(no subject)
The club is dark and smoky and the music is loud. She's dressed in colors, as short and as tight as she can get away with (without showing her scars), and she's on the floor for hours.
Her head rings, her feet hurt, her hair is falling down, her mouth is dry and her heart is racing, and she feels like she's close to leaving her skin behind. She can't remember the last time she just let it all go like this. It's wonderful.
It's nothing she can do with Simon, either -- he wouldn't like it, she thinks, he wouldn't understand, he probably wouldn't like how she's dressed (or the fact that she isn't shoving all the men away), it's something she can do for herself. Because she wants to. Because it feels good.
Eventually -- when the choice is rest or pass out -- she stumbles over to the bar. She orders a glass of water and something pink and fruity and amazing.
The bartender says it's taken care of. She turns her head to the left to talk to her, to ask who.
It's a man to her right, tall, handsome -- really handsome, she thinks, a little wistfully. She drinks the water first, makes what conversation she can with the music that loud (he smells good; she can appreciate that), and when the water's done first -- it doesn't take long -- only then does she reach for her drink.
Someone grabs her wrist; Kaylee's too tired to do anything other than look shocked at the tiny black-haired woman. "Chloe -- there you are, we've been looking all over for you -- sorry -- " This last to the man as the woman drags Kaylee stumbling off to the corner.
Kaylee stops about five steps from the table, finally, and says something to the effect of excuse the hell out of me.
"He drugged your drink, honey." The woman touches her arm, and gestures to the table of women behind her. "We all saw him. Are you okay?"
Kaylee opens her mouth, and closes it again, and nods, grimly.
By that point it's nearly dawn anyhow. She just goes home. She doesn't even make it upstairs -- doesn't even take off her heels -- just lies down on the couch and closes her eyes.
Her head rings, her feet hurt, her hair is falling down, her mouth is dry and her heart is racing, and she feels like she's close to leaving her skin behind. She can't remember the last time she just let it all go like this. It's wonderful.
It's nothing she can do with Simon, either -- he wouldn't like it, she thinks, he wouldn't understand, he probably wouldn't like how she's dressed (or the fact that she isn't shoving all the men away), it's something she can do for herself. Because she wants to. Because it feels good.
Eventually -- when the choice is rest or pass out -- she stumbles over to the bar. She orders a glass of water and something pink and fruity and amazing.
The bartender says it's taken care of. She turns her head to the left to talk to her, to ask who.
It's a man to her right, tall, handsome -- really handsome, she thinks, a little wistfully. She drinks the water first, makes what conversation she can with the music that loud (he smells good; she can appreciate that), and when the water's done first -- it doesn't take long -- only then does she reach for her drink.
Someone grabs her wrist; Kaylee's too tired to do anything other than look shocked at the tiny black-haired woman. "Chloe -- there you are, we've been looking all over for you -- sorry -- " This last to the man as the woman drags Kaylee stumbling off to the corner.
Kaylee stops about five steps from the table, finally, and says something to the effect of excuse the hell out of me.
"He drugged your drink, honey." The woman touches her arm, and gestures to the table of women behind her. "We all saw him. Are you okay?"
Kaylee opens her mouth, and closes it again, and nods, grimly.
By that point it's nearly dawn anyhow. She just goes home. She doesn't even make it upstairs -- doesn't even take off her heels -- just lies down on the couch and closes her eyes.