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His eyes find me the moment I come into view, a vivid flash of green like the emerald birthstone I wear around my neck. His gaze is violent, shattering something inside of me like a physical attack. My fight or flight instinct kicks in, but it manifests as freezing. I hate that about myself, but it’s probably for the best in this situation. The coke is making my head spin, and I doubt punching a stranger in the stomach because his eyes were too sharp would benefit my career.
I force a smile, wrapping my arms around myself to protect my ego as everyone goes silent.
The smallest man in the group pulls a pack of menthol cigarettes from his back pocket and pushes one up in the pack, holding it out to me.
“Thank you,” I mutter as I take it. It almost falls onto the wet pavement before I can put it between my lips. I use the opportunity of having my hand up to my face to run a finger under my nose and check that there’s no more white powder there.
My finger comes away clean, and I puff hot smoke into my lungs as my cigarette is followed up with a lighter.
It’s normally the cigarettes that make me feel sick and the cocaine that makes me feel better, but tonight is a different story. Everything is backward and it’s difficult to focus. Maybe I need another drink.
Or maybe I need tostopdrinking, but the demons from my past say otherwise, and they cry much louder than my angels.
But not louder than Julia did…
The nicotine makes the alcohol stronger but takes the edge off the coke. My shoulders relax, and I shift the jacket on my shoulders as the man with emerald eyes stares me down. What’s his problem, anyway?
And why is he smoking a cigar? He’s too young for something like that. Not a gray hair in sight, but he’s certainly older than I am.
Ten years, maybe more.
I take long drag from my cigarette. Nobody is talking anymore, and it’s weird. I wish someone would say something, but they’re all just… quiet. The green-eyed man is the leader of the bunch. I can tell that now. They’re all here together and I’ve interrupted their huddle.
I almost turn to leave, but then the man with green eyes looks at me again, blowing a perfect smoke ring through the damp air. It floats toward me, never changing in shape, even as a gust of wind sticks loose hair to my glossy lips.
Then, quite suddenly, everyone is gone buthim.
I didn’t see them go. It’s like time skipped, but maybe I’m just too high. Too fucked up off coke and champagne, though I don’t remember having all that much.
“You’re Valerie,” the man says, smiling with the cigar clenched in his teeth. One of them on the upper right side is gold, but the rest are pearly white.
“Um, yes,” I reply, flicking the ash off the end of my cigarette. “But who are you? Have we met?”
I ask to be polite, but I know we haven’t met before. I’d recognize him in an instant. He’s so distinct, so brutally different from anyone else that he almost seems unreal. I’m not so sure that I’m not hallucinating him.
“Pasha Chazov,” he replies like it’s supposed to mean something to me.
My fingers find my necklace, my fingernails tracing the delicate gold chain. “So, you’re…”
“Everything, everyone, and everywhere in this city. I’m also the owner of this house, if that helps you understand,” he replies.
I can’t tell if he’s being condescending, but he probably is. People around here are like that. I think the money brings out the worst in them.
My cigarette is so small now that it’s threatening to reach the filter, but I inhale the smoke anyway. I never wanted to be old. Twenty-four is fine, honestly. Maybe another year so that I can walk the runway, and after that it all kind of loses meaning.
“I think I’m going to go inside,” I say, giving him an apologetic look.
“Without giving me your number?” he asks, frowning like I’m the one who’s been rude.
“What?”
“Your number, darling. On the phone.”
A nervous laugh escapes my mouth and I shake my head. “I’m just going to go.”
His expression flat lines, and the atmosphere shifts. It’s the like the yellow-tinted darkness before a deadly storm, or the smell ofsap from broken trees as a tornado twists toward you. His eyes, previously bright and sharp, have dulled considerably, and his pupils are much larger than they should be. It’s like he’s not even a person anymore.
I turn away, tripping over my feet as I hurry back toward the house. I probably look ridiculous, but I don’t care. I don’t want to be anywhere near Pasha Chazov, and I think I’m quite done with his little house party.
