Page 64 of Her Name in Red
I look like someone who just got seen.
Wrapping myself in a towel, I pad into the living room, grabbing my phone on the way. My skin is still damp, hair dripping cold trails down my back.
I start scrolling through JaguarHallPass, thumb moving mechanically. Food. Vacation. Parties. Nothing real. Nothing that matters.
Then I freeze.
There he is. Posted an hour ago. Riggs at some house party, red cup in hand, that easy smile on his face like he doesn't have a care in the fucking world. He’s standing next to a blonde, and they're surrounded by a dozen smiling faces. The caption reads: “night time vibes #seniorliving.”
My stomach knots so tight I nearly double over.
“You've got to be kidding me,” I whisper.
The timestamp says this was taken shortly after he left my apartment. After I kicked him out. After I saw that look in his eyes like I'd actually wounded him.
What a fucking joke.
“He's fine,” I say out loud, my voice sounding strange in the empty apartment. “Of course he is. Why wouldn't he be?”
The rage builds inside me like a physical thing, hot and acidic. Here I am, raw and bleeding from the inside out, while he's doing beer bongs with his hockey bros.
I throw my phone across the room. It bounces off the couch cushions, screen still lit with his stupid face. His stupid perfect life.
Mascara first. Heavy, brutal strokes that make my eyes look even more hollow. Blood-red lipstick next, the shade matching the manicure I touched up yesterday. I line my lips with precision, making them fuller, more inviting. More dangerous.
Fuck Riggs. Fuck his party. Fuck his blonde.
I slip into a black dress that hugs every curve, the kind that makes men stupid. Pair it with heeled boots that make me taller, stronger. The girl in the mirror looks lethal.
The cold air hits me as I step outside, but I barely feel it. The rideshare driver tries small talk. I shut him down with a look.
The Rusty Nail is packed tonight. Thursdays always are. College kids getting a head start on the weekend. The bass pounds through my chest as I push through the crowd. I order a vodka soda I have no intention of drinking. Eyes follow me but I'm hunting for something specific tonight.
I spot him by the dartboard. Tall, broad-shouldered, dumb blue polo shirt. He's laughing too loudly, taking up too much space. Classic entitled prick. I watch as he approaches a brunette at the bar, slides up next to her, puts his hand on the small of her back. She shifts away, uncomfortable.
He leans closer. Says something in her ear. She shakes her head, tries to move away again. His hand stays firm.
“Just one drink,” I can read his lips from here. “Don't be such a bitch about it.”
My blood hums with anticipation.
I down half my drink for courage I don't need and make my way over, hips swaying, eyes locked on my target.
“Hey,” I say, sliding between them. “I've been looking everywhere for you.” I'm talking to the girl, but my eyes flick to him, inviting, appraising.
The girl looks confused for a second, then grateful. “Yeah, sorry, I got caught up.”
“This your friend?” Blue Polo frat fuck asks, eyes roaming my body.
“No,” I smile, all teeth. “But I could be yours.”
The girl takes her chance and disappears. He grins, thinking he's traded up.
“I'm Tyler,” he says, leaning closer than necessary.
“Becca.” I offer my hand. He holds it too long.
“What are you drinking?” He signals the bartender.
