“Yo, bitch, I’m talking to you.”

I jumped. I’d been zoning, totally lost in thought, still confused as to what the fuck had gone down with that guy - Coop, or whatever - a few nights ago. He’d barely even touched me, and when he had…

But he wasn’t here, thank god, and I needed to get my act together. “Yeah, Jimmy. Repeat it.”

“Fuckin’.” Jimmy took a breath like I was causing him some major inconvenience. “Do you need more whites?”

“Oh.” I blinked at him. More whites?

“Pretty simple question, dickhole.”

Dickhole. I fought to keep my eyes from rolling. “Nah, Jim. I’m good.” I was surprised to hear that answer come out of my mouth. I did need more whites, desperately - they were the only thing I was completely out of. But the last two times I’d taken them, even just the one, my emergency one I’d been saving, I’d puked, which kind of ruined the fun. Besides, I’d found that I hadn’t really missed them.

Moved on to better things, I told myself, even as that stupid man’s voice slithered through my brain and right to my fucking dick.

“Aight. Got you E and some K, threw in some percs for being such a good customer. Got the cash?”

I sighed, flicking my head with annoyance. This game was getting old. “No, Jim. You know I don’t have the cash.”

“Oh.” He held the bag up with a smirk. “How you planning on paying, then?”

I rolled my eyes. “God, will you get it over with?” I was in no mood for this today.

Jimmy’s smirk went into overdrive, and not kindly. “You want these or not.” He rattled the pills around in their baggy, watching my eyes dance for them. “Bitch.”

Fuck Jimmy, and fuck his games. “Oh, no,” I said, my voice sounding bored even to me, “how ever shall I pay you, I am in such distress.”

I only made it to “pay” before Jim reached up and grabbed my hair, dragging me down to my knees. God, I thought as he got out his dick. What a prick.

***

It’d been a week, and I was back at that fucking bar.

The bartender laughed, laughed right out loud when he saw me sit down. “Didn’t get enough last time?” I scowled at him. I wasn’t here by choice. Bren’d had some fight with his man, and was here to try and catch him before he picked up another cub, or something. I don’t know. It was important to Bren, so I was here. Mostly to make sure that, if this guy had already picked up someone else, everyone made it out of here alive.

The bartender was back quick with my beer, setting it down with a wave at my offered ID. “John’s here, you know.” He said it like it was an offhand comment, but he was watching me closely.

My eyes were scanning the dance floor even as my brain was shooting warning after warning. I’d had a lot of time to think about this guy. Bren had told me I should never go near him again, which I kind of agreed with. I mean, I of all people really didn’t need some speed freak fucking up my life. Or K addict, or X head. And he was all of that, and probably an alcoholic to boot. And I knew, I knew as well as I knew anyone and I knew people, I was good at people, that there was nothing I could do to help him. That it wasn’t my place to help him. Besides, he didn’t want help, or need it. He was his own person; he could make his own choices, chose his own path.

But looking around me, I wasn’t seeing a lot of paths. I wasn’t seeing spaces being made, avenues opening up. People likely to straight talk an addict out of sitting down at rock bottom, which they always fucking will because that’s where they think they belong, because they think they’re not worth the fight to get out. Because at least rock bottom is a place with walls and some consistency.

No, people here weren’t going to take that effort. Not when it’s so fucking convenient to have someone like that around.

I shook my head, trying to clear my thoughts, to get them off him. Bren was right. He wasn’t my responsibility, and I wasn’t going to worry about it.

“Buy me a drink.”

Shit.

***

What the fuck was that guy doing back in my fucking bar?

I saw him tense when I pulled up next to him, which made me feel good at least. I had some sort of an effect on him, which I had seriously been doubting in the past week. I mean, who the fuck doesn’t fuck someone like me when they get the chance?

And he’d had the chance. He’d had like, three chances. At least. So what was it? Why hadn’t he? You don’t want me like I want you, he’d said, or something like that, but that was bullshit. I could be anything that he wanted.

This fucking good boy act was getting old. He’d fuck me, eventually. They all did. Especially when I wanted them to. And fuck, did I want him. I hated him, hated the things he said and the way he tried to run my goddamn life for me, hated the things he brought screaming out of my stomach that I didn’t want to think about but that didn’t mean I didn’t want him.

I mean, hate fucking is kind of a specialty of mine.

I arranged myself against the bar and smirked as he shifted next to me. The cool metal felt amazing against my back, the E turning the sensation into a wave of amazing that pulsed through my chest. I was feeling good. I was fucking flying. Come on, buddy, I thought. We both know you want it. Come and fucking take it.

***

I tried not to turn to him, but I’ll admit to not trying very hard. He looked good, like, really good, that black hair curling and looking fucking amazing to grab, his single braid catching my eye. He was wearing the same pants as the other night, but a different shirt, just as tight, just as delicious.

“So,” he said.

I shrugged. “Yeah, why not.”

We were quiet while the bartender mixed up his order.

“I’m not on speed.”

I was a little surprised by his honesty, his straight forwardness. By the fact that he felt like he had to tell me that at all. “Okay.”

“So.” His leg was bouncing, his eyes tracking out over the dance floor. “How ‘bout we get out of here?”

I watched that bouncing leg, saw how his eyes never stayed in the same place for very long. “Are you actually not on speed?”

He shot me a look. “I’m not a fucking liar.”

“Okay,” I said again.

“And I haven’t bought it since.” He made a face. “It makes me throw up now.” His arms were crossed in front of him. “So fuck you for that.”

I didn’t really know what to say. I hadn’t been trying to get him to quit the damn drug, just. I don’t fucking know what I’d been trying to do. We sat together in our silence, trying to fit it into the noise of the club, maybe, but I had no fucking clue how to exist in a place like this and honestly, I was way too comfortable just existing around him.

“Take me home,” he suddenly said.

“No.” My answer was immediate and without emotion. I wanted to - I really, really wanted to. All the thoughts that had been with me ever since I’d first laid eyes on him were still there, right beneath the surface, but this couldn’t happen.

He rounded on me, actually confused. “Why not?”

I thought about what to tell him. That he was dangerous for me, that he was too close to all the things I used to be. That Bren had told me specifically not to, and I didn’t really want to get on the wrong side of Bren. That I was worried that if I brought him home and he didn’t react the way I wanted him to, or worse, if he did, I’d break my own goddamn heart.

But his pupils were huge, way bigger than they should be even in this low light, and so I had an out. “I don’t take home people who aren’t sober.”

He frowned at that. “I dropped the speed.”

“Yeah.” I gave him that, even if I didn’t understand it. Maybe it was a start, for him. Or for me? I didn’t let myself think that for long. It’s stupid, anyway, to get clean for anyone but yourself. “But you’re still high.”

“So fucking what?” I could see him starting to get pissed, saw the tension building in his fists, his thighs. “What the fuck difference does it -”

I didn’t let him finish before I pulled him close to me, sinking my hand deep into that hair, fuck, his hair was so good, and dragging his ear to my lips. “I want to see you, not the drugs,” I let myself whisper, watching him simultaneously go still and shiver all over, all through his core. “I want to watch you react when I do the things I want to do.”

That was only half true at this point. Yeah, I wanted him beneath me, squirming, calling my name and begging and controlled but I also wanted him sober because I just wanted him sober, wanted him to exist in a way that if he took drugs it was for fun and not because he was trying to destroy himself, not because it was his baseline or his way of filling himself up with something, anything, wanted to see what he would look like when he smiled for real and shit, fuck, dammit I was not supposed to care but it was way, way late for that. That was the problem with knowing people, with being so damn good at understanding. That was the problem when you ran into someone so damn understandable.

When I let him go, he stumbled back, that half dazed, half afraid, half aroused look on his face. And yeah, the guy was operating at 150%. I narrowed my eyes, seeing how easily it had been to get him there. I bet I could get him to 200%. I bet I could get him to break the goddamn meter.

“Then why’d you buy me the drink?”

“Huh?” He’d caught me daydreaming again, and he didn’t look pleased.

“If you want me sober, why the fuck did you buy me a drink?”

The bartender was back, looking more amused than anything else. I shrugged. “You asked for it.”

“You could have said no.”

“I could have.” I leaned on my hand and watched him. Shit, I thought. This is gonna piss him off, if past experience is any guide. “But I’m not your keeper.”

I was right. I watched his face gather up in a scowl. “You’re sure fucking acting like it.”

“No. I’m just telling you what you have to do if you want to come home with me.” I tried to keep my voice calm and even, soft. Tried not to drop it low and smooth, tried not to command. This needed to be his decision. He needed to chose his path. I was just giving him the opportunity, I told myself. That’s all. I can be an option for him, in a place that had anything but. “And I want you sober for that.”

He shoved away from the bar, drink in hand. “You can’t tell me what the fuck to do.”

“No,” I said quietly, and I wasn’t sure if he’d hear me over the sounds of the club except that he was watching me so intently. “Not when you’re like this, I can’t.”

He scowled even deeper and whirled away, those curls bouncing as he made his way towards the dance floor.

“Sober?” I heard the bartender remark behind me, and I immediately hated his smug, amused tone.

I shrugged, turning back to my beer.

“You’ll never see it.” His gaze was following John, I’m sure. Fuck, I hated that name for him. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen that guy sober.”

“And you don’t think that might be an issue?”

He glanced at me at the bitterness in my tone, the accusation I’d been trying to keep in my chest. “Hey man.” His hands went up in mock defeat. “I just serve the drinks.”

“Yeah.” I didn’t look up from mine. “And that’s kind of the problem.”

He shook his head and walked away, and I let him go. Fuck, I thought as I took a sip of my shitty beer. I really fucking hate this bar.

***

Sober?

Sober?

Who the fuck was this guy to demand that of me, who the fuck was he to judge my life, my choices, my actions? I’d dropped the speed, what more did he fucking want? What other concessions did I have to give to him, what other ways did he want me to destroy my freedom, my escape, my way of killing all the bits of me that needed to fucking die?

I couldn’t believe how fucking uncool I’d been, just talking to him. How he made me slip into angry, into frustrated and fighting and how easily I forgot to flirt, how fucking easy it was for him to get me - Shit. I had been about to think vulnerable, but I wasn’t that. I wouldn’t be that. Not for him, not for anyone.

Why should his hand in my hair make me feel any sort of way? Why should his breath on my cheek make me want to collapse? Why should the thought of him wanting me, me, not sex, not my mouth or my body or the things I did but me, why should that make my stomach hurt this fucking much?

No. He hadn’t said that. He’d said he’d wanted to see my reactions, he’d said he wanted to see me react, that was it, he didn’t want anything different than the rest of them, he wasn’t any different, couldn’t be. Wouldn’t be.

Fuck.

I slammed the rest of my drink and headed right back to the bar.