Red
Scotch burns a familiar path down my throat, smooth peat and smoke that should numb the edges but only sharpens them. The dim glow of my apartment only makes my mood worse. The leather armchair creaks under me as I lean forward, elbows on knees, phone clutched like a lifeline in my hand.
The private account that somehow synced to my device, whether a ghost from Demi's meddling or Blue's clever fingers, sits open on the screen. There are no new stories or posts, just the echo of the ones Blue uploaded earlier, then faded into the 24-hour void.
I refill the glass, the bottle clinking against crystal. Amber liquid swirls, catching the low light from the lamp. It's been too many hours since I saw and heard her, and my thumb refreshes the feed again.
Nothing appears.
I set the glass down and desperately tug the screen again, staring at the video clip she took of herself putting on perfume. Her mouth fills the first frame, lips parted, tongue visible for half a second before the clip cuts. The caption underneath reads,Can you smell me?
My pulse kicks harder just remembering the way her voice sounded in the video that disappeared. Her low, breathy moan taunts me, and visions of her slick fingers sliding between her thighs while she stared straight into the lens taunts me.
Then jealousy hits me when I think of the third story showing my bite mark on her collarbone, her skin flushed around the purple edges, and the caption,Property of no one now. Looking for a new owner.Each word lands like a slap I can't look away from.
I drain the rest of the scotch, reach for the bottle on the floor beside the chair, and pour a generous amount. My eyes flick back to the phone.
Nothing appears, so I force myself to set it down and fixate on the window. The city lights smear across the glass in long streaks of gold and red. I stare at them until my vision blurs at the edges.
She knows I'm watching. That's the only explanation that makes sense. She hacked into my account, changed the settings so I get the notifications, then started posting exactly what would keep me glued to the screen.
It's punishment and an invitation. I can't decide which hurts more.
The phone vibrates once against the wood. I snatch it up before the second buzz can land. Demi's name lights the screen. It's not the private account, but it's tagged in her story.
There's no discipline left in me. I quickly swipe on it, and the video loads, showcasing the new club, Violet Hour.
Neon washes over Blue's face in pulses of purple and electric blue. She's laughing, head thrown back, hair swinging in that wild blue-red cascade.
A guy I don't recognize has his arm slung around her shoulders, casual, comfortable. His fingers rest just above the plunging neckline of her sheer top.
My gut flips, and then she leans into him instead of shrugging him off, moving her mouth close to his ear, and saying something that makes him grin wider.
My jaw locks so hard, my teeth ache. I swipe to the next story, and Cloud appears.
Great.
I take a large swig of scotch, barely feeling the burn as it travels down my throat.
Blue and her dance between two men, their bodies rolling to the bass line, hips swaying in tight circles. One guy's hands settle on Blue's waist. She doesn't pull away. She spins, hair whipping, and throws a teasing glance over her shoulder straight at the camera.
She meant that for me.
I should close the app, delete every trace of her accounts, and go to bed. Instead, I refresh Demi's feed.
Another video pops up.
Blue's at the bar, her shot glass raised, toasting with the group. Her red lips curve around the rim before she tips it back.
The tall, dark-haired guy beside her, with his sleeves rolled to his elbows, leans in and murmurs something against her temple.
She laughs again, bright and unrestrained, the sound cutting through the club noise and straight into my chest.
Anger coils low in my gut, hot and tight. It shouldn't. I told her to move on. I walked out of the house and left her because staying would have gotten me killed and her trapped. So I did the right thing. But watching her glow under someone else's hands makes my vision tunnel.
I stand up too fast. The room tilts for a second before it rights itself. I cross to the window and press my palm against the cool glass. Thecity sprawls below, with cars crawling along the streets like insects and people moving in clusters, laughing, touching, and living.
Blue's among them tonight, and I'm here alone with a bottle and a screen full of proof that she's not breaking the way I keep picturing.
