.
Riley does not let herself linger.
The smoke has grown into a maze. Starved of air, she dizzies when she turns around, and it takes her precious few seconds longer than she has to orient herself again in the direction of the bathroom. As she begins to move, Riley feels bodies hitting her, hears the screams of panicked people as they run past her in all directions, some colliding with her shoulders and sending her careening off kilter. It’s only when she connects with a doorway, catching it hard against one side, that she realises she’s made it to the back of the venue.
She is choking, now, straining for breath even as she tries to force her body not to take it. Every inhalation burns into her lungs and scorches their capacity, then coughs and splutters back out of her. The smoke is thicker here, trapped with nowhere to escape. Riley throws her body forward, eyes blind and streaming wet with tears, hands outstretched in front of her to feel the way.
When her foot catches on something on the ground, Riley falls and braces her body for impact.
The ground is gentle, when she lands. Squishy underneath her. She sinks a hand into it for leverage and feels soft leather against her palm. In her disorientation, it takes her too long to understand what she’s landed on, and then newfound panic shoves her on. Not Seven, is the single thought that sustains her. Not Seven, because Seven wasn’t wearing leather when she left her house tonight.
When Riley finds the bathroom door, her body falls through it and almost collapses. She is heaving up every breath her body swallows, poison air that retches out of her along with the alcohol she’d consumed earlier in the night. Riley ignores the burning of it in her lungs, in her eyes. The smoke has infiltrated the bathroom, the shorted electronics already cut out the lights.
“Sev”— she tries to shout, and the name turns into hacking coughs, scorching up her throat. “Seven.”
She throws her body into the first stall, stumbling into the toilet when it opens.
Nobody inside.
Riley shoves herself away again and tries the next, the next, the one after that. What little oxygen is left in her blood burns with panic as Riley meets the final door. Sobs have begun to retch out of her mouth, the darkness all encompassing. When it gives and reveals nobody on the other side, she collapses backwards with a cry. Her body meets a wall and stumbles, her legs giving out beneath the weight of her relief before she can orient herself back the way she’d came.
The exit.
Seven had made it out—at least, of the bathroom. Riley has to believe further than that.
There is no fight left within her, and every intention to drag her shaking body up from the floor dissipates into the ether when she makes three attempts and dizzies. Beaten, Riley sinks into the tiles, where the air is thinner and only partially more breathable. She still can’t see a thing and so she closes her burning eyes against the smoke, against the distant sound of screaming, against the memory of her soft landing outside the toilets. She attempts to crawl towards the door, fingernails catching the grout in the floor tiles, until her body finally collapses. The coolness of the tiles against her cheek comes as a relief.
Not Seven.
Her body floods itself with endorphins as it anticipates what comes next.
Not Seven, because Seven isn’t here. Seven made it out. They all made it out.
The bathroom continues to fill with smoke, thick as a blanket, deeper than night.
Beneath its gentle weight, Riley’s heart skips, trips, and thumps until it stops completely.