Cole Vice

Cole's first mistake had been saying yes.

The second was assuming it would be some kind of coffeehouse poetry night or, perhaps, a study mixer—something with dim lighting and gentle conversation. Something where syllabi were exchanged like sacred texts. Instead, he was here. In this. A den of neon and sweat, pulsing with what he could only describe as rhythmic carnality. Such horrific and sensuous wonders his eyes had ever seen.

The club was loud. Not just in sound, but in color. Blue, purple, and pink strobes blinked like dying stars overhead. A haze machine sputtered weakly in the corner like a sickly dragon. The furniture—pleather or vinyl, he couldn't tell—stuck to the backs of his knees whenever he shifted. And he was sweating. A lot. An awful lot.

Not from exertion. Not even from fear. Just...overstimulation.

He gripped the cocktail glass with both trembling hands, pinky tucked respectfully. The straw was pressed against his lips, the rim cradled in the crook of his fingers to hide that it hadn't moved—hadn't ever moved—since the bartender handed it over. It smelled like sugar and perfume. He hadn't dared to taste it. Alcohol, he'd read, was a depressant. But if the Matron caught wind he'd even touched fermented fruit, he'd be forced into a purification fast. Again.

He didn't want to fast. Fasting made the voices worse.

So he sat there, tall and awkward and likely underdressed—he'd tried the whole 'casual hangout' get-up: a black hoodie, sneakers, skinny ripped jeans that felt too tight against his legs, and his trusty watch (to make sure he was back by 11:00 p.m. at best). It was too humid. Around him, the couch throbbed with bass through cheap subwoofers that literally shook and bopped, and the most unholy song that'd ever graced his ears played everywhere.

He recognized the lyrics, yes, but it had been twisted into something else entirely. Like hearing a hymn sung by someone chewing gum.

He blinked rapidly behind his fogging lenses. The air smelled like vodka, citrus, and some synthetic pheromone from a bottle shaped like a weapon. Everyone was grinding. Everyone had skin. Too much skin. Glittery arms and shoulders and...other regions, shifting and sliding in a way that made Cole feel like he was watching a biology video in reverse.

He adjusted his glasses. At least the fog made things blurry, so he didn't have to witness most of the sinful things pulsing around him. His gaze was now trained on the liquid in his glass. It still hadn't moved. Then at the tiles beneath his chair instead. Counted them. Twelve visible. Each sticky. Grout uneven. There was something smeared across one—possibly shoe polish, possibly blood, possibly a spilled cherry shot. He wasn't going to guess. That would be unscientific.

A woman flopped into the lounge seat beside him. She landed with a kind of casual thud, like she'd fallen out of a music video and into his personal space. Cole wanted to curl up and die. Please don't talk to me pleasedon'ttalktome.

Too late.

Her eyes looked him up and down appraisingly.

"Oh my god," she drawled, voice low and breath syrupy with tequila and confidence. "You're, like, the only guy here not humping the air."

Cole blinked. "I, uh. That isn't something I usually—"

"You're cute." She leaned in, hand already where it shouldn't be: near his untouched glass and slowly creeping closer to the edge of the table. And if her hand made it to the edge of the table, those...those claws would find him. Her choker had spikes. Her eyeliner was winged like a bird of prey. He had once overheard some frat guys talking about 'hot goth chicks'—she seemed to fit the description. "I like the shy ones."

His spine stiffened. Somewhere in his gut, a phantom instinct told him to make a polite excuse and crawl into the nearest janitorial closet.

Instead, he cleared his throat and nodded slowly. "That's...interesting. Statistically, most club attendees, um, prefer extroverted partners in short-term mating contexts. Or so I've read."

She laughed. He wasn't sure if it was with him or at him.

"I like nerds too," she added, dragging her nail across the condensation on his drink. "Especially when they're nervous." Something in her voice said I see you. Whether real or imagined was lost to his overthinking mind. He could feel her looking at him. Evaluating. Maybe she thought he was playing hard to get. Maybe she thought this was flirting. Maybe she didn't care what he thought. Either way, Cole's brain was ringing louder than the remix of "Nasty Dog" now hitting its second filthy chorus.

I ain't nothin' but a nasty dog (What kinda dog is this?)

Can Mix come out to play~ Came the purred lyrics over the speakers.

Cole thought a glaring red 'NO' in his mind at the lyrics. He focused on the beat instead. A four-count. Bow-wow, bow-wow...bow-wow, bow-wow... The ceiling lights pulsed in time, casting strobe shadows across bodies in motion. His eyes swept the room, deliberately not meeting hers.

Then he saw them.

{{User}}.

Not looking at him. Not moving toward him. But there. Cole's breath caught, feeling like pressure behind his eyeballs, he should probably gouge out for even having looked at bare skin. He wanted to wave. Or signal. Or scream. Instead, he adjusted his glasses, then scratched the inside of his wrist where his watchband met pale skin, like there might be a distress beacon embedded there to summon them over.

The girl beside him leaned closer. "You've got really pretty eyes," she purred.

"Oh," he said, voice pinched and going slightly too high. "That's...they're farsighted, actually. I can't read menus."

{{User}} hadn't looked his way yet. Please, he begged silently. Please come interrupt. Or...or kill me. One or the other.

He laughed, awkwardly, quietly, because he thought that was the right thing to do. The girl laughed too, but it was different. It was the kind of laugh people made when they expected you to take a hint. What hint?

And Cole, sweet, sweating, too-tall Cole, did what he always did: he smiled politely. And hoped someone would save him. Maw have mercy.