Hating the way that guy made me feel off-kilter, I picture myself as a lump of clay on the wheel and find my exact center as I head to the bathrooms at the back of the warehouse. There’s a long queue, so I take my place with the crowd of other girls.
“Hey, girl,” Shellee, a frequent party-goer says as she comes out of the stall, grabbing my arm. She’s already rolling on ecstasy; her pupils are almost as big as her irises. She’s fully in love with me in this moment because she’s fully in love with everything right now. “Do you have a tampon?”
“I sure do.” I whirl my backpack purse off one shoulder to dig in and grab the tampon, which I hand to her.
She closes her fingers around it and my hand and strokes my cheek with her free hand. “Thank you so much,” she gushes. “I love you. I’m so glad you’re here. You’re amazing, do you know that?”
We’re not actually friends. Just acquaintances. I honestly don’t have real friends. I’m too extra for most of them. Too popular with the boys. Too sexual. Too rich, even for the girls at the prep school. Plus, I’m different. I’m not English. My father’s businesses aren’t legit. I learned the day I arrived in Liverpool that I didn’t fit in and should stop trying.
Delaney says that’s why I seek out intense sexual experiences–I’m filling a void created by my lack of meaningful friendships.
I think I’m just kinky. Is that so wrong?
“So are you,” I tell Shellee. “Here, cut in line with me, so you can get back in there.” I tug her in front of me.
She turns around and starts petting me again, fingering a braid as she smiles dreamily in my direction.
“You’re having a good time?”
“So much fun.” She squints her gaze at me. “Are you rolling?”
“Nope. I can’t. I have a history test tomorrow.”
“Oh my God!” Her eyes widen in exaggerated surprise. “Why are you here?” She tugs my braid. “Just kidding.” Her playful shove makes me stumble in my platform heels. “I’m glad you’re here. I’m always glad when I see you. You’re the best.”
I’m not even sure if she knows my name, but it’s okay. I have no illusions about what this scene is. It’s not where you go to make lasting meaningful relationships. Which is why I happen to love it.
I came to reward myself for studying all day for my exam. My father’s stipulation for me staying in England for college was that I maintain 7s–the UK equivalent of straight A’s. Considering I got 4’s and a few 3’s in high school, it’s a bit of an up-level. But there’s no freaking way I’m going home.
Especially not when I finally found something I like.
I mean, beyond rave parties and kinky sex, which Delaney says are extensions of my Daddy issues.
My last term in secondary school, we got a new art teacher, Ms. Banff. She got the school to buy a wheel and taught us pottery. I suppose it was another way to flip my dad the bird–show him I’m the useless, brainless, waste of space he apparently thinks I am–but I decided to become a potter. I totally fell in love with it.
I like the feel of the clay in my hands. The spin of the wheel. The way a bowl takes shape and collapses with the touch of a finger. So now I would do anything to stay in England and keep studying art. I crave the pottery wheel as much as I crave these dance parties. Or a big, muscled guy who scowls and never shows you that he likes you.
It’s finally my turn to use the toilet, and when I get out, Shellee has already disappeared. Which is fine, since I didn’t come here to see her anyway.
I’m not sure why I came, actually. It’s more of an addiction than anything else. I crave the sensuality of the place. I like to dress up and feel sexy and maybe hook up with a hot guy. Preferably one who’s into a little kink. I love a big rough guy who will hold me down and choke me. Or spank me. Or tie me up. I’m a little maso at heart, and the endorphin release and thrill I get from acting out my fantasies is what I need to get through the week.
Let’s be honest, though. That big, rough guy doesn’t actually exist. Or when he does, he comes with a slice of danger I really shouldn’t tempt.
Yet tempt it I do.
I make my way out of the bathroom. The warehouse is packed with people now. Probably more than a legit club would allow for fire code. I soak up the energy like a drug. Looking for trouble, I climb on top of a platform to dance again. I bounce and swirl to the music, scanning the crowd. I spot the Russian up against a wall watching me. He has dark hair, brown eyes and wears what looks like a permanent scowl.
Why would he be such a dick if he’s interested? I could’ve sworn he was interested before, which was why I went over to him. He has the right vibe. Definitely my type. Surly. Rough. Tattoos that probably mean he’s done bad things. His shoulders are broad. It’s hard to tell under his leather jacket, but they look well-muscled. I bet he could dish out a spanking that would make me cream my panties. I totally pegged him as a sadist.
Guess I was wrong.
It’s not like I’m really good at picking the right ones. I’ve had a half-dozen fails in the last three months alone.