CHAPTER Five
THE INSIDE OF THE SUICIDE CLUB IS HAZY WITH
cigarette smoke. There are large rooms with stucco walls painted a deep purple, and black lights mingling with the neon, creating a shadowy kind of depth. The people float by, their chatter muted by the music—the beats are transfixing, heavy, and soul-scratching. I’m swayed by it, by something I forgot was there—something dark. A part of me that used to be sad and maybe still is.
James’s hand touches the small of my back as he motions to an empty bartop table. I sit down, and he stands next to me, surveying the room. “This isn’t really my idea of fun,” he says.
He doesn’t seem to feel it the way I do—the sadness. He’s not drawn to it, and I think again about our missing past, and what this moment says about it. Maybe James was never sad. Maybe I always was. For a fleeting moment, it’s like I’m slipping away, and I reach for his shirtsleeve to tug him closer, bringing me back to reality.
I must hide my insecurity well, because James kisses the top of my head, brushing his fingers along the black netting on my knee before whispering he’ll be right back. I don’t want him to leave, but I say nothing as he walks away. This place makes me feel vulnerable, exposed. Across from me a couple is in a booth, pressed against each other as they kiss, seemingly oblivious to the people around them. I avert my eyes, but then I notice the lost looks in the crowd. I’ve read The Program pamphlets, the ones my mother used to leave by the phone. The Program says those who are infected exhibit all sorts of uncharacter-istic behaviors, including promiscuity, anger, and depression.
Maybe it never occurred to the good doctors that sometimes a couple might just be hot for each other or angry or sad. It’s not always sickness.
Just as I think this, I notice a guy leaning against the stucco wall, a ring through his lip and another through his eyebrow.
His black hair is half in his eyes as he searches the room. I’m not sure if it’s his posture, or just the setting, but his desperation is palpable.
I’m reminded of where I am, the music suddenly too loud, the air too smoky. I lean my elbows on the table and put my face in my palms. I’m barely able to shake off my newly height-ened anxiety before I feel someone next to me.
“You’re kind of a downer, Sloane,” Dallas says. She’s holding a clear plastic cup filled with bright-red liquid. The club probably doesn’t trust its patrons with glass. Dallas takes a slow sip of her drink, running her gaze over me and pausing at the red scar slashed into my wrist. Her pupils are pinholes and I wonder what she’s on—if it’s just alcohol or drugs. “How many times have you tried to kill yourself?” she asks.
A hurt sound escapes my throat as her question brings up pain I can’t associate with any specific memory. But suddenly I hate her. I can see exactly what she’s doing, how she’s trying to provoke me.
“You know damn well I can’t remember,” I tell her. “But I can assure you I’m not going to kill myself now—if that’s what you’re hoping for.”
Dallas chuckles, sipping again from her drink. “Why would you think I’d want that?”
I glance over to where James is waiting at the bar, handing cash to the tattooed bartender before swirling the red liquid in one of the cups with a doubtful look. Dallas makes a tsk sound.
“Oh, please, Sloane,” she says, leaning closer to me as we both watch my boyfriend. “If I wanted James—really wanted him—I wouldn’t need you dead to take him.” I’m about to slap the drink out of her hand and tell her to sober up before I punch her lights out, when James is there, setting a cup in front of me. He doesn’t even acknowledge Dallas.
“No idea what this is,” he says to me. “But it’s the only drink they serve.”
“It’s called Bloodshot,” Dallas says. “It makes you feel things.” She grins when James glances over his shoulder at her, her lips tinged with the red liquid. She reaches to run the backs of her fingers over James’s bicep, and rather than flinch away, he stares at her like she’s lost her mind. “I’ll see you later,” she murmurs intimately to him before strolling away, earning a few eager looks from the other guys in the club—including the pierced one who’s still against the wall. When Dallas is gone, James sits.
“What the hell is wrong with her?” he asks, picking up the cup and smelling it before taking a tentative sip.
“She’s psychotic,” I say, and take a long drink to block out the doubt and worry. The taste is unbearably sweet at first, and I make a face after I swallow it. I don’t believe Dallas. She couldn’t have James—not even if I was dead. James blows out a hard breath, examining the drink.
“This is strong,” he says, pushing it aside.
I nod, taking another sip. Heat crawls down my throat, spreads through my chest—but I like it. I like how quickly it makes my body relax, my thoughts blur. I finish my drink, observing the room until James leans closer to talk next to my ear, his arm casually over my lap.
“I think that dude is on something a little heavier,” he says, motioning to the guy I’d been watching. But I’ve lost interest in the suicidal kid.
My mind swirls with comfort, and as James’s fingers draw patterns into my skin, desire. He’s midsentence when I turn and kiss him, catching him off guard for only a moment before his hand is my hair and his tongue is in my mouth. The world fades away and it’s just us, murmuring I love yous in between kisses. I’m feeling so much and thinking so little. Soon I’m out of my chair and dancing in the middle of the crowd, James pressed against me as the music builds walls around us.
Red drinks. Sad eyes. I kiss James, threading my fingers through his hair, wishing we were anywhere else. And then we are. James is leading me through a dark maze before he backs me up against a cool wall. I’m out of breath as he pulls my thigh up around his hip. He kisses my neck, my collarbone. “James.” I breathe deeply, ready to be lost completely when a bright light floods my vision.
“Hey!” a deep voice calls. James stays against me but turns toward the light, lifting his hand to block the glare. “You two can’t be in here,” the man says.
It takes too long for my focus to clear, to find we’re in some back room next to crates and boxes. My palm touches the exposed block wall behind me as light from the club filters in the open door. I’m not drunk. This is something different, something better.
“I think they put something in my drink,” I murmur as James steps back. I try to straighten my clothes, but James has to catch me by the arm when I nearly trip on my high-heeled boots. James, still flush, takes a second to realize what I’ve said.
“You sure?” he asks. Confused, he glances around at where we are, at me, and then curses under his breath. “Yeah, they did,” he agrees. I let him walk me to where the bouncer is hold-56
ing the door open. When we pass him, he shakes his head, looking more annoyed than angry.
“Keep it in the club or take it home,” the bouncer calls after us. James chuckles and tells him he’ll try his best.
When we escape into the smoky room, James pauses to look around. Low voices and loud beats surround us, and they sway me once again. I’m in a hyper-reality where nothing is wrong, nothing hurts. I like this.
“Do you feel okay?” James asks, his eyebrows pulling together in concern. I want to touch him, and I reach to put my hand on his cheek. I think about how much I love him, and before I can tell him, I get on my tiptoes and kiss him again.
“I want you,” I murmur against his lips. I’m suddenly convinced I need him, need that closeness in a way I never have before. The intensity of our touch, his mouth against mine—
“Sloane,” James says, taking my hands from his body. He leans down so his eyes are level with mine, smiling. “Although I’d like nothing more than to tear off those ridiculous clothes, I’d prefer to do it in private.” He nods his chin to the scene around us, and I’m reminded we’re still in public. I touch my forehead, trying to make sense of my feelings. I blink quickly and look back at James.
“Ecstasy?” I ask.
“I’m guessing. But I’m not sure why they’d put it in the drinks. Either way, we should get out of here. Let’s find Dallas.” I curl my lip at the mention of her name, but we begin searching the club for her anyway. Faces are a blur, and the harder I try to concentrate on them, the more difficult it becomes. Features upon features, voices all around—inside my head. I’m slowing us down, so James plants me against the wall.
“Wait here,” he says. “I’ll be right back.” I watch him disappear into the crowd, and then I lean the back of my head on the wall and close my eyes. The sweetness of the red drink has faded into a metallic, chemical taste.
“Gross,” I say, wishing for a bottle of water.
“It’s phenylethylamine,” someone next to me says. “Among other things.” I’m not entirely surprised to see the pierced boy from earlier. He turns to face me, and his eyes are even darker up close, but not nearly as dead. It’s like he’s wearing contacts.
“The drugs are meant to give euphoria, mask the depression,” he says. “But really they just f*ck us up.”
“I’ve noticed,” I say, fascinated by his face. I want to touch one of the rings, but then clench my hand into a fist to bury the thought. “Is it legal for them to drug us?” I ask him.
“It isn’t legal for us to even be here, so it’s not like we can turn them in.”
“Good point.” Although I know I’m not myself, I still like this feeling—this careless freedom. The sadness I came in with is gone. Now it’s like I’ll never be sad again. I feel invincible.
I wonder if it’s done the same thing to this guy. “What’s your name?” I ask him.
“Just call me Adam.”
“You make it sound like that’s not your real name.” He bites his lip to hide his smile. “It’s not. You know, you’re pretty clever for someone who drank an entire Bloodshot.”
“Or maybe you just hang around a lot of stupid people.” He laughs, moving closer to me as he does. When he sighs, it occurs to me his lips aren’t red—don’t have that slight red tint Dallas’s (and probably mine) have from the drink. Did he have a Bloodshot?
“We should get out of here,” Adam says, gesturing toward the door. “I have a car, a pretty nice place. Where are you staying?”
He doesn’t say it creepily, even if he is asking me to leave with him. And maybe I would have waved it off, mentioned how James would probably kick his ass, but I’m bothered by the fact he’s not giving me his real name. I am about to ask him when my boyfriend suddenly appears, walking from the crowd with Dallas trailing behind—holding hands with a guy with purple hair and way-too-skinny jeans.
James casts a suspicious glance from me and Adam. “And this conversation’s over,” he mutters, and pulls me away from the wall. I hadn’t noticed how much it was holding me up. “You really shouldn’t talk to strangers,” James adds quietly, shooting another look in Adam’s direction.
Dallas finally catches up and steps in front of us, letting go of her companion. “I’m not leaving yet,” she states. I’m about to protest, but she grins widely and holds up the keys, dangling them from her finger. “But you two go on,” she says, looking positively wasted. “I’ll get another ride back.” She nods to the guy next to her.
That seems completely reckless, but at this point, I’m not going to argue. This place is overwhelming, vexing . . . alluring.
James takes the keys from her hand and then starts toward the door. As we leave, I hear Adam’s voice.
“Have a good night, Sloane,” he calls after me. I turn and wave because he wasn’t a total jerk or anything.
“Yeah, you too.”
I follow James out, occasionally taking his arm as we pass through the bottlenecked crowd waiting to get in. It isn’t until we’re in the cool night air that I stop to look back at the building, a chill running over my skin. Because I realize . . . I never told Adam my name.