This is officially the night that will never end.
Look, I know vampires don’t need sleep—or food or water, for that matter—but I, for one, could use a bed…or possibly a coma I won’t wake up from. Honestly, I’m not picky.
Abigail drags me over by the elbow to yet another group of women, officially making me the adopted puppy she can’t get rid of without a turn of conscience now.
I pick another flute of champagne off a passing tray, willing myself to sip it with intention rather than downing the damn thing—like I did with the two before it—because my head is starting to feel a wee bit tipsy.
I’m not much of a drinker, and my stomach is still empty, so the staggering effects of alcohol are well on their way to opening me up to even more vulnerability.
At the same time, the idea of numbing myself as a way to cope with the batshit-crazy enthusiasm of the gross majority of these women is compelling, to say the least.
“Romy, this is Chastity, Margo, and Hillary,” Abigail says by way of introduction. “Romy, these are the girls.” They all giggle at Abigail’s mayoral ability to somehow already know nearly everyone in the room after an hour of mingling, and I suck in a breath before slapping on a smile and offering a halfhearted wave.
“Hi,” I say. “Nice to meet all of you.”
“I like your dress, Romy,” the woman I think Abigail said was Hillary adds. Her smile seems genuine, if a little timid, and I latch on to the authenticity immediately.
“Thanks. My mother didn’t love the yellow, but I convinced her because of the fabric. The only thing I’ve been wishing all night is that I could have talked her into a blazer. It’s freezing in here.”
“I know!” Hillary agrees, officially breaking us off into our own little conversation as Abigail and the other two cackle about something else and point to the big projection screens at the top of the wall.
“What is that that they’re playing up there?” I ask Hillary, hoping she can break it down without sounding like it’s an opportunity to win a million-dollar lottery. Abigail’s been great—really. I’ve been included and the time has passed exponentially faster than it would have if I’d been left to fester in my own thoughts, but the delight she holds in every fiber of her being over this whole charade is starting to wear on me.
“Oh. I think one of the other girls said it’s a slideshow from some of the past bonding nights or something. I guess it’s supposed to get us excited about meeting our own vampire.” Her voice doesn’t hold quite as much disdain as my own, but it’s not euphoric either.
I count the change of pace as a win.
“Is it working for you like it’s working for me?” I ask sarcastically, and she laughs.Thank God.
“It is what it is. I just…hope he’s nice. And hot. A six-pack and an unbelievably white smile wouldn’t hurt, you know?”
“Oh yeah. I mean, I could go for men who wouldn’t—”
Before I can reply fully, I’m hit with a sudden wave of discomfort. My stomach turns and jumps, sending a jolt of panic into my throat I can’t swallow down. It’s the weirdest feeling ofawarenessI’ve ever had, and for lack of a better explanation, it feels like someone’swatchingme—closely.
Spinning in a tight but slow circle, I scan the women around me for a lingering stare, but I come up empty entirely. They’re all occupied, either chatting with one another or watching the sideshow slideshow above, and the security, too, seems to be conveniently missing.
It must be the alcohol taking a turn for the worse.
“Hey, are you okay?” Hillary asks. Not only did I stop talking to exercise a bout of paranoia right in the middle of a sentence, but I’m holding my stomach like I’m about to be hit with the shits. I can’t imagine how it looks, but truly, I feel too bad to care.
Increasingly worried that I’ll get sick right here in the middle of this reception, I excuse myself with a politebe right backto Hillary and take off at a speed walk for the main door.
The coast looks clear as I push through the heavy wood, intent on finding a bathroom and pronto, but just like this whole farce, it’s nothing more than an illusion.
A Hulk-sized security dude in a black suit steps in front of me and holds up a hand as the other goons come toward me from the opposite end of the hall. They’re pushing racks of some kind of clothing, I think, and the wheels at the bottom all rolling together create an overbearing hum on the plushness of the carpet.
“I just need to go to the bath—”
“One moment,” the man with his hand still held out in front of me interrupts.
As the racks roll by me and through the doors I’ve just come out of, I get a better look at their contents, and my own—stomach contents, specifically—take a turn for the worse.
Holy shit. Those are racks of lingerie!
Panties. Corsets. Bras. Teddies. The whole nine fucking yards. It’s a mobile Victoria’s Secret in this place, and I amhorrifiedat the possibilities of what that means.
If I weren’t already feeling sick, I’d be charging toward it now.
