Page 70 of The Order of Disorder
Then he pulls a leather diary out of a briefcase on the floor and flips it open, jotting a notation down on the page.6 vialsg. 70k.Under a column on the right-hand side of the page, he writes:O.D.underneath a long line of the same letters written in his thin, spidery handwriting.
“Drink?” he asks, pushing the open book aside and pulling two glasses down from a shelf.
I lift my eyes to look at him. He’s aged a little bit since the last time I saw him. A little heavier in the jowls, a little more tired around the eyes, but the arrogance is untouched. It radiates off him.
“No thanks.”
He doesn’t respond. Just gestures lazily toward the sitting area by the window, and picks up a bottle of amber liquid, pouring two drinks anyway, as if he hadn’t heard me. I take a few steps into the room, but still catch his movement out of the corner of my eye—the quick motion of his hand, the slip of a vial from the tray, the subtle tip over one glass.
The he turns and hands that one to me.
He lifts the other in a toast. “To old friends.”
“I’m not thirsty,” I say, placing the drink on a small side table.
“Oh, come now,” he says, chuckling like we’re sharing a joke. “Let’s have some fun. Sit down, relax. You might change your mind.”
He picks up the glass I set down and carries it to the seating area, placing it gently on the coffee table.
I walk slowly to the couch with my one fist clenched, feeling powder seeping into the creases of my palm.
There’s no way out. No unlocked door, no chance he hasn’t covered his angles. I need to be smart.
I lower myself onto the edge of the cushion, keeping my spine straight and knees closed. He watches with too much interest.
“That’s it,” he says, easing down onto the couch across from me, legs spread, posture loose. “Make yourself comfortable.”
He tries to talk. Asks how I’ve been. How things are at the club. Makes a joke about Billy still being a “hothead.” But I don’t answer. I just watch him, silently, while he moves on to each new topic.
Eventually he stands. “I should freshen up.”
When he disappears into the bathroom, I move fast.
All four pills are warm and sticky in my palm, two already half-disintegrated. I crush them all into powder on the glass coffee table using a heavy marble coaster, and scrape them into my drink. The bitter dust blooms through the amber liquid.
I hesitate, just a second, staring at it.
One gulp and everything could go quiet.
But I push the urge down and stir the drink with my finger, watching the powder swirl, then swap my glass with his.
He returns with his gray hair freshly combed back, trailing a lingering scent of mint. He sees the drink in my hand and smiles, the heat from his eyes crawling across my skin. I lift the glass and take a sip with his gaze tracking every movement. He settles into his couch with a pleased sigh.
“You know, there was a time,” he says, “when I could snap my fingers and get what I wanted. When women would line up for a moment. For a favor. For a taste of what it means to matter.”
Something flickers behind his smile. A thin seam of bitterness that doesn’t quite fit the soft lighting or the luxury upholstery. My pulse picks up in alarm at the sense that he’s getting impatient.
He slugs back half the drink in one pull, grimaces, and stares into the glass like something’s wrong. My heart seizes—for a moment, I can’t breathe.
But then he shakes it off and downs the rest.
“More?” he asks.
I shake my head, lifting my mostly full glass.
“You really should drink up, sweetheart,” he booms, pushing up from the couch and strolling to the minibar. “You’re gonna need it.”
He returns with a fresh glass, but instead of returning to the other couch, he perches on the coffee table in front of me, too close, blocking the path to the door.
