Page 68 of Vying Girls
‘She’s so fucking small,’ she mutters with a head shake.
She leads me around the edge of the dance floor and onto a raised hunk of rock.
‘Who are we looking for?’
‘Skylar.’
The stone wall at our backs vibrates with the rock music. Damn, they’re really good. I recognise some songs from the set I watched. She’s got the huskiest voice, the one in the middle with the guitar. Husky but guttural. The way she sings raises the hairs on my neck. She’s definitely seen some pain, that one.
‘I see her,’ I say, suddenly spotting Skylar directly below the ledge.
Nic leans down, trying to get onto my eyeline. ‘Where?’
‘At the front, there.’
She keeps her face close to mine as she searches. She’s not quite as buffeting as Haz, but she has a presence my body responds to, awareness prickling all over my skin. Especially tonight, with that wild, wounded energy surrounding her.
‘Got her.’ She hops down, absently reaching a hand up for me.
We make an arc around the dance floor, to where the music’s deafening. Skylar doesn’t seem to care. She’s on her own, dancing with a drink in her hand, the small tattoos on her face stretching as she smiles. She looks so free, not appearing to give a shit about anything.
For a second, I’m jealous. Then I realise I’m thinking of Elly and Haz, and the threesome they had, and wonder if that’s the reason for it. I’d prefer that. That’s easier to explain than being envious of someone else’s soul.
She looks up when Nic approaches. Her eyes, when they find her, are just as blown, impossible to tell the colour of with how large her pupils are. She’s in a t-shirt dress I covet, with weirdred smears all over her exposed, tatted skin. Blood. That’s what it looks like.
It’s impossible to know what her and Nic are talking into each other’s ears about, but it becomes clear when Skylar presents her palm with a baggie in it. I never held much of an opinion of her, but it definitely lowers now. Some friend she is, enabling Nic’s bad habit, the one that undoubtedly caused her heart emergency last year.
Nic waves the bag in thanks then nods me on.
‘I’m assuming that’s fake blood,’ I say once we’ve found somewhere quieter.
‘She’s fucking the band.’
‘All of them?’
Nic chuckles. ‘Wouldn’t put it past her.’
We lean on the stone next to one of those glass rooms. It’s fogged over at the moment, making me wonder what’s going on inside. I feel pervy looking. Could just be people shooting up, but when it unfogs a few minutes later, I think something a lot sexier went on judging by the couple’s appearance.
Undeterred, Nic enters the room. I follow more hesitantly, wishing I wasn’t wondering just how many people have banged in here tonight.
Yeah, this place is a lot less fun when you’re borderline sober.
Nic gets her stuff all arranged on the table, her tall form bending over it. She looks casual in a pair of faded black jeans and a thin white t-shirt. Effortlessly roguish. Like she’s just shoved on her dad’s clothes for fun. Not that he would have worn anything like that. I remember him mostly in suits.
‘What is that stuff?’
‘No fucking idea.’ She holds out the little straw she’s made. ‘Want some? It’s giving me the weirdest feeling in my feet.’
I frown, shaking my head. ‘That doesn’t sound remotely appealing.’
Nic backs off but holds my eyes as she snorts up the pale blue powder.
‘You used to drink potions made from clovers and rainwater.’
‘Yeah—when I was a kid.’
It’s jarring to hear her allude to our childhood. Is it just the drugs enabling her to do that? Or this whole place? The rest of the world does seem sort of faded here.
