White Lines (20 page)

He pulls me roughly toward him so that I am pressed against his chest, his face inches from my own, his hands pinning my wrists to my sides, fingers encircling my bones like handcuffs. He snakes one hand over my stomach and I stop breathing entirely. His palm encircles my left breast, first gently, then pinching the nipple hard so that my mouth opens in pain. I am stunned, my heart stopped dead, stillborn. Christoph’s lips curl into a cruel twist, moving closer to mine. If he kisses me, something will sputter and die inside me. I can feel his breath on my skin, smell the champagne mixed with the heat of his mouth, something vaguely metallic, and my stomach turns violently. The strong scent of his cologne fills my throat and I almost gag, my gut heaving, the room drenched in a haze of candles and the purity of white flowers, petals outstretched.

I channel Alexa as hard as I can, imagine I am inside that perfect body and blond waterfall of hair. I look Christoph dead in the eye with the last bit of strength I have left. I can see the light stubble on his cheeks and chin, the gray in his hair. When my voice exits my mouth, it is measured and cool, the voice of someone whose pulse never climbs above fifty beats per minute, the voice of someone who doesn’t take crap from anyone.

“Good point. I mean about the fact that I’m still
young enough
to be tucked into
bed.
I wonder what the cops would have to say about that little tidbit of information. Or my parents, for instance.”

There is silence as I stand as still as I can, one eyebrow raised for emphasis. I know it is just as likely that he will knock me to the floor, throwing his body on top of me, as it is that he will let me go. A dead look crosses his face, an iron door sealing off his emotions, the anger contained deep inside his body.

“Get the hell out of here,” he says, removing his hands from my wrists, his eyes sliding away as he turns his back on me to face the window. “Before I lose what’s left of my patience.” It’s snowing harder now, and the fat flakes are coating the window in a layer of frost, obscuring the glittering night.

As I walk quickly toward the door, I don’t turn around to see if Christoph is watching me. I concentrate on the sound of my shoes, the rush of wind that hits me squarely in the face as the door opens, the musty, damp smell of the hallway in my nostrils, the mutiny in my guts as I bend over the first flight of stairs, dry heaving, my stomach churning spasmodically.

TWENTY-EIGHT

WHEN I WALK
into the Tunnel basement fifteen minutes later, the night is in full swing, the dance floor teeming with energy. All I want is to be somewhere safe and familiar, somewhere I belong. Smoke drifts above my head, and my nose fills with the smell of sweat mixed with spilled liquor and perfume. I push through the crowd, stumbling a little in my heels and swaying queasily as a guy wearing a vinyl catsuit grabs me by the elbow until I’m upright once again.

“Steady there, girl,” he says, yelling above the music and patting me as though I am a horse. I grab my midsection as if I can somehow stop it from rebelling with this small pressure alone. I keep moving until I reach the bar, arriving just as a girl seated on a bar stool gets up, moving off into the crowd with a vacant look. I sit down on the stool gratefully and try to catch Ethan’s attention. Since almost puking I feel a little better, but not even remotely approaching good, or even OK. Now that I’m back in familiar surroundings, my heart is pattering away normally in my chest and I feel a little less like I’m about to keel over and die, which I guess is an improvement, all things considered.

“Are you OK?” Ethan stands above me behind the bar, his golden-brown hair hanging to his shoulders in waves, biceps chiseled beneath the rolled-up sleeves of his black T-shirt.

“That seems to be the question of the night,” I mutter. “Where is everyone?”

My eyes sweep the room, but Giovanni, Sebastian and the usual crew of club kids are nowhere to be found.

“I think they’re all in VIP,” Ethan says, jerking his head toward the back of the basement, where a red velvet rope sections off the VIP room. “You want a drink? You look like you could use one.”

“Tequila shot,” I yell over the din as a cheer roars up from the dance floor when a hard-hitting house track segues into Blondie’s “Rapture.”

Ethan places a shot glass in front of me, filling it to the top with Herradura Silver tequila. I gulp it down and he holds the bottle over the empty glass, looking at me questioningly, but I shake my head and he places the tequila back on the bar.

“Are you going to Alexa’s party later?” Ethan yells, cupping his hands around his mouth so the sound will travel farther.

“
What
party?”

“I guess she rented out some swanky hotel suite all the way uptown. I’m actually getting off early tonight, for a change, if you can believe that.” He grins, and I remember just how good-looking he is, which of course causes me to blush hard. “You going?”

“I don’t know,” I mumble. “See you later,” I yell. I get up before he notices how red my cheeks are, and walk purposefully toward the small VIP room located at the very rear of the basement.

When I get to the velvet rope, an unfamiliar girl with a blond, high ponytail is standing behind it, clipboard in hand. Rhinestones sparkle in a heavy column around her throat, and her face is adorned with a slash of red lipstick and a pair of the heaviest false eyelashes I’ve ever seen. Despite all of this, or maybe because of it, she is ravishingly beautiful, her breasts mounded up beneath a black lace bustier that shows off her tiny waist.

“Yes?” she says. Her voice is a deep growl that hints at some sort of an accent, the vowels clipped and staccato.

“I’m Cat,” I say brusquely, itching to get inside already. “I work here.”

Her face breaks into a small, cruel smile.

“Not anymore you don’t.” Her nails are lacquered a bold red, and she taps them against her clipboard.

“What are you talking about?” I ask, my blood rising.

“Christoph called a few minutes ago. He said that if someone named Cat showed up, I should tell her she was fired.” She runs a tongue over her lips as if this bit of info is delicious, a tasty morsel. Watching her, I feel nauseated again. She reminds me of a lion licking the last drops of blood from its own mouth.

“That’s bullshit,” I snap, reaching for the rope to unlock it, the metal cool under my hand.

“Don’t make me have to call security, OK?” Her voice is a lazy drawl.

“Call them,” I say, stepping inside and pushing past her. “Knock yourself out.”

The VIP room is packed, and I push through the mass of bodies, furious that Christoph would pull this kind of crap, my arms shoving random limbs out of the way, contorting my body like an elaborate game of Twister as I slide through the crowd. But inside I am scared. Without the club, what do I have? I could move over to The World, or Save the Robots, maybe even Nell’s, but if Christoph blackballs me, I’m pretty much finished. My eyes fill up with hot salty tears, and I angrily blink them away.

Alexa is holding court on the red velvet sofas in the back of the room, a huge mirror on the wall behind her reflecting the bottles of Cristal strewn across the top of a gilt-legged coffee table, the legion of club kids at least three feet deep who are listening raptly to whatever she is saying. Alexa throws her head back as she laughs, her voice pealing out into the room. Giovanni and Sebastian sit on either side, and Sebastian in particular seems dazzled, looking up adoringly as she reaches out to refill his glass. A mirror piled with white powder sits on top of the table, and Alexa watches as her followers snort long lines from a rolled-up dollar bill, sniffing loudly.

When she notices me watching her, she stops dead, her body going momentarily rigid. A look passes over her face that might be something like guilt, but it disappears as quickly as it arrives. Her face is smooth again, poreless under the colored lights. As I approach, Giovanni turns to face me, his eyes widening at the very fact of my presence.

“What are you doing here?” he hisses, pulling my arm so that my ear is now flush with his lips. “Shouldn’t you be handcuffed to some strange S-and-M torture device that we both
know
is in Christoph’s apartment?”

Giovanni is convinced beyond all reason that Christoph’s apartment is some kind of bizarre den of iniquity, complete with whips, chains and an assorted array of shiny silver handcuffs. Giovanni giggles uncontrollably, and the glassiness of his eyes and the shrillness of his voice tell me that he is very, very high. “You still look fierce, by the way,” he adds, blithely downing the remaining drops of champagne in his all-but-empty glass.

Alexa looks over at me and smiles, leaning over to whisper in Sebastian’s ear.

“What’s going on?” I ask Giovanni. “Since when does Alexa hang out in VIP?”

“I guess she came to see Ethan, but once Sebastian saw her, he dragged her back here and made her buy champagne for everyone. Not that I’m complaining. Did you really get
fired
? What did you
do
?”

“Whose is
that
?” I ask, changing the subject and pointing at the rapidly disappearing blow. “And now that we’re on the subject, who the hell is working the door?” I glance toward the Soviet vixen behind the rope, who glares right back at me.

“Well, I got here after it was already out, but I’m assuming it’s Miss Thing’s.” Giovanni nods at Alexa. “I think we both know that if it were Sebastian’s, I wouldn’t be allowed to so much as
breathe
on it, much less hoover it up my nostrils at such a terrifying rate. And that’s Svetlana. I think she’s from Ukraine or some other underdeveloped Eastern European country where they still stand in line for bread every morning.” He sniffs loudly, reaching up and pinching both nostrils together.

“Svetlana?” I ask incredulously. “Sounds like a Russian hooker.”

“Honey,
please,
” Giovanni deadpans. “Aren’t we
all
?” Giovanni leans over the mirror and does another line, wiping his nose and sniffing hard as he comes up for air.

“Russian?”

“No, silly—
hookers.
” Giovanni laughs, leaning back on the red velvet cushions of the couch.

“How much blow have you done, anyway?”

“Enough.” He laughs again, the sweat on his neck shining. “Although that’s the funny thing about drugs, coke in particular—there’s never
really
enough, is there? Not for me, anyway.”

Giovanni is still laughing, but his eyes are somewhere far away, and his expression is startlingly sober.

“Cat, are you just going to stay there talking to that fat queen all night, or are you going to come over and say hello?” Sebastian yells out, standing up and placing his hands on his narrow hips, every move exaggerated to sheer comedy. There’s nothing Sebastian loves more than having center stage. You’re no good to him if you aren’t paying strict attention to his every move. Tonight he’s painted his entire face in those round, blue, entirely stupid spots that make him look like he’s contracted a flesh-eating disease.

“I believe I’ve been
summoned,
” I stage-whisper in Giovanni’s ear.

“And the Academy Award for best actor goes to . . . ,” Giovanni says, staring at Sebastian with a smirk. I walk over to Sebastian, watching as Giovanni grabs a bottle of Cristal, emptying its contents into his waiting glass.

“Hey,” I say to Sebastian and Alexa, as Sebastian air-kisses both of my cheeks, my tone conveying a brightness I don’t even remotely feel. In fact, since the cab ride to Tunnel, I feel less than nothing. Deadened. All the coke, or maybe the emotional burnout of the past day, has finally rendered me numb.

“Somebody’s in trouble . . . ,” Sebastian drawls, a mischievous glint in his eye. “Girl, what
happened
with you and Christoph? He’s
seriously
pissed!”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” I say, looking over at Alexa, who looks on silently, taking in my shaking hands.

“I thought you’d be at the bar with Ethan,” I say to Alexa, who immediately sits down on the sofa, smoothly crossing her legs sheathed in sheer black stockings.

“Well, I
was
”—Alexa flashes me a quick, almost apologetic smile—“but then I ran into Sebastian and—”

“And she looked so
fabulous
that I absolutely
insisted
she come in here and join us,” Sebastian interrupts, his cherubic face flushed and agitated. “You
are
fabulous, you know,” he says, grabbing her arm, his voice a low, satisfied purr. Alexa tries her best to look humble, but like a frog in a trench coat, it really isn’t her style.

“In fact she’s SO fabulous, I’m going to tell Christoph to hire her ass as soon as he gets here tonight,” Sebastian babbles on, his fingers tightening against Alexa’s slim, pale flesh. Alexa rolls her eyes in mock exasperation, but I can tell that she’s loving every minute of the attention. Sebastian leans his head closer to Alexa’s, and my stomach flips over again as he whispers something quietly in her ear. My head is filled with so much static that my thoughts are a blizzard of disconnected images mixed with rage and panic. My hands at my sides curl into fists, nails scraping against the meat of my palms.

“What do you mean,
hire
her?”

My voice comes out louder than I wanted it to, and manages to arrive precisely over a break in the music. All heads in the VIP room turn to face me, expressions somewhere between quizzical and bemused, hands over mouths, glasses stopped dead before parted lips. Sebastian looks up with a shocked expression, his blue eyes growing larger by the second. I can tell by his face that he thinks I’m a fool, that I’ve somehow stepped over some invisible line of coolness by reacting emotionally not only in public, but at the club, of all places.

“Well, like I said, she’s fab, and Christoph could do much worse than to let her throw a party or two. We were talking about starting out small,” Sebastian gushes, his words coming faster as he talks, “just something in the Chandelier Room, maybe a kind of mock society event . . . Oh, I know!” Sebastian jumps to his feet as if he’s been electrocuted. “What about a coming-out party? But instead of debs in white gloves, we’ll have all kinds of white food and drink, white orchids everywhere, and oh, I don’t know . . . maybe a drag queen cotillion?”

“Yes!” Alexa squeals breathlessly, and the high-pitched register of her voice makes me dig my nails deeper into my skin until I’m sure it’s flayed open, streaming blood. But when I uncurl my hands, the flesh is still white, pocked with tiny red half-moons.

“And don’t forget those names we talked about earlier, dollface.” Sebastian giggles conspiratorially, reaching out and nudging Alexa with one pointy finger, his nails painted a neon yellow that glows under the black lights.

“No problem,” Alexa says, shrugging her slim shoulders that might look bony if not for the swanlike grace of her neck. “I’ll invite my whole Rolodex.”

At this, Sebastian’s eyes widen, and a smug, satisfied expression comes over his face. I realize that it’s not just Alexa’s beauty that impresses him so deeply, it’s also her pedigree, the impressive roster of names she can potentially bring to his parties. I’ve always known Sebastian is a shameless social climber, but now with Alexa, he’s got a way in—and up—to her level. Just watching the way he’s hanging on her every word, it’s obvious he’s no longer satisfied with playing in the sandbox alongside all the other club kids. And now, because of Alexa, he doesn’t have to.

I watch as Alexa smiles, blushing prettily, her face open as a fresh pink flower, and I can feel the anger rising up inside me, threatening to burn the room, the building, the whole goddamn block to the ground. My chest is tight and dry, a mass sticking in my throat like a dry, rotten piece of bread.
How dare she,
I fume.
How dare she come in here and take my life when I have so little, so very little that I care about in any real way?
Everything I have left is swirling away, down an empty street like trash picked up by the wind. I cough once and try to clear my throat, my rage a ball of black sludge blocking my windpipe. If I don’t spit it out, I’ll stop breathing entirely.