Page 90 of The Devil of Downtown

I grab hold of Jennie’s arm and pull her into me. “Fuck, Jennie, is Brody high?”

To be honest, I’m not sure why I’m even asking. His pupils are huge. Not nightclub-dim, huge—chemically huge. Jet black, swallowing the color, shiny and glassy. I know that look far toowell. It’s the one he used to get right before he’d promise the world, then forget every word in the morning.

Jennie doesn’t even bother to look at him; she knows already. “Yes,” she confirms quietly. “He says it’s only for tonight.” She shrugs, her eyes the same defeated shade as mine.

“Damn,” I sigh, shaking my head. “Well, we know howjust one nightusually goes.” I glance at him again, and he waves me over as if he expects me to go running straight to him.

“Ugh, Jenny.” I turn away, gesturing towards the bar. “I need another fucking drink.”

“Amen to that.” She grabs my hand and pulls me toward the bar. We sink more tequila shots and a couple of extra just because. Enough so that any thoughts of Brody or Dane dim, the pounding bass becoming the only noise in my mind.

We shimmy our way to the center of the dance floor, and the music hits me full-force—vibrating my ribs, rattling my teeth, the buzz of tequila hot in my veins. Say what you want about Brody, he knows how to make a room move. Jennie and I let go, our hands in the air, hair sticking to our skin as we laugh at nothing and everything. Another round of shots appears. Then another. Oblivion just around the corner.

The room mellows in that soft, warm way where I feel lighter than I am. My thoughts loosen. My shoulders loosen. And it’s the first time in days, maybe longer, I don’t feel like I’m holding anything together.

A few guys edge closer—the kind who come to clubs specifically to linger behind girls like us, hands keptjusta little too close. But tonight, I’m not interested. I sway away from them, laughing, letting the music drown them out.

For a minute, it actually works.

I forget him. I forget everything.

Until I feel someone step into my space—too close, too familiar. A prickle runs down my neck before I even turn.

“Ivy.” Brody’s breath grazes my temple, warm and heavy. “There you are.”

I look up, and—yep. He’s high.High-high. Pupils blown, jaw working, sweat on his hairline. He smells like mint gum, the musky cologne I once loved, and whatever chemical cocktail he thought counted as a celebration.

“I’ve been trying to get you to come over all night,” he says, bending forward, hands grazing my waist.

I shift sideways, and he follows. Subtle never worked on him.

“You’re high, Brody.”

He gives a lazy, lopsided smile. “A little. Just... celebrating. It’s a big night. You look unreal, by the way.”

His eyes slide downward, lingering. “Kinda reminds me of when you used to dress up just for me.”

I stiffen. “Brody...”

“What?” He laughs like I’m being dramatic. “Can’t I say you look good?”

His fingers skim along my hip like he’s testing whether I’ll stop him, and I do, catching his wrist and lowering it firmly.

“Brody...don’t.”

But he doesn’t listen; he never really did. The bass vibrates through the floor as he leans closer, lips brushing my ear.

“Come with me, Ivy,” he shouts over the music. “Just a few minutes backstage. Let’s talk. I miss you.”

I force a smile, trying to keep the mood from tipping.

“I said I’m fine out here.”

He doesn’t budge. If anything, he drifts closer, like the crowd is an excuse to press against me. “Don’t be like that,” he says. “It’s quieter back there. We could actually talk.”

I try stepping back, but the lights smear and the room tilts. I’ve had more to drink than I realize; everything is too loud, too hot. And Brody—he gives me zero room to breathe, boxing me in like the I belong to him.

“Brody,” I warn, “seriously—”