Knickers

The Pink Boy

Three days pass uneventfully. The morning after the party I threw myself into my work as a necessary distraction, though I doubt very much of my scripts were of any quality. I spent all day and night writing, collecting more commissions in those three days than I had in the entire week prior, where I was too distracted by the pink boy to focus.
Yes, the pink boy. What was his name again?
Shut up, Marley, you know his name. You've been clinging to his name in the back of your mind like a subconscious stuffed animal.
My computer dies after my fifteenth script. I haven't slept in over a day. There's no outlet by my bed, so I know I can't plug it in and keep writing. I have to be alone with my thoughts, because even social media has made me its target. Everywhere I look are concert videos of Dom, all over my explore page, all over my feed, everywhere. They depress me.
Naturally, I go to a bar, but I go alone. If I had invited Maya we could have just taken her car, but I haven't been able to talk about my issues since the party. The Uber ride is silent and thoughtless. God, I'm so emo.
The bar is one selected at random, a Wild West themed dive bar in west Hollywood. It's Tuesday, so it's understandably quiet inside, with only the occasional pair or trio scattered around at tables or playing pool.
I know I shouldn't, but I get hammered. I skip the cocktails altogether in hopes of dodging the thoughtful, existentialist stage of drunkenness where I would inevitably try to psychoanalyze myself.
Though maybe it would do me some good.
What's wrong with a crush, really? Doesn't everybody get them?
Doesn't everybody have feelings?
It doesn't seem like I do.
It doesn't seem like I have for quite a while, actually.
Not since Ben, I guess.
Or rather, since the day I discovered that all he was really interested in was my virginity.
I slap my hand down on the bar and order another shot, instantly regretting my venture into my own mind. It's always better to leave those things alone, isn't it?
Then, as if I weren't miserable enough, Dom texts me.

Sorry if I did something wrong the other night.

Should I even respond? Would my drunkenness be obvious?

You really didn't. I m just dumb sometimes

Thank god for autocorrect.

😞

Jesus, Dom, with the emojis. I order another shot, but the bartender cuts me off. I curse at her. She ignores me.

You deserve better.

I mean it, he does. He really does.

Wym?

Stole your underwear. I been a real POS since then. Why b friends?

He doesn't respond for several minutes. Then, from him,

You ok?

Drunk.

Shit, maybe I shouldn't have told him.

Wiv your mates at least?

I demand another shot from the bartender. This time she calls the bouncer to remove me. He's really nice as he's kicking me out, he even offers to call me an Uber, but I spit at him and swear and kick and eventually he just leaves me on the bench by the sidewalk. I text Maya for a ride home. No answer from her, just Dom.

Marley???? Wiv your mates?

Nah. Solo 2nite.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see a small trio of men begin to enter and exit a bar across the street. Every few minutes they come out, stare intently at me for a second, and then return inside.

You'll be ok?

The trio returns, and if I was unsure before, now they're pointing at me. They return inside, holding their stare for a moment too long.
I call Maya, but there's no answer. I call her again. Nothing.
It's dark outside, the road lit only by streetlamps.
An Uber won't be here in time, I know that from experience. Their ETAs are always bullshit. Maybe I don't want to risk it.
I call Maya again. Her phone must be off.
I check the Uber app. The nearest driver won't arrive for twenty minutes.
I call Maya again. The men across the street appear and disappear again.
Then, from Dom.

Hello????

I don't want to do it. Not after everything.
The men reappear.
I have to, don't I?

Plz can you pick me up. There's guys.

Then, immediately,

Addy

I drop my location. There's no answer after this.
The trio goes to the far side of the block, and I think for a split second that they've decided to leave me alone, but they turn and look at me over their shoulders. They stop at the crosswalk and jab at the button, silhouetted by the streetlight. I can barely focus.
I turn, looking for the bouncer, but he's nowhere in sight. I stand up, maybe to run away, but my head spins hard enough to sit me down again. All my mother's warnings ring in my ears. I should have listened.
The stoplight turns red. The men begin to cross. I stand again, and fall again. My breathing grows ragged despite my efforts to steady it. My balance has forsaken me completely, it seems, and I feel stupid just sitting, awaiting the inevitable altercation.
It's not that I'm losing my grip on awareness, no, it's that I've lost my grip on everything else. Speech. Balance. Direction. Logic. Time. I don't know how long it will be before they're here.
I stand, and fall down once more. If I attempt to run and knock myself out then I'll be damned for sure. Why can't I breathe properly? How far is the bar? Can I make it back to the bar? I can't even see the lights. I can't even see the bouncer.
They're coming down my sidewalk now. I watch their every step. They're within the glow of my streetlight. They're at the other end of my bench. I look for the bouncer again, not there. My shaky fingers begin to dial 911 but with all this adrenaline I can't seem to coordinate them over the proper numbers.
Three pairs of shoes appear before me. I look up. There's a tall one, a pale one, and a chubby one, all six eyes raking my body maliciously. The chubby one slaps my phone out of my hands.
"Hey," the tall one says. "What's your name?"
"Fuck off," I say, attempting to crawl backward over the bench.
The chubby one grabs my arm and reorients me in my seat. "How old are you?"
"Fuck off," I repeat, ripping my arm free. The sudden motion makes me dizzy. My head drops forward slightly.
"Get the car," the pale one says to the tall one.
The tall one disappears. The pale one sits beside me on the bench and puts an arm around me that I am too clumsy to reject.
"You like parties?" he asks me.
I try to stand again, but he pins me down.
"I'll put..." I trail off. "I'll put your fucking testicles in a blender."
"Feisty," the chubby one praises.
"Don't be scared," the pale one says, fingering my bra strap. "We're just going to take you to a party."
My last resort is to spit. Vomit. Piss. Something to turn them away. The most I can manage is a thick dribble of drool down my own shirt.
"You going to tell us your name?" the pale one coaxes. "We just want your name."
A car pulls up. My stomach sinks to my knees.
If I wind up in that car, will I ever see daylight again?
A car door closes. I summon the last of my strength and flail and fight, cursing and spitting and shoving and scratching. The screams come out choked, but my episode is enough to distance myself. I buck myself onto my feet, scrambling for balance, lunging forward for any distance I can manage. In my head I'm already surrounded. In my head I've just surrendered myself.
I collapse onto all fours, waiting to be seized.
There's no grabbing. Just the sound of shouting behind me.
British shouting.
Then, a piercing crack of bone on bone impact. I roll onto my back, propped up on my elbows, watching the fight unfold through staggered and blurred vision. A pair of pink socks has appeared, ducking and dodging, skating across the sidewalk with unfathomable ease.
Dom swings. There's another echoing crack.
The chubby one is halfway to the end of the block, sprinting on panicked legs. The pale one collapses onto the bench where I was a moment ago, blood gushing from his nostrils. Dom spits on him, cursing, stomping like an enraged bull. His voice sounds so distant, like I'm watching him save me on a cheap television set.
Then reality hits, and he's beside me, collecting me into a sitting position and stroking hot tears from my cheeks.
"Let's go," I hear him say, his voice frantic. "C'mon, Marley, we have to go."
He loops my arms around his shoulders and hoists me to my feet, steering me into the passenger's seat and buckling me in. There's a pause, and he shoves my phone into my hand and closes the door. Then, he hurries around the front of the car, slides behind the wheel, and floors the gas.