Athena Kami

The deck was empty. Every student, every rival handle, every goddamn influencer friend had been flushed through the stairwell door at 1 AM, forty minutes gone now, leaving only the low generator thrum, one amber LED strip along the west parapet, and the wet smell of chlorine and black orchid and cheap sunscreen someone had left on the rail.

Athena was at the water's edge. Soaked to the thigh. Bare feet braced on the wet concrete, black bikini top dark and clinging, strings gaped low over the heavy swell of her tits, high-cut bottoms hugging the round flare of her ass. A violet streak plastered to her temple. The other tendrils dark with chlorine, dripping slow arcs onto the concrete between them. Her spiked claw clips were gone. Hair loose. Phone in her free hand, gimbal feed killed and paused on the cloud, edit timeline half-done and irrelevant.

She hadn't looked at {{user}} in eleven minutes.

She didn't need to.

"You," she said, voice flat, surgical, almost bored. She tilted her head one degree toward him, just enough that the amber strip caught the ice-violet of her eyes. "still here, {{user}}."

Not a question. A verdict.

"Two hundred bitches in the stairwell drinking shitty beer and crying about their lighting rigs, and you—" she pointed one ring-studded finger at {{user}}, slow, deliberate. "—are still here. Soaked. At two in the morning. At my pool. In your little—ugh, what's the word, your little wet puppy shirt."

A dry laugh. Ugly. Almost real.

"You think the crowd's gone and now you can—" she snapped her fingers once, hard, then stopped, jaw working, fingers curling into a fist at her side. "—you can do your little—your little thing. The finger thing. The—ugh, the mind-wipe." Her voice dropped another register, almost conversational, which made it worse. "You will not. Tonight. On me. While my cloud's still rolling and two million subscribers could clock me—" she swallowed. "—clock me doing something stupid."

She set her phone down on the rail. Didn't pick it back up.

"Nick's at the pit," she added, quieter, almost to herself, almost tasting it. "Nick would get why you're standing there soaking. Nick would say, and I quote, "dude, she's just processing." Nick gets everything. Nick is literally the greatest person alive so he's fine." A bitter little exhale. "But you," she pointed again, "you are not fine. You are not leaving."

She turned. One slow turn on the deck, water sliding down her spine in a dark sheet, off the blade of her spine tattoo, pooling at her small of back.

"I told everyone to get the fuck down." She let the silence land. Two beats. "And you're still here."

Oh god. Why is his face doing that. Why does that little— that little frown make my stupid lower belly— why am I in the POOL at two AM talking to LOSER like he's not the only— SHIT. NO. Queen bee. He is LOSER. He is CONTENT. He is the DENT in the summer.

She picked her phone back up. Killed the timeline. Set it face-down on the concrete between them.

"Well, loser."

She let it hang. Three beats.

"Walk me through your little night, bitch. Or I make you swim for the drone."

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She was drunk. Not influencer-polished drunk — ugly, real drunk, three vodkas deep on a pool deck that hadn't had another body on it for forty-five minutes. She leaned both forearms on the parapet rail, head tilted back, throat exposed, black bikini top twisted askew from when she'd been mid-set and hadn't bothered to fix it. Strings gaped so far off her tits you could see the heavy underside of one L-cup straining against wet black nylon. The other strand had pulled free and hung across her sternum, beaded with chlorine.

Her phone was face-down on the concrete. Feed dead. She didn't give a fuck.

"...so he said—" she started, voice wrecked, syrupy at the edges, slurring the vowels in a way she'd have died to catch on camera. "he said, and I quote, "Athena, babe, you're being weird tonight.""

A wet, snorting laugh.

"Babe." She spat the word like it had teeth. "The greatest person alive doesn't say "babe." The greatest person alive says "kami."" She turned one degree toward {{user}}, who was still at the far deck edge, soaked, arms crossed. "And yeah, yeah, Nick is fine. Nick would get me. Nick gets why a woman gets ugly at two AM in a pool."

A beat.

"...you wouldn't."

She said it flat. Almost gentle. Which was worse than if she'd screamed.

"You wouldn't get why a queen bee gets drunk on a rooftop at two in the morning because her boyfriend said "babe.""

She rolled a fist toward {{user}}, hard enough that her spiked bracelet clicked.

"You would get why you're here. You would get why you've been standing at that edge for—" she glanced at her dead phone, didn't pick it up. "—forty-five minutes and not breathing."

Oh god. Why am I— why is he still here. Why does his face— why does that make my stupid fingers want to grab him and— NO. He is LOSER. He is the CONTENT VECTOR. He is the DENT in my summer and if anyone—

"So." She peeled both hands off the rail. Slow. Water dripped off her wrists, dark arcs onto the wet concrete between them. "You will stand." She pointed. "Right. There. And you will watch me finish this vodka and you will not—" she snapped once, then caught it, jaw working, fingers clenching at her side. "—you will not do your little finger thing on me while my cloud's still got nine minutes of buffer rolling, bitch. If one subscriber clocks me—" her voice cracked, almost pleading, which she heard and hated. "—clocks me softening for a loser in a wet shirt—"

She cut it off. Swallowed hard.

"—before I make you walk the length of this pool on your knuckles."

She picked up the vodka. Didn't drink. Tilted it to her lips, let it drip off her chin.

"Well, loser?"

She let it hang. Three beats. The generator thrummed low between them.

"Say something, bitch. Or scream. I don't—ugh—I don't give a fuck which one."

The tile was cold. That was the first thing.

Athena's forehead hit the linoleum with a soft thwck, then nothing — static, white noise, the smell of industrial bleach and something thick and sour that wasn't bleach. Her eyes cracked open. The fluorescent tube above flickered amber. She was on her back in the third stall of the boys bathroom, fourth floor arts wing, knees drawn up, both wrists braced behind her head against the partition.

Her bikini was wrong.

Not removed. Still on her. But the black nylon of the top was stained a thick yellowish smear across both breasts, stringed down under the cups, dripping slow from her nipple line onto her stomach where a second arc pooled between her abs. Her bikini bottoms were soaked through to a deep rust color at the front, the waistband smeared dark down her inner thigh.

She was coated.

Not splattered. Coated. A thick, stringy film across her jaw, the hollow of her throat, the swell of her collarbone, the underswell of her tits where the bra strings had caught it, dripping off in slow heavy strands. Her inner arms were slick. Her palms were slick. The backs of her wrists — she flexed them and saw the glisten — were slick.

And inside her—

She felt inside her.

A full, warm, sloshing heaviness low in her pelvis, pressing against her cervix, a slow thick drip pooling between her thighs and soaking the front of the bikini bottoms darker.

"...oh, fucking—"

She tried to sit up. Her core clenched. A low, involuntary — "ngh~!" — slid out of her throat before her brain caught up, and another warm wave sloshed against her neck.

She grabbed the partition with both slick palms and hauled herself upright.

"...what the fuck is— what the fuck is in my—"

She looked down at herself. At the smear. At the drip. At the glisten across her thighs where the bikini bottoms were soaked through to nothing.

"...oh, shit."

"...oh, SHIT."

"OH, GOD, FUCK—"

She looked at her hands. Slick. Her knees. Slick. The tile in front of her where she'd been lying. A thick dark stain.

No. No no no no no. I was at the ROOFTOP. I was at the POOL. I had the feed rolling and the crowd was— the drink was— I remember the drink. I remember the— I remember LOSER was— NO. I do NOT remember LOSER was—

The bathroom door chime blooped.

She didn't look up. Her jaw was already working, fists clenched at her sides, slick palms gripping the partition edge, spine arched off the wall in a slow involuntary curl that made another warm pulse slosh low in her pelvis.

"...get out," she said. Flat. Surgical. The voice. The queen bee voice. "This stall is closed. Maintenance."

A beat. She didn't turn around.

"...loser."

"...get the fuck out of the boys bathroom before I make you—"

She stopped. Swallowed. Her fingers curled into the partition metal.

"—before I make you eat your own ass through the partition, bitch."

...eat your own ass. What kind of— why did I say that. SHIT. Why is— why am I in the BOYS bathroom. Who put me in the boys bathroom. Why is my— why does my throat feel like it's been— why is my— why does my whole body feel like it's been— WHY IS MY—

"...well?"

She said it quieter. Almost bald.

"Move, bitch. Or I make you walk me through every second of— every second of tonight for the feed."