But I don’t tell her the truth: that even when I’m here, drowning myself in bass and smoke, it still feels like my father’s hand is wrapped around the back of my neck.
The phantom pressure is a brand. A constant, suffocating reminder of the cage I just left. Suddenly, the noise of the bar is too much, the air too thick to breathe. I need a moment. I need four walls and a lock. A place to put the mask back on straight before it shatters in front of everyone.
I give Frankie a tight, forced smile. “Be right back,” I murmur, sliding off the stool.
The walk to the bathroom is a short, blurry journey through bodies and noise, my reflection a ghostly stranger in the dark mirror behind the bar. The bathroom door swings shut behind me, the click of the lock a small, satisfying sound of finality. It’s mercifully empty. Cold tile. Harsh light. A mirror that’s too honest.
I lean on the sink, my breath shallow, my eyes dragging over the reflection I’ve learned to perfect. For a split second, his reflection lingers behind mine. Not real. Not there. But it still makes me turn. The black tank still clings, its straps slipping from my shoulders. The snake-print skirt rides higher than it should, the belt tilted from shifting too much. I tug it down, then up, then leave it crooked—hating how much it feels like I wore it for him.
I trace the chain at my throat, the metal cool against overheated skin. I remember the way his hand pressed against the wall beside me, inches from touching it. Inches from touching me.
Stupid. Reckless. Unnecessary.
I splash cold water over my wrists, watching it drip down, pooling against the porcelain. My reflection doesn’t soften.
I came here because it felt like control. But maybe I’m just my father’s echo, mistaking rebellion for freedom. Maybe control isn’t about defiance. It’s about choosing who I’ll be when no one’s watching. Walking into the Outsiders’ den was my way of flipping off my father—proof I could make choices he couldn’tscript. He doesn’t own this world, and he doesn’t own me here. But I’m still sneaking around, aren’t I? Slipping into this place like a thief, hoping he doesn’t notice. Playing rebel while the strings are still tangled around my throat.
The truth settles like lead in my chest. I’m not free. Not yet.
I straighten, wiping the water from my skin, smoothing the wrinkles from my skirt like I can erase the thoughts too. In the mirror, my face is composed again. Controlled. Polished. The daughter he raised. The girl East doesn’t get to unravel.
“You don’t get to care,” I whisper to my reflection, and the words cut sharper than when I threw them at him.
Because part of me still wants him to. It's always been him. Even when another boy's smile was the only thing that felt like home, it was always East in the shadows of my mind.
I press my lips together until they stop trembling.
No more waiting for East to remember me. No more bending to my father’s will. I might not know how yet, but I’ll cut myself loose. When I do, no one will ever own me again. Frankie told me to be a snake. Maybe that’s the trick: stop being prey. Stop waiting to be saved.
I push through the door, and the noise hits like a wave. The bass is a living thing, pounding a steady rhythm in the soles of my boots. I find Frankie at the bar, and a single look passes between us. In my eyes, she sees the battle I had with my reflection. She doesn’t ask. She just slides two shots across the counter.
“Tequila,” she calls over the music. “The good stuff. For a bad night.”
“It’s only Tuesday,” I say, and for once tonight, the words feel light and free.
Frankie just grins. “Tuesday needs a better PR team.” She clinks her glass against mine, and we down them in one go. Thetequila burns, a sharp, clean fire that feels like it’s chasing away the fear in my veins.
Through the haze of the music, a shift ripples through me. I glance up from Frankie’s laughing face and across the crowded room. East is there. He’s standing by the pool table, but he’s not playing. He’s just watching. His expression is unreadable, but the weight of his gaze is a physical touch, a question I don’t have the answer to yet.
Instead of panic, a different heat settles in my stomach—not of longing, but of resolve. A quiet fire. I’d made a promise to myself in the bathroom mirror, and I intend to keep it.
I look away first, not out of fear, but because this decision is mine to make. I turn back to Frankie, the warmth of the tequila now feeling less like an escape and more like fuel.
“My father’s going to be so mad,” I say, but a real smile touches my lips. “He’s going to kill me if I don’t get home soon.”
“Let him try,” she says, grabbing my arm, a hint of something feral in her eyes. “He won’t get through me.”
We laugh and order one more round. The night hums like a live wire. For once, it doesn’t sound like a warning; it sounds like freedom. Just one. For the road I’m about to build.
Chapter 7
Darla
Thewhisperofthechampagne silk dress clings like a second skin, its delicate lace sleeves binding my arms like gilded restraints. The fabric is a constant, suffocating reminder of what I am supposed to be. Each breath I draw is shallow because the bodice constricts my ribs. It’s a silent decree to hold my posture, keep my spine rigid, and my rebellion muted. It feels like the dress itself is dictating my every move, squeezing the fight out of me.
I face the antique mirror, a stranger with polished pearls and a carefully blank canvas where my expression should have been. The girl in the reflection is a porcelain doll, flawless and hollow. She is not the girl from the clubhouse in a snake-print skirt anda defiant smirk; she is not the girl who stood in a back alley and felt the world tilt at the nearness of a boy with haunted eyes. This girl in the mirror is a lie my parents constructed, and tonight, I am forced to wear her.
The doorbell’s melodic chime slices through the hushed grandeur of the foyer. The candle flame on the entry table shivers, its light bending like it senses what’s coming. It’s a death knell, each peal a hammer blow against my ribs, sending my stomach plummeting with the finality of a blade meeting bone.Showtime. My heart leaps into my throat, a panicked bird desperate for escape. I press my trembling hands against the cold silk, willing them to be still, as a cold sweat pricks at my hairline. What happens if I fail? What happens if I can’t play this part tonight? The worst-case scenario plays out in my mind: a scandal, my father's wrath, the locks on my gilded cage clicking shut for good.
