Page 26 of So Thirsty

But now here I am, having spent the last sixteen years with both feet firmly planted, making every decision with careful consideration, leading the most risk-averse life I could conceive of. And it still blew up in my face.

Maybe Naomi’s right. I don’t have any control. I never have.

So I might as well join the party.

—

I follow Naomi down the hall, which opens up to a sunken living room.

There’s a giant stone fireplace with a hearty red fire crackling inside. There’s an elaborate candelabra on the mantel, the candles lit, wax dripping. There are no windows, at least none that are uncovered. The walls are all draped in heavy fabric, and there’s an array of rugs and blankets and fat pillows covering the floor. There are several backless couches with bodies strewn across them. The room smells of smoke and incense and sweat. It looks like an opium den.

Ilie says something in a foreign language, and the bodies begin to twist awake, sit up, become people. I count four. Two men, two women. One of the men is in the corner, cast in shadow. The other, illuminated by firelight, is shirtless, with a lit cigarette dangling precariously from his lips. He’s sinewy, covered in tattoos and gnarly scars. Both of his nipples are pierced. His white-blond hair is buzzed. He looks about the same age as Ilie, late twenties or early thirties. He’s got a square jaw and a pronounced brow ridge, though the brows themselves are so faint, they’re practically invisible. His eyes are reptilian green.

I’d put him among the most intimidating creatures on the planet.

Just as I think this, he smiles, gold teeth glinting.

“Hello!” he says, his voice unexpectedly high and pleasant. “I am Costel. Nice to meet you.”

One of the women pops her head over his shoulder. She’s petite with a blunt, dark bob, a heart-shaped face, a pointy chin. She wears a white silk slip dress, the straps loose and sliding down her arms.

“I am Miri,” she says. “Ilie, you were right. They are so pretty! So, so pretty.”

“You doubt me?” Ilie asks, stepping down into the living room and crossing to Miri. He ruffles her hair, then grabs a fistful, a brief flash of violence that turns my blood cold.

Miri gasps, then giggles. They stare at each other for a moment, and I hold my breath until Ilie releases his grip on her hair. He pats it back into place, then kisses her on the forehead.

Anxiety skitters around my ribs. There’s clearly something off here, but Naomi has me doubting my own intuition. Am I hesitant because I’ve spent the last decade and a half living as a dull suburban normie, or because I’m a person with keen judgment and basic survival instincts? I don’t know. I can’t tell.

“Tatiana? What do you think?” Ilie asks, turning to the other couch, where a woman lounges, wearing a long, lace-trimmed sleeping robe. She has cherry red hair styled in perfect Old Hollywood waves. She looks like she’s ready for a boudoir photo shoot.

She gives us a once-over through a cage of false lashes. Then she points lazily in our direction. “Keep an eye on that one. She will steal something.”

I assume she’s talking about Naomi. I’d be offended on her behalf if only it weren’t true.

“And that one has bad posture.”

I know she’s talking about me. Also true, but I’m still offended. I roll my shoulders back.

“To answer your question, Ilie,” Tatiana says, sliding a thick, beautiful thigh out of her robe. I can easily identify her accent as French. “Yes. They are fine for the night. Did you offer our guests something to drink?”

“Ah!” Elisa says, clapping a hand over her mouth. “I forgot. What a terrible, rude, very bad host. Sloane, Naomi, something to drink?”

“Yes, please,” Naomi says. “Whatever you have. We like everything.”

Miri, the small brunette, has now climbed onto the lap of shirtless Costel, and they’re making out. Absolutely going at it.

Ilie stands over them, watching. Grinning.

Tatiana leans back and her robe falls all the way open, revealing a maze of lingerie.

I’m getting the sense that this a very particular kind of party.

“Perhaps some wine?” Elisa asks us.

“Um, actually, do you have anything stronger?” I ask, staring daggers at Naomi. “Gin, whiskey, tequila, vodka, a horse tranquilizer…Sorry—is there a bathroom?”

“Yes. Back through there, first door on your right.”