How the hell are we going to get Alaric out of here without him spiraling into a panic attack?
That’s the last thing we need right now.
Koen breaks the silence. “I have an idea…”
FOURTEEN
Exhaustion and desperation can’t really be masked by vanilla body spray but fuck if the locker room at Euphoria doesn’t try.
I’m sitting on a bench, my back against the cold metal lockers, freshly done with my stage routine. Everything aches, from the soles of my feet to the tips of my fingers, but that deep, familiar pain in my chest is worse.
The one that never really leaves.
Tonight, everything feels off. My body is shaking, my muscles scream, and I’m still feeling nauseous as hell. The aftermath of Koen’s mind games has stuck with me, lingering in my bones like a sickness I can’t shake.
Fuck him.
My fingers twitch, an old itch resurfacing, begging for relief. Just one drink wouldn’t hurt, right? When he’s not even here? Just enough to take the edge off. But I know better now.
After I got home from that so-calledtrainingwith the twins earlier, I tried to drink, hoping the burn of whiskey would wash it all away—Koen’s coercion, the intensity, the loss of control. I’d made it halfway through the bottle before I puked it all up like Koen had intended.
That fucking bastard.
The memory of his smirk makes my blood boil. He wants me sober,needsme sober, for whatever they’ve got planned. And now? Now I can’t even numb myself, can’t take the edge off the pain the way I used to. No alcohol. Just…me.
Rawdogging life.
I tug at my pink wig, my fingers trembling, but I stop myself from pulling it off.Who would’ve thought that doing my job sober would be this fucking hard?Glitter is supposed to be untouchable, magnetic, but tonight, she feels fragile. The thought of facing everything—the Lane twins, my own emotions—without alcohol feels impossible.
You can get through this,I tell myself again. The truth is, I’m not so sure I can.
I let out a shaky breath and lean my head back against the locker, staring up at the ceiling, trying to keep the tears at bay. I can’t go home, not like this. The idea of going back to that tiny, cluttered apartment and facing the silence without a bottle in my hand makes my stomach turn. I need something to take the edge off, something to get my mind out of this spiral.
If I can’t drink, then I need a different kind of high. I need someone.
A body.
Vortex is out of the question, thanks to Hottie, but Vegas has no shortage of clubs. There’s always someone willing to fill the void, but even thinking about it feels hollow. Empty. Cold.
I’m so fucking tired of this.
I close my eyes, the weight of everything pressing down on my chest, suffocating me. My fingers dig into the velvet of the bench beneath me, searching foranythingto anchor me. The itch for oblivion creeps up my spine, but instead of giving in, I let my mind drift to somewhere warmer.
Tuscany.
I force myself to picture it, dragging my thoughts away from the neon haze of Vegas to sun-drenched hills.
The air is thick with the scent of lavender and warm earth. Fields of gold and green stretch out beneath a sky so wide it feels as if it could swallow me whole. Cypress trees line winding dirt roads, their dark silhouettes cutting through the soft, golden light of the late afternoon.
The ache in my chest loosens a little. I can almost feel the warmth on my skin, the way the sun seeps into my bones, chasing the chill away.
The faint rustle of olive leaves in a breeze so gentle it’s like a whisper against my cheek.
In this imagined space, the weight of expectation lifts. There’s no need to beGlitter,no need to be anyone but myself. I inhale deeply, the imagined scent of vineyards and wildflowers filling my lungs, pushing out the stale air of the locker room. I let my mind wander to the feeling of dipping my toes into a cool stream, the pebbles smooth beneath my feet.
The quiet is absolute, a blanket of calm wrapping around me—no pulsing music, leering eyes, or grasping hands.
My fingers loosen their grip, the tremors fading, and the tears that had threatened to fall retreat.
