Heather turned her attention to Miguel, who pulled a small wrap from the boy’s underwear. That’s when she noticed the odd bulge. Her curiosity overriding caution, and she reached out to touch the boy’s behind, but he slapped her hand away.
"Not yet, baby," he whispered, then pressed a finger to her lips before trailing it slowly downward, lingering at the hollow of her throat.
Lauren pulled out her phone and snapped a photo of the boy straddling Heather. The boy’s oiled chest pressed against Heather’s, her face slack with shock.
"You know the rules, no phones!" Miguel barked. His brow furrowed, but the boy on his lap nipped at his ear, nuzzling his neck, and Miguel’s anger dissolved into a giggle.
Heather’s voice cut through. "What are you planning to do with that photo?"
"Wouldn’t you love you know?" Lauren hissed without looking at her.
"Lauren, delete it. No one needs to know about this," Miguel said sharply.
Lauren rolled her eyes, plucking a powdered-filled packet from the boy’s waistband. "Relax. Gone." She faked deleted the image, then tipped the substance onto her tongue.
The boys finished their performances, they began pulling down their briefs to reveal bulging plastics pouches taped to their thighs. They began pulling, letting concealed packets drop to the floor with soft thuds. They collected the drugs and placed them on the table casually, like party snacks.
Miguel grabbed one, tore it open, and fed it to the man curled against him like a lover.
The dancer assigned to Heather pressed a pouch in her palm. "Your turn."
"No." She shoved it back, her legs trembling as she stood.
"Sit. Down." Lauren’s voice dropped venom.
"You don’t walk out once you’re in." Miguel said.
Heather sat still, her eyes moving around, to the girls kissing and touching themselves and to the boys taking the drugs. Her stomach churned. The room was shifting, too loose, too lawless. She hadn’t signed up for this. She clutched her bag.
Miguel noticed. "You okay?"
She stood up slowly, grabbing her bag. "I didn’t sign up for this. I thought this was a pre-gala hangout, not—whatever this is."
"You’re already in it, Heather," Lauren said flatly.
Heather turned to the door. "I’m leaving."
Miguel’s voice was firm. "Where are you going?"
"I don’t want to be a part of... whatever this is."
"You already agreed the moment you stepped in," Lauren said coolly.
"I thought this was just fun. Not drugs. Not this."
Miguel approached her slowly. "You can’t leave. You know too much."
"I’m not telling anyone. You have my word," she said, turning the knob, only to find it locked.
She looked over her shoulder. Miguel and the others exchanged glances.
"Open the door, Miguel," she said, voice rising.
"I can’t. I don’t know what you’ll do if you leave."
"I told you, I’m not saying anything. I just want to leave."
"You’ll leave when we all leave."
"I’m bargaining with you. Open the damn door or I’ll scream."
Miguel gave her a slow smile. "I’m trying not to be the bad guy here, Heather. But, scream all you like. No one will hear you."
Then he held up a small shot glass. "How about this, you take one shot, and I’ll let you go."
"It’s the first step to us trusting you."
Heather hesitated. Everyone stared at her. The room suddenly felt too small. But it’s just one glass, no harm there.
"It’s just a safety precaution. If you take it, we know you’re one of us. That you won’t spill."
Her fingers trembled as she reached for the glass. She lifted it to her lips, the bitter scent already burning her nose. Then she drank.
She handed the glass back. "I wasn’t going to spill."
Miguel gave the empty glass to one of the boys and turned back to her. "Now I’m sure. Trust no one in this industry."
Heather gripped her bag. "Now open the door."
Miguel tilted his head. "Do you feel any different?"
Her eyes darted to the glass. She snatched it from the boy’s hand and stared inside, white residue clung to the bottom.
She was already dizzy. Her vision blurred at the edges, and her limbs felt heavy.
"What did you do to me?" she whispered. Her knees buckled.
Miguel caught her before she hit the floor and dropped her onto the sofa like luggage.
"Benzodiazepine-laced powder did this. Not me. Blame the creators," he said coldly.
"Why are you doing this?"
"Because I can’t risk you walking out with everything you’ve seen. You know too much."
"I don’t even know what’s going on," Heather lied, trying to sound unaware.
Miguel ignored her. He sat back down, the boy draping over him again. The others sank into a haze, kissing, touching, laughing. An injection dropped from Lauren’s limp hand as her head lolled back against the sofa. She moaned softly, lost in it.
Heather’s phone chimed.
She forced her arm up and dug through her bag. It was Caius.
Why was he asking that? She told him earlier. She tried to type, but her fingers skidded across the screen. Letters blurred. The keyboard looked like a foreign language. She closed her eyes, focused on muscle memory, and finally sent a text she thought made sense. She was so sure she had sent something meaningful.
Caius’s eyes fixed on the photo Lauren had just sent: Heather, surrounded by half-baked strangers, a particular one’s hands on her hip, lips parted in something between surprise and surrender. He didn’t want to believe it. She said gala pre-party. But this? This was no gala.
[Your bitch is having fun without you], Lauren’s message read.
He gritted his teeth, pinched the bridge of his nose, and stared harder, as if the picture would explain itself. The man behind her had his hands somewhere he shouldn’t. The glint in her eye. What was she thinking? What was she up to? He had sent her a text minutes ago, but why was she taking so long to reply?
Idiot. Arrogant, self destructive idiot.
[i niid ur hapel rigrht nkw]
The words were mangled, but clear enough. She was in trouble. His hands curled into fists. She could be drunk. Or even worse, drugged. The thought made something snap in him. Literally. His pen cracked between his fingers. Another pen destroyed because of Heather. Maybe he should call her.
Heather’s phone buzzed. She answered, hands shaking.
"Heather, where are you?" he said. But to her, it sounded like a distorted echo;
[Heeeeeeaaaaattttthhhheeerrr,,,, wwwwwhhhhhheeeeerrrreeee aaaaarrrrrrreeeeee yyyyyooooouuuuuuuu?]
"Hello?" she mumbled.
"Hhhhhhheeeeeellllllllllllllllooooooooo"
"Stay on the call. I’ll trace your location. I’m coming to pick you up," he said.
Miguel saw her on the phone. The girls pointed at her like she was prey.
"What did I say about phones?" Miguel snarled and rushed over.
He grabbed her phone, ended the call, and shoved it into her bag.
"You should cuff her," one of the girls said.
"She’s already limp," Miguel muttered.
"How stupid can you be? She’s fighting it. Can’t you see?" Lauren snapped.
Miguel hesitated, then pulled out a pair of handcuffs and clamped one cuff around Heather’s wrist and the other to the table leg.
"Where’s the key?" Lauren asked.
Miguel pulled a chain from around his neck, the key dangling from it. "Here." He dropped a fake spare into her palm.
Lauren turned to Heather with a wicked grin.
Heather whispered, "Lauren, you don’t have to do this. We could just leave. Please. Caius is coming."
Lauren leaned in close, smiling cruelly.
"Even if he does come," Miguel said from across the room, tapping the key hanging around his neck, "he’ll need this to get inside."