Page 6 of Jessica, Not Her Real Name
The past wasn’t something she enjoyed revisiting. In fact, it was a place she tried to avoid at all costs.
For there be monsters.
FOUR
ELEVEN YEARS EARLIER
Julia grippedthe edge of the vanity and stared at her reflection, wondering why there were two of her staring back. Focusing hard, she had to squint to make her mirror twins become one.
Her gaze swept the bathroom. A grimy sink. Mold blooming across the walls. She had no idea where she was. She’d lost that rather vital piece of information somewhere between her fourth and fifth vodka shots.
The door behind her burst open, and a girl stumbled in. She looked panicked. Julia was about to ask what was wrong when it became obvious. The girl groped for the toilet with outstretched arms, but she couldn’t get the lid up in time. A torrent of vomit spattered over the cistern and dripped onto the floor.
Julia pressed herself against the vanity to avoid it. “Are you okay?” she asked, but the words didn’t seem to come out in the right order.
The girl ignored her. She just kneeled over the bowl, panting.
Julia had to get out of there before the smell made her puke, too. She stepped over the girl’s legs and went back out to the hallway. There was thudding music coming from downstairs. It was so loud she could feel it vibrating the floorboards under her feet.
Behind her, a man’s voice said, “There you are.”
She spun around, stumbling in her stilettos.
The man was very tall with black hair slicked back in an old-school quiff and a silver hoop glinting in one ear. He held a red Solo cup that reeked of bourbon.
That voice. That earring.
The memory came back in pieces. The club downtown. Sweaty and loud, the bass pounding like a second heartbeat. He’d been behind the DJ booth, headphones slung around his neck, eyes locked on her from the second she walked in. Her pink minidress and sparkly Louboutins had clearly caught his attention.
She remembered the heat of the crowd, his hand on her lower back. The sting of the first shot. Then more. After that...
She blinked.
A taxi ride. His hand on her thigh. The rest was fog.
What was his name? Finn? No—Floyd.
She was swaying a little, and he took her arm to steady her. “Woah. You okay?”
She said nothing, just continued to stare stupidly up at him.
He handed her the cup. “You didn’t finish your drink.”
She didn’t want to drink anymore but took a sip out of politeness. The tip of her tongue felt numb.
He said, “You wanna go someplace quieter?”
“What?” she shouted back.
He grinned, then nodded towards the staircase. “Come on.”
She followed him, hitching up the strap of her handbag. “Oh, wait,” she called after him. “There’s a girl in the bathroom. She’s sick.”
Again, she got the feeling her words weren’t coming out in the right order because Floyd didn’t respond. He just kept walking down the stairs, weaving between the loved-up couples pressed against the wall and the passed-out loners splayed across the steps.
Not wanting to be left there on her own, she teetered after him.
Downstairs, in the crowded living room, the air stunk of weed and spilled beer. The bass from the speakers was so loud it made her eardrums ache. Following Floyd, she forced her way through the jam of bodies. He led her through the kitchen to a backdoor, then down a short flight of concrete steps.
