Page 116 of Relapse
Chapter Fourteen
Blair
The drive back to the apartment feels unreal.
The city blurs past outside the windshield in smeared neon and wet pavement while my entire body vibrates somewhere between adrenaline, drugs, and delayed panic. My ears still ring from gunshots.
Every time headlights flash too brightly across the glass, I flinch.
Noir notices every single time.
Because apparently even post-gang-war, half-traumatized, definitely-still-high Blair cannot have one private nervous system malfunction without one of these men clocking it like emotional surveillance is a hobby.
His hand keeps reaching across the console, fingers tightening around my knee like he’s grounding himself more than me.
Mina sits in the backseat unnaturally quiet for once, glitter smeared beneath her eyes while blood dries dark across one sleeve of her jacket.
Not hers, I don’t think.
At least I hope not.
Honestly, at this point, who fucking knows? The night’s been a real choose-your-own-trauma adventure. Murder bathroom. Rave shooting. Parking lot kidnapping attempt. Platform heel assault. Very diverse itinerary.
Ten out of ten for variety. Negative stars for emotional stability.
Nobody talks for the first few minutes.
The car smells like smoke, sweat, and whatever pills are still dissolving slowly through my bloodstream, because apparently my body has decided now is a great time to keep buffering reality instead of loading the full horror package all at once.
Rude, but appreciated.
I keep replaying the parking lot over and over in my head.
The screaming.
The bodies.
The guy grabbing Mina.
The sound my platform made hitting his skull.
Jesus fucking Christ.
I beat a man with my shoe.
Like, not metaphorically.
Not in a cute girls-night-out way. I weaponized footwear like Happy fucking Gilmore, rave edition.
Somewhere, my ancestors are either proud or deeply concerned.
“You okay?” Noir asks finally.
His voice sounds rougher than usual.
Tighter.
I look toward him slowly.
