Page 77 of Rage
He smiles wider. “Maybe I’m confusing you with someone else. I’m Elliot, by the way.”
Yeah, right. He isn’t confusing shit. Now that I take a good look at his clothes.
He comes from money, and for whatever reason, I’m his current target. I’m alone, so he thinks he has a shot at making me believe whatever charming bullshit he wants to feed me.
I know this play. Roman fed it to me back in high school, and poor me, with no friends and an abusive father, ate that shit up out of desperation. Except Roman was better at it.
“Okay.”
He takes the seat across from me like I invited him and proceeds to ask me questions for eight whole minutes until my alarm on my phone goes off. I set it so I can head back to my dorm before the rush dies down.
He continues throwing out questions despite the annoying sound. What year I am. What is my major. Where is my hometown. I gave him all the wrong answers except for the year.
I swipe the screen of my phone to turn off my alarm. “I gotta go.”
“Oh, my bad. Um…well, it was nice talking to you. I wanted to ask before you go. Are you going to Saint’s party next Friday?”‘
I pause, sliding my textbook into my bag, trying to hide the shock. “I’m not sure. I wasn’t invited.”
Funny how he is throwing a party. He left that part out the other night, but then again, he doesn’t have to tell me shit, and I shouldn’t care.
“Well, I was. You wanna go with me?” he asks, his eyes bright with anticipation.
Like a little boy hoping they agree to go outside and play.
“Alright.” I find myself accepting.
He smiles wide. “I’ll pick…”
“How about I meet you there?” I interrupt. He opens and closes his mouth like a fish. “It’s easier. Time?”
“Um…sure. Seven.”
I grab my bag and coffee. “Great, see you Friday.” And I walk out.
I can’t believe I did that, but how else was I going to get invited without seeking Saint out? It would show him that I’m desperate for his attention. That I care.
It was stupid of me to agree to go with Elliot, but at least I’m meeting him there and not letting him pick me up.
Pulling the black door open to Babylon on Friday is like entering the set of a college movie. It’s a typical bar. But how many bars named Babylon sit right across a church?
The smell of wings and alcohol permeates the air. The sound of conversations breaks through Staind’s “Crawl.”
I find Rose sitting at the same booth and make my way through the crowd.
The place is packed. Bass from the speakers vibrates the floorboards. Neon bleeding red and blue across faces at the bar, two deep, everyone’s phone screen a little square of white in the dark.
Spilled beer, food, vape smoke, marijuana, and vanilla. A social media sound I half-recognize plays from a booth where three girls are recording themselves not having as much fun as they’re pretending to.
I do my three seconds at the door. Old habit. Exits: front, bathroom hallway, the fire door behind the pool tables propped open with a chair. Threats: none visible. Vibe: loud enough to think in.
Rose doesn’t wave. She just lifts two fingers off her glass—clocked you—because she did her own three seconds when I wasstill half a block away. Two beers on the table. One untouched. Mine.
She listened to me last time and ordered. This is the last place they would ID us. It wouldn’t be fun for them to hunt us if they did.
I reach the booth and slide in. “You ordered for me.”
She smiles. “Of course.”
