Page 110 of Shades of Silver City

I exhale in relief. There’s something comforting in knowing he’ll be sober tonight, too.

My gloved fingers dig into Archer’s arm, and I observe his face expectantly. Soon, recognition flares in his eyes, and his shoulders relax subtly.

“I’ll be back,” he says, releasing my arm. “Pixel.”

“Okay.” I stand there stupidly, watching him stride away. “I’ll just…be over here,” I mutter to myself.

Across the room, a short woman wearing an owl mask and an incredibly revealing dress greets Archer with a wave. Archer doesn’t slow his pace as he approaches her. He breezes by, and she turns and follows him. They make their way toward the curtains on the side of the room and out of sight.

My heart squeezes, and a flood of disappointment washes through me.

What the hell am I supposed to do now?

Eyeing a three-tiered table full of elaborate finger foods on the opposite wall, I begin striding toward it. Snacking never hurts. It’ll keep my hands busy and my mouth full. Hopefully that will keep me from saying something stupid or looking like a lost lamb.

Two mini muffins later, my stomach protests, flipping itself inside out.

Damn nerves.

Sighing, I slowly stride along the perimeter of the dance floor, watching the revelry while trying not to draw any attention to myself. I square my shoulders, keeping my head inclined and my pace Sweetcreek-slow so I fit in.

The shattering of glass—barely audible over the loud music—snags my attention. Flinching, I whip toward the direction of the noise. No one around me seems to have noticed it. They are all too busy with their own conversations or dances.

An obviously drunken trio shimmies past, much too close to me, giggling as they stop to pepper each other with sloppy kisses. One of their elbows accidentally juts into me, and I scowl. They don’t even acknowledge me, too lost to the sauce.

“Fun times,” I mutter, stepping away. I thought I’d gotten away from this uninhibited lifestyle by coming to Sweetcreek, but apparently they indulge as much as the inner city folk do.

I used to be just like them—letting alcohol lead me.

When I first quit drinking, I had a constant nagging voice in my mind, telling me to find a drink. Take a sip. Just one.

It took at least a year of me fighting that voice to get past the craving. And now, I find it easier and easier to stay away from alcohol—especially when I see how ridiculous it makes people.

Striding through the room, I find a less populated corner to stand in.

Nearby, a woman with a long braid and a sparkling fish-shaped mask leans forward, snorting something off another woman’s cleavage.

I’m about to turn away, to give them some space and privacy, when I realize the woman’s breasts are covered with a glittery substance.

Not glitter.

Dust.

It’s almost indecipherable in the single-hued lighting.

My hands grow clammy, and suddenly I’m wishing I could see their soul-shades, to determine with certainty that the color is still there. But I have no way of knowing.

“Come on, Archer,” I mutter, needing him to hurry up with Pixel so she can get the lighting situation fixed.

My feet move of their own accord, drawing me closer to the women.

“Hey!” I yell, but they don’t seem to hear me.

I grab my skirt so I don’t trip, and then I rush toward them.

“Stop,” I say, planting my hands on the woman in the fish mask and pushing her away from the other’s breasts.

My foot must land on her skirt, because there’s a loud ripping noise, and we both tumble to the ground.

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