Burning Moth

Chapter Four, Part Two - Dearly Departed

I leaned against a marble balustrade, surveying the stiff, dapper crowd gathered in the hall three floors below–dozens of Harbor Village's wealthiest, come to toast the fight against cancer. Ignoring the classical spun by the DJ, they sipped champagne and nibbled finger food presented by the waiters who surfed the crowd. I was nothing to these people, despite how much their world affected mine.

I knew Aidan was down there somewhere, getting paid to kiss the Dixon's feet. So far, my only plan was to avoid him like I avoided most sign-up sheets, and find Nicholias. As to what I would say to Alphabet Boy when I found him, I had the insults covered, but nothing past that.

For several reasons, having a conversation with that puffed-up pretty boy was utterly terrifying–but I had chewed half a Xanax in Chloe's car, so I knew I wouldn't pass out. Only Aidan, and justice for the dead girl, stopped me from setting the sprinklers on that beautiful, godforsaken place, then skipping town like a dirty officer.

I stepped back from the balustrade, heels clicking against the glossy, spotless flooring. To my left, a handsome laughing couple ascended the staircase, on their way up from the gala. Judging by their hushed tone and her nervous giggling, they probably knew the rooms on the upper floors were off limits. Nevertheless, the lovely blonde breezed down the hall, shooting me a furtive look over her shoulder, as if she knew I didn't belong there.

That makes two of us, bitch. I smirked at the girl, saluting her bad behavior; she smiled back, following her man into one of the bedrooms.

I descended the narrow, twisting staircase, feeling fly like Betty Suarez–even though I had just as much potential to screw things up. I could very well die tonight, strangled at the hands of a young, good-looking boy who smelled like a field of daisies–and I could accept that, provided he didn't smudge the makeup or tear the dress. The hell if I wouldn't look good for my own damn autopsy.

Downstairs, I gave myself willingly to the sea of socialites. I was swept in their current, sent aimlessly down the hall, spiraling in and out of eddies of flashy jewelry and inane conversation. I continued along, lost and a little overwhelmed–until I passed a cute stranger with nice eyes and a nicer watch. He gave me The Look, and smiled, basically inviting me to grab him by the hand and lead him upstairs...

I considered it... then kept it moving.

Eventually, I got tired of all the walking, and dropped anchor where I stood. I chewed my lip, wondering if I wasn't in over my head. It certainly felt like it, neck-deep in the midst of all that pomp and circumstance. I didn't recognize anything in any of it, save the feelings that deep down, in the ugliest part of my soul... I already needed more. These ignorant, stunning people all smiled for a reason, and it wasn't because they were good Samaritans fighting to cure cancer. They, like the Dixons, each had a golden ticket in life, and I was the only there without one.

I took a breath and gazed harder, wondering if their Colgate-hidden secrets were any darker than mine.

"You shouldn't be here, Scarlet."

To say that he startled me would've been a vast understatement. Nicholias had come up behind me, locking one arm, firmly, around my waist so he could speak in my ear. I short-circuited on the spot. His grip tightened and the hair along the back of my neck stood on end.

"I admit, that tenacity of yours, it's even hotter than the dress–but you and I both know you don't belong here. If you walk out now, grab a shrimp puff, maybe you can still pretend tonight was worth something..."

I inhaled through my nose, quivering with rage. His words were fire in my blood, boiling until my equally wicked thoughts were singed by the steam shooting from my ears. He'd condemned me to insignificance–a cut to the quick in one single blow. If he had had a knife to my back, he couldn't have pressed it deeper.