Page 22 of The Hallows Queen

He laughs again, a loud, booming sound that radiates through me and triggers my own laughter.

Once my laughter has dissipated, I rest my cheek on my shoulder and look at him, admiring the black artwork that kisses his muscular arms and neck. “So,you really don’t live in here?”

He chuckles. “I’m wearing a Versace t-shirt and you think I live in the back of a club?”

My lips pull down. “Guess not.”

He doesn’t say anything else, just turns toward the table and starts gathering his stuff in one hand. With the other, he licks his finger and drags it through the line of powder on the table, rubbing it against his gums.

I snort. “Classy.”

He turns to look at me, narrowing his eyes.“Classy?Yesterday, you walked in on me mid-blowjob, but rubbing coke on my gums is where you draw the line?”

I shrug, grinning. “I’m not drawing any lines, dude. I love coke just as much as the next girl, but I could be a cop for all you know.”

“Since I can see your tits through your dress, I’m guessing you aren’t a fucking cop,” he spits back, his mouth curving into a smirk as his eyes zero in on my chest.

I laugh, rolling my eyes.

A silent moment passes through the room as our gaze’s crash, and he holds the baggie of drugs between his fingers and wiggles it in the air. “You want some?”

It takes me a moment to answer him, but I keep my eyes on his. I run through a handful of different things in my mind at once. First, I don’t know him, so it could be laced. But since I just saw him ingesting it, it probably isn’t. Second, I haven’t done coke in years, so what if I react badly to it or something?

I look him over, searching for alarm bells, ones that might stop me from doing this, but I don’t find anything particularly concerning.

Sure, he’s obviously a red flag all on his own – a walking, talking fuckboy wrapped in tattoos and sins – but nothing screams at me to leave.

“Yeah,” I say, standing up. It feels as if someone else is in control of my body when I walk across the room and drop down on the floor next to him, like I’m watching the situation play out from above or something. He licks his lips as his eyes wander over my bare legs, so I slide them under my ass and sit on them.

Tossing the stuff in his hand down on the table again, he grabs the baggie of coke and pours some out for me. He grabs a credit card that already has residue on the edge and starts cutting the pile of white powder into two lines. When he’s satisfied with the work he’s done, he grabs the rolled-up bill and looks at me, holding it out for me to take.

“You’ve done this before?” he asks. His pupils are blown wide, making his eyes look like a black abyss, as he gnaws on his bottom lip.

I don’t bother answering his question. Taking the bill, I slip it into my nostril, lean forward, and sniff the first line.

“Guess so.” He laughs.

My eyes close as the coke hits every inch of me, from my head to my toes, right down to the delicate lining of my lungs. It’s euphoria and pleasure and pain at once, a feeling like no other – and right then I forget why I stopped doing drugs in the first place.

I snort the second line, pull my head back, and gasp. “Jesus,fuck!”

Chuckling, he pulls the bill from my nose and tosses it to the table. My eyes are watering, running down my face and probably leaving a streak of mascara in their path, but I don’t care. My brain is on fire, burning and buzzing and humming as the cocaine enters my bloodstream, and I want to slide my fingers into my hair and rip it out.

He reaches forward again, brushing the tears from one of my cheeks with the back of his hand. I find the blackness of his eyes, searching them for a heartbeat before I speak.

“What’s your name?”

When he pulls his hand back, he brushes it on the fabric of his pants to get my tears off, then thinks over my question. Humming between his lips, his gaze merges with mine again, and it feels like he’s seeing through the third wall of my mind, reading every thought hiding there. I can’t tear my eyes away from his, no matter how hard I try, no matter how badly I want to look at the rest of him, study every tattoo scarred into his skin.

His voice makes me jump when he finally answers my question.

“Hayden,” he says, his lips twitching.

“Hayden,” I repeat, wanting to know how it tastes, and my voice vibrates through my throat. His name feels so good slipping from my lips that I say it again.

“Hayden.”

My blood has started to thicken, to speed up and rush to my heart, which is thrashing in my chest and trying to get free. I feel like my ribs might crack and break, making my heart and lungs surge through my skin and fall to the floor. My head hurts, but the way my skin vibrates and buzzes with pleasure makes it worth it. Everything feelsgood.Everything is denser, but lighter and brighter.

---