Going into a smash room to hook up with a mysterious DJ I was fangirling over is out of character for me, and I have no idea if it would have happened if I hadn’t been drugged, but it’s not a big deal. And the pieces of my memories I do have lead me to believe I enjoyed what went down in the smash room, so whatever. It’s not the craziest thing I’ve done, not by far.
Carefully, I feel around where I’m sitting to try and figure out where we are and orient myself in the room, or wherever we’re being held. The floor is smooth and cold, but the type of cold that comes from being underground and exposed to the elements.
Are we in a cellar of some sort? Or maybe an unfinished basement?
“Did you have anything to drink when you were working?” I ask.
“Just water. I only drink water when I’m at gigs.”
I tilt my head in the general direction of his voice. The dark is disorienting, but it doesn’t sound like he’s too far away.
“From bottles?”
“Yeah. Having open cups around that much equipment is a rookie mistake.”
“Were the bottles sealed when they gave them to you?”
“I think so?” He makes a frustrated sound. “I can’t remember, but that’s not really something I worried about before, so it’s possible they were already open. You’re thinking we were drugged?”
“Yeah. I don’t get more than mildly tipsy when I’m alone. I can’t remember how many drinks I had, but it wouldn’t have been more than a couple.” Moving slowly, I drag myself across the floor and toward the sound of his voice. “I’m coming over to you, so don’t freak out,” I tell him. “Are you near a wall or anything?”
“Yeah. I wasn’t too far from it when I woke up, found it by feeling around.”
Using his voice as a guide, I scoot closer, using my feet to search out any obstacles that might be in my way.
“Do you think anyone else is in here with us?” he asks nervously.
“I don’t know,” I say honestly. “I guess we’ll find out soon enough.”
“Yeah,” he says, sounding as uneasy as I feel about the possibility that we’re not alone in here.
“Can you think of any reason someone would do this to you?” I ask.
“Not unless they want money.”
“Being a DJ pays well?”
He snort-laughs. “You could say that. “
“Like, how much are we talking?” I ask as I scoot across the floor.
“My fee for the rave was just shy of one million.”
“Shit,” I scoot closer. “That answers my next question of why you took the job when it was such a small event.”
“Almost a mil for three hours of work seemed like a good trade-off.” He huffs out a soft laugh. “Guess I should have known it was too good to be true.”
“Is that not your usual rate?”
“Not for an event that size. Those usually only pay half that, sometimes less. Big venues always pay more.”
My foot brushes something. “Is that you?”
“I think so?” A hand closes around the toes of my shoe. “Is that you?”
“Yes.”
He lets go of my shoe. “Thank god, because I was about to piss myself if you said no.”
