It wouldn’t be the first time.
My mouth dries as the doormen step forward. With my mask gone, they exchange glances before silently pulling the doors open.
The music assaults my ears, the pounding bass echoing the thumping of my heart as I stroll in.
Even at this early hour, the place is full. Packed, actually. More people than usual crowd the dancefloor, their faces lit with eerie flashes of light as the strobe lighting passes through the floor beneath them, creating jerky, unnatural-looking movements.
Monsters. That’s what they look like. A hungry, grasping group of animals swarming over each other.
Above their heads, elaborate chandeliers flicker with thousands of small amber lights. A fire hazard, but nobody in this city will close us down. The fire chief is probably around somewhere – no doubt buried in pussy and off his fucking face, Red creating the collateral she needs to keep him off our back for as long as we’re here.
Unusual, for us to be back here so soon. We were only here six months ago. We went from here to Boston, the trucks crammed with people and parts. And now back again.
But then, Red’s decisions have never made any sense to me.
Her reasons are her own.
A smoky, sweet-smelling haze hangs in the air, courtesy of the men and women draped on top of huge, vibrantly colored mushrooms. They dot the room around us, the flattened tops accessible only by the doors built into the giant stalks.
Decked in bejeweled outfits, Red’s caterpillars spread themselves out for the entertainment of the patrons watching, their bodies on display. They drag the hookah into their lungs from the pipes set out beside their cushioned areas, releasing it in various shapes that rise into the air before dissolving as they stretch their bodies into languid poses and bat their eyes in silent invite.
Some mushrooms are closed off, veiled curtains drawn around them. More curtains are closed than open at this hour, the shadows moving inside making it clear what’s happening. As I climb the nearest set of stairs to get to the upper balconies, the set of curtains closest to me opens up.
The girl emerges, an appreciative murmur flooding the crowd as a set of red and gold wings flare wide behind her, glittering in the light that flickers over them.
“And so the caterpillar turned into a butterfly. Amazing what a good fuck can do.”
At the cool words, my muscles lock. I force myself to breathe, my arms crossing as I glance to him. “Buck.”
He doesn’t return my greeting. Instead, he stares out at the butterfly, her wings now flapping slowly as her body moves in sync with the music. As if we haven’t seen hundreds of iterations of this particular show.
She throws herself from the top of the mushroom, wings stretching wide as she glides above the crowd on invisible wires.
My eyes drop down, taking in the shaking of Buck’s hands as he speaks. It’s bad. “She’s planning a new event. Something big. You know anything?”
My pulse spikes. Red’s events are never anything good. Not for us, at least. “No. She cut you off again, didn’t she? What did you do this time?”
“She doesn’t need a fucking excuse. I breathed. It was enough.” Buck’s hands grip the bars tightly, as if he might be able to hide the early signs of withdrawal kicking in. “But she’s not in the best of moods. Something to do with her precious Mad one beingnowhereto be found.”
My heart stops.
His tone is dark. “She’s fucking livid. And she’s quiet. Brace yourself.”
Her shouting is easier to deal with. But her silent, damning fury… that’s far worse. My chest constricts.
“Thanks for the warning.” I duck past him, but he stops me, his hand on my arm.
“Was it worth it? The great escape?”
Longing lingers in the tone of his voice. Longing for a life outside of this place, instead of the life he manages by drinking himself to oblivion over and over again until Red notices and cuts him off.
Never for long enough to fully help him, though. Just enough to punish him.
I consider his words, flashes of blue-gray eyes slipping into my head. The curve of her spine beneath my hands, sweat-soaked skin pressing against mine.
The scent of cherries.
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “It was worth it.”
