“I’m fine,” I say, even though I’m not, and I let him lead me away from the carnage, back toward the sticky, beer-wet comfort of the kitchen.
For a minute, I think about leaving. I could just walk out, call a rideshare, go home and scrub the memory from my brain. But then I think of Kent, and how he’d tease me for bailing, and how stupid it would be to let some assholes ruin my night.
I plant my boots, breathe deep, and tell myself it’s just another story. Just another thing to survive.
But as Clay pours me a drink, I can’t help but look back, up the stairs, and wonder how many girls have said yes.
And what happens to the ones who don’t.
Downstairs isa different kind of chaos: the party’s hit its stride, a sticky, pulsing mess of bodies everywhere, voices gone raw from screaming over the music. For a second, I’m just another girl in a too-tight skirt, clutching my purse, my head numb fromthe heat and the afterimage of what I just saw. Clay hands me my drink and lounges next to me, his hand skimming the small of my back, light and easy.
“Let’s go back to the dance floor,” he says.
I nod my agreement as he takes my hand. But just as we pass the stairs, his hand slips from my palm to my wrist. The grip is sudden, fingers locking around the joint with a pressure that’s a little too insistent to be anything but deliberate. He doesn’t say anything, just leans in close — the way you do to be heard over the throb of bass — and steers me off to the right, away from the living room, into a narrower hallway, crowded but darker, with fewer people passing through.
The mood shifts instantly. I try to laugh it off, but my voice sticks in my throat. “Hey,” I say, “are you kidnapping me?”
Clay’s grin is fixed in place, a little sharky. “If I was, I wouldn’t tell you.”
He tugs, gently at first, but with a force that brooks no argument. My heels catch on the warped floorboards. The hallway gets darker with every step — no windows, the only light the sickly fluorescents above the kitchen archway at the other end. Doors line the hallway, mostly closed, some with signs on them (“PRIVATE,” “BROTHERS ONLY,” “STAY OUT UNLESS YOU WEIGH LESS THAN 120 LBS”). At the end, one door stands half-open, a rectangle of pure black.
I pull my hand, but he tightens his grip. My bones grind. “Clay,” I say, trying to keep my voice light, “I should really go find Emmeline.”
He laughs, low and easy. “Emmeline’s fine. She’s probably making out with someone in the coat closet.” He takes anotherstep toward the door, and my feet follow because there’s nowhere else to go. “I just want to show you something in my room. Promise it’s not weird.”
I want to scream, but the sound would vanish under the music, or maybe just bounce back at me. The hallway feels even narrower than it is, the press of the walls herding me straight for that door. My free hand finds the wall, nails scraping along the paint. There’s a sharp edge where the drywall meets a nail head, and I can’t tell if the sting in my palm is from fear or from the little burrs of paint under my nails.
“No, this isn’t necessary,” I babble. “You can just tell me about it.”
But Clay is still dragging me along, and we’re at the doorway now. The room beyond is all black — no lights, just the after-burn of a strobe from the party leaking in at the threshold, like a pulse. The air is colder, and a chill runs down my spine.
He stops at the edge and finally turns to face me, his hand still locked on my wrist. “You ever tried molly?” he asks, like he’s offering gum. His tone is weirdly gentle, almost sweet, but there’s a flicker in his eyes I don’t like at all.
I shake my head, try to yank my hand back again. “I don’t use. I can’t — I get really sick from that stuff.”
He cocks his head, still smiling. “Not even once?”
“No,” I say, sharper now, “and I’m not going to start tonight.”
He laughs again, but it’s not friendly. “You don’t have to freak out. It’s not like that. I’m just saying, it would help you relax.”
His thumb presses hard into the inside of my wrist, right where the blood runs closest to the surface. I feel a pinprick of pain,and realize how strong he actually is, how easily he could break something if he really wanted to.
The dark room yawns beside us, its gravity pulling at my feet. The pulse of the party recedes behind a wall of soundproofed silence. If I scream, no one will hear it.
Clay gives a little tug, not much but enough to tip me over the threshold. My boots catch on the edge of the carpet, and suddenly we’re inside, the door closing behind us with a sound like a mouth sealing shut.
Inside, my eyes adjust to the black: there’s a mattress on the floor, a couple of broken chairs, the faint glint of bottles on a dresser. I don’t see anyone else, but I can hear breathing — mine, and his.
He lets go of my wrist, but only to put both hands on my shoulders. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to,” he says, and the words are almost comical, like a parody of consent. His voice is soft, meant to be reassuring, but it only makes my skin crawl.
I try to step back, but his hands tighten, holding me in place. “Clay,” I say, voice wavering now, “I really want to go.”
“Okay,” he says, and the word is a lie.
He leans in, slow, and presses his mouth to mine. His lips are dry, the taste of beer and Red Bull and something sour. I try to turn my face, but he holds it with one hand, thumb digging into my cheek, his other hand sliding around my waist.
I go rigid. My arms stiffen, and for a second I forget what to do, how to get out, how to move.
