DRAWN (32 page)

          “It’s ten o’clock already.”

         
No fucking kidding, Mom? I thought when the short hand’s on ten and the long hand’s on twelve it means it’s one o’clock.

         
I don’t say anything.

“You’re still under probation.”

No fucking surprise? I thought that pink slip you got was a love letter from the principal.

Another deep breath. “You don’t have to worry. I’m on top of things. And I just need to drop by at Jace’s tonight to check some stuff about my
manga
.”

“I’m just worried about you, Kat. You don’t look so good.”

Aww, Mom. Stop flattering me. And don’t you know that having dark bags under your eyes are the in thing now?

“I’m good, Mom. You really have nothing to be worried about.”

She sighs. “Just…take care, okay?”

Duh. What else am I gonna do? Not take---

Stop, bitter, heartbroken, sarcastic self! You brought this on yourself. Of course my parents would be worried about me. They’ve found out I was a high school boy’s sexual plaything. I mean, how perverted can your little girl get, right?

My skin itches at the thought. I have a desperate urge to run to my room and take another bath. Lately, I’ve been spending hours in the shower. But no matter how much I scrub, I still feel dirty.

“I just need to…get out, Mom. Please? My grades are cool. My work’s cool. I’m cool.” I’ll give you three guesses which part of that is a lie.

“Kat---”

I look at her, and she stops speaking.

I hate seeing Kelly so sad, hate it more because I know that I’m the cause of it.

Mom, I’m sorry. I just want this pain to go away. I just want to stop hurting.

But out loud I hear myself saying, “Just give me some space, okay?” I hurry out, closing the door behind me with a loud bang.

This is
not
me.

This is just
not
me.

But for the bloody life of me, I can’t think of a way to make myself change back to the way I used to be before Yuki made me his whore.

          It’s a quarter before midnight when I meet up with Megan and her latest boyfriend, Hubert, who’s in my Lit class. He’s short, chubby, and loaded. But what she really likes about him is how great he is in the sack. Ugly guys are more generous lovers, she whispered to me during detention. We’ve been detention mates three times in a row this week.

          Hubert whistles when I reach them. “Smoking!”

          He’s probably referring to how half of my boobs are popping out of my smaller-than-small black dress, but I pretend to myself he’s referring to the overall package. It’s taken me ages to get my hair big and curly and work on my makeup.

          Megan gives me a brief hug. “Are you really sure you’re
the
Katerina Chariot I know? The one who can’t say ‘fuck’ without blushing?”

          I smile sweetly, gesturing to the long queue of people waiting to get past the velvet ropes barricading the club’s entrance. “If I see someone cute enough tonight, I’m going to fuck his brains out.”

          Megan laughingly curls her arm around mine. “You have been so crazy lately. Are you on drugs?”

          “I wish.” I mean it. At least that would have logically explained the restlessness that’s kept me awake at night and running on adrenalin the whole day. I’ve tried to quench it by working, studying – I’ve even decided randomly to read all the
Johns
in my Christmas reading list, but it’s just not enough. I feel like I have to do something bad. Something slut-worthy and then I’m all good.

Her voice lowers. “Is this because of the Jap?”

          “Who are you talking about?” I make my eyes go wide.

          She purses her lips. “Got it. No more talk about Japs we don’t know.”

          “Hurry up, girls,” Hubert says, walking ahead of us. We follow him to the back exit of Squeeze, where a pair of MIBs with shades is posted on each side. He gives them an envelope, which contains three hundred-dollar bills, one from each of us. The MIB in the left takes it, opening the door without a word.

          And just like that, we’re in.

         
Squeeze
is one of the few clubs in West Palm Beach that’s known for having an unofficial open-doors policy for teens. You just need enough money to get in. Housed in what used to be a
butcher house,
the club’s owner has kept all the chains hanging from the ceiling, just to add a unique edge to the place I guess. Strobe lights shine down on us from all directions, and its reflected glare on the mirror finish of the club’s tables make me squint. Everything here is silver. I feel like I’m being sterilized somehow.

          Even on a Thursday night, the club’s packed and only another white envelope from Hubert’s gives us a chance to snag one of the tables in the second-floor VIP area.

          Thirty minutes later and we’re all pleasantly tipsy. None of us has to stay sober since Hubert has his driver waiting.

          “Want another beer?” Hubert yells the question out. It’s the only way to be heard over David Guetta’s music. Alcohol’s totally easy to order in Squeeze. You don’t even have to show a fake ID. You just need to order it from the girls in black and
never
from those wearing the club’s standard checkered uniform.

          I count the bottles in front of me, squinting when their bodies blur for a moment, their glass bodies overlapping in my gaze. I think I’ve had two…no…four. Yes, I think I’ve had…I frown. Okay, now I have it. That’s four.

          I grin. “Make it two!”

          “I’m not drinking anymore,” Megan says.

          My grin widens. “I know!”

          We stare at each other before we start laughing like crazy hyenas. I have no idea why we’re laughing, and I pretty much don’t care to figure it out. All I know that the more I laugh, the more I feel that pleasant humming buzz inside of me. It feels almost as good as orgasm. Almost. But still.

Behind Megan, a cute guy wearing a dark blue jacket smiles sexily at me. I smile back at him. Being a slut is fun. You totally don’t have anything to be conscious about anymore. They think the worst of you already, so it’s not like you can do anything worse.

“You know what time it is?” the DJ shouts over the music.

          “Grinding time,” the crowd shouts back.

          As thunderous applause rocks the club, and girls start climbing up the tables, I look at my drinking buddies questioningly. “Grinding time?”

          “It’s their weekly contest,” Hubert explains with a grin.

          “What kind of contest?”

          “Ladies dance solo then those who get picked up as finalists get to pick their partners and grind on the ledge below. Winning pair gets to split a hundred bucks between them.”

          Our black girl arrives with my beer, taking away the empty bottles with her when she leaves. I take a gulp before asking, “What’s grinding?”

          Megan gapes. “You seriously don’t know what grinding is?”

          “Duh. I wouldn’t have asked if I did.”

          She purses his lips. “I’m not sure a nice girl like you can do it anyway.”

          My eyes narrow. “Is that a dare?”

          “Well…”

          “Watch me.” I climb up our table, half-full beer bottle still in one hand.

          Hubert whistles. “Yeah, baby.”

          I blow him a kiss.

          Megan laughs. “Are you serious?”

          “Another lady’s up at the VIP,” the DJ announces, waving a hand toward me.

          I wave back, shimmying my hips down the way I saw Demi Moore did in Striptease.

          “And she’s uber hot!”

          Hoots, yells, and applause follow just as guys surge toward my table from all directions.

          The crowd around me gets wilder and wilder as I try to imitate all the Shakira moves I know. The humming inside my mind becomes louder, and my body feels like I’m floating. I take another gulp of the beer, licking my lips before smacking them close.

          The guys roar even louder.

          “Beautiful girl in black at the VIP, you are IN!”

          “That’s you,” Megan shrieks.

           People suddenly grip my waist and legs. The next thing I know, I’m lying on a bed of hands. Panic blinds me for a moment, and I’m at the point of screaming when I realize I’m being body-lifted toward the ledge.

          Oh. Cool. I’m Rockstar KC all of a sudden.

          I raise one hand in the air, just like a rockstar, and the crowd goes crazy.

          This is really cool.

          Somewhere along the way, my beer gets lost and then I’m dumped on the ledge, disoriented, standing in front of countless leering faces. The huge booming speakers are right behind the ledge, turning the fast-paced but seductive music of Usher into the heartbeat of my world.

         
Grind. Grind. Grind.

         
The crowd’s chanting, fist-pumping the air.

          There are three other girls on the ledge, and I study them open-mouthed. Apparently, grinding’s just like sex – without the penetration.

          Umm, okay. I think I can handle that.

          I point to the guy in a white shirt and preppy vest trying not so subtly to check out the color of my undies. With his plaid cap to finish off his look, he looks more like he’s about to play golf than go clubbing, but his face also looks reassuringly familiar. I’m pretty sure he’s someone from school. That spells safe enough for me.

          Crooking my finger toward him, I ask, “Wanna dance?”

          He doesn’t need a second invitation, is all I can say.

          We start grinding.

          Golf Guy is hard against me, and another pleasant buzz runs through my body.

          I Am Such A Slut.

          I’m loving it.

          “Get down there, KC!”

          KC?

          I peer down at the crowd and see my friends staring – well, frowning really – at me. Lace is in hoodies and jeans, while Jace has on a gray sleeveless shirt and – shorts? Jace is wearing shorts to a club?

          Never mind. I have no idea why they’re here, but the more, the merrier. I grin at them. “Wanna come up and join me?” Golf Guy positions himself at my back, his arm going around my waist from behind. We grind some more.

          “Get down now!” Lace scowls.

          I pout. “Let me win this contest first.” I wriggle my butt toward Golf Guy.

          “Hottie in black is kiiiiillliiiing it!” The DJ yells at his microphone.

          I look at Lace smugly and shout, “I’m totally winning this.”

          But she’s no longer looking at me. She and Jace are talking. When they finish, Jace gives me a weird look before he makes his way out of the crowd.

          Whatever.

          I spin around to face Golf Guy, so fast that I totter a little in my stilettos. He keeps me from falling by grabbing my butt.

          “Naughty!” I wag a finger at him, but I’m grinning.

          He flashes me a mock smile of humble apology. “Sorry.”

          I twirl my arms around him. “You better make it up by helping me win this contest.”

          He wets his lips. “Leave it to me, baby.” And the next thing I know, he’s trying to lick my chest.

          I push him away. “Gross!”

          “But you said you wanted to win!” He actually sounds hurt.

          “Not like that!” Suddenly I don’t feel good anymore. I want to get off the ledge, but then I see Lace still frowning at me from below, and pride keeps me there.

          “Let’s go and leave that schmuck,” she shouts between gritted teeth.

          “I’m not a schmuck!” Golf Guy protests.

          “Gotta win the contest first.” Shit, I want another beer. I’m starting to feel dirty again.

          Golf Guy’s grinding from behind again.

          It makes me want to throw up.

          Trying to distract myself, I scan the crowd, squinting against the light so I can see more of the faces who are staring at me. I think I see Jace making his way back to me, but I’m not really sure.

          “Get down there, please, KC?”

          Shit. Lace sounds miserable now. Why do I keep making the people around me sad?

          This is not me.

          This is not me.

          How do I fucking stop this new me from taking over?

          The huge glass entrance doors slide open, distracting me. It’s one-thirty now, and as far as I know, they only let people in until one-fifteen. I frown, trying to see who’s---