Chapter 1
"Oh for fuck sake, Liv." Ella drags out the words, throwing her head back in exasperation; her voice slicing through my daily dose of the past—my biggest addiction. Her mahogany-brown eyes and waving hand slowly creep into focus. I bat her hand away, reaching past her to grab the glass tumbler that contains my favourite cherry red liquid, and my poison of choice—Amaretto and cranberry juice. The glass almost slips from my grasp due to the condensation but I grip it like a vice. It's my first drink of the night and a blunder like dropping it would most definitely set the tone for the rest of the evening.
"Where did you go now?" She hauls herself upright and staggers to the other side of the living room—a half consumed Buzzball sloshing about in one hand, a purple vape glued to the other. Pointing the bottle towards me, raising a brow, she continues. "You were thinking about the tips we made this week?" I stare at her blankly. I couldn't give two fucks about the tips we made this week.
"Nah, you don't care about that."
She inches closer, tapping her vape against the side of her glossy mouth.
"Hmm..."
She wears a sultry look on her face and stops in front of me—looking down at me—her stare unyielding. She cocks an eyebrow, continuing her silly game.
"Me?" She pouts her lips, knowing I'm most definitely not thinking about her.
Again, she's met with a wall of silence.
She crouches down between my legs and subconsciously draws the number eight over and over onto my thigh. Taking a drag of the vape, she blows the thick, grape smelling smoke in my face. She tucks a strand of my hair behind my ear, still feeling the phantom eight being cut into my skin.
"Let. Me. Guess. Him?" She tsks and scrunches her nose like she's just eaten a sour sweet.
Something shifts in the air and I look down at my drink feeling almost ashamed.
Not ashamed of wasting time getting sucked into the past—again. Not over getting caught.
No.
The reason I feel ashamed is because I would do anything to feel even a sliver of the happiness or sadness I felt back then. Just to fucking feel. Because now, all I feel is a vast empty void within my being.
I moved to London a little over two years ago after having a mental breakdown. I had two thousand, four hundred and forty-two pounds to my name, a backpack containing clothes, knickers, a passport, a KitKat and some chewing gum. I had no tits back then, so I didn't need bras.
I met Ella and Daphne at a bar in Soho not long after I arrived. They told me they worked at a prestigious strip club and earned thousands of pounds every night. Daphne offered me a place to stay and a trial run at the club.
She said, "The regulars will fucking love you."
And they did.
Turns out, being the only redhead in a strip club earns you an obscene amount of tips. I started working the bar, then quickly realised that if I wanted to earn big bucks, I had to take off my clothes.
The rest is history.
I've learned one thing coming from nothing and hitting rock bottom: if someone offers you salvation, you grab on with two fucking hands and you don't let go.
Ella's white-blonde hair spills over her shoulder and time slows when she stares at me. Her face is as expressive as her overbearing personality, but above the cheekbones, it stops.
Her eyes are empty and hollow. They always are.
Though, it's not her eyes that draw my attention. I can't quite read this expression.
Maybe a hint of sadness. But mixed with what almost looks like guilt or worry. I've observed all of Ella's facial expressions, right down to her come face.
This one though?
This one I haven't seen before.
Before I speak she blinks and the spell is broken.
She bobs her head, making her sunglasses fall forward—masking her eyes.
I exhale a breath, letting out a small laugh.
I'm not getting bogged down in whatever Ella may or may not be going through. If she needs a shoulder to lean on then she can speak to one of her other girls from the club. I can't be that type of friend for her. Nor do I want to be. The only reason she knows about a certain someone is because I was tripping on MDMA one night and she hasn't let me forget about it since.
The air feels lighter now as the base from the techno music buzzes through our two-bedroom flat. She bounces up letting the beat take over as she sways from side to side. Ella knocks into one of my boxes still scattered across our living room.
Only a smirk tugs at her shiny lips. If her peepers weren't covered I'd know there's mischief under there.
My best friend is up to no good. Which means—we will be up to no good.
I playfully glare at her before asking.
"What's on the menu tonight?"
Ella reaches for her iPhone and peels the phone-case off.
She holds up a small plastic bag containing white powder, letting it dangle mid-air.
Biting my bottom lip, my eyes follow the little bag.
It pulls me into a delightful hypnosis that has me smiling like a Cheshire Cat.
You're a weak bitch.
I shake my head, forcing myself to look away.
Ella snorts and quirks an eyebrow.
I scramble for reasons not to but my head is a complete mishmash of nothingness. I shift uncomfortably in my chair, fighting an internal battle and she's loving it.
"Look, you know that when we get to the club, you'll be buying off some random human waste anyway. There is no point in denying the inevitable. Is there?"
I glance at Ella as she continues—practically feeling the electricity bounce off her. But it doesn't quite reach me. It never does.
"We haven't had a night out in so long, Liv. You deserve to let loose. We deserve to let loose. I need my bestie to have fun with me," she declares with a petty pout.
Before I can protest the powder's already spread across the glass coffee table. She flattens the lumpy powder with a note and bank card—quick and practised. Then she scrapes the excess powder off the note, finely chopping it before dividing it into four equal lines.
"Ella."
She ignores me and has a wicked grin on her face—revelling in the victory.
Tap. Tap.
That sound alone kicks my heart-rate up a notch.
She drags the footstool over so she's eye-level with me, then grabs my clammy hand and drops the rolled-up note into my palm.
"Your protests are about as fake as my tits darling," she whispers.
Darling.
A flash of crinkled eyes and dimples caresses my mind.
My heart skips a beat but I shut that thought down immediately.
Taking a deep inhale, I toss my hair over my shoulder and drop to my knees, lining up the note.
Ella pulls my hair back.
I don't hesitate.
One line. Then another.
"Good girl," Ella purrs.
She snatches the note back smugly and follows right after me.
I sink into my chair and let a wave of heat tickle my nerve endings—followed by a small rush of euphoria that I welcome like an old friend.
The beat disperses from the speakers, being replaced in my chest. The smell of Ella's Jo Malone Velvet Rose and Oud mercifully dissipates.
"You look fucking hot tonight, Liv," Ella purrs, pulling me from my thoughts.
And there it is. Right on fucking cue.
She always turns into a raging Lesbian when she's on coke—touchy and flirty. Though , I’m not exactly innocent when it comes to Ella. I can always be persuaded with the right company. She's stunning and I enjoy this push and pull game she plays but she's not my type.
He's your type.
No.
I try to squash the memory of him but it's too late.
Freckles.
Don't do this to yourself.
He's not, fucking, worth it.
You're fine. You're more than fine.
We haven't had a Saturday off in months so I'm not wasting another second thinking about a silly boy from six years ago.
Thankfully the mixture of cocaine and alcohol leaves my emotions on mute, my face warm and fuzzy, and I have the sudden urge to give my friend a tell-all-interview.
We're close—we're not that close.
"I'm not on the menu tonight, Ella—sorry."
"Boo, you're very boring tonight." She starts slapping my leg excitedly. "Oh, what if Cal from the club is there tonight? He's been chasing that pussy for so long, you know," she giggles whilst trying to gyrate me.
I push her off sending her flying onto the sofa. She giggles whilst reaching for the vape she dropped.
Anxiety creeps in from nowhere and I spot a string peeking out of the arm of my chair—deciding it's my lifeline.
I need more.
After another line I saunter over to our wide arched mirror that leans against the wall in our hallway. Smiling, I dust away the white residue on my nose using a fluffy makeup brush.
I stand up straight and admire my reflection. Once upon a time I couldn't stand looking at myself. Now I hate the person I see.
I'm dressed head to toe in black. Parachute trousers, a sleeveless zip down top that stops at my cleavage. Vintage leather shoulder bag, black trainers and gunmetal grey Versace sunglasses. I shove my hair up using a silver metal clip. Make-up is bare minimum and I look fucking hot.
"Absolutely not. Not someone from the club. The last time I fucked a customer, they stalked me and he got barred for life. Remember?"
Ella stops dancing and bursts into a fit of laughter.
"Oh my god that Owen guy! Didn't he get caught in our changing-room sniffing Daphne's knickers?" She wretches, coughing into her hand.
"No that was Dick."
Her face contorts in confusion.
"Who's dick? Owen's dick?"
I snort another line and brush away the excess.
"I'm not talking about a penis you eejit. I'm talking about Dick as in Richard."
Her eyes bulge as realisation sets in.
"Oh yeah, Richard! He was quite fit you know; you should have shagged him."
"He was a fucking creep, Ella. He kept asking for pictures of my toes with banana peels in between them."
She giggles more, her eyes widen, pupils like saucers.
"I love a niche king and you do have nice toes."
The two lines I left her on the table disappear in seconds as I order an Uber.
It's one in the morning when we arrive at the club.
The Victorian building rises above the street, all dark brick, towering windows and ornate stonework that looks almost too grand for the debauchery happening outside. Three floors of carefully disguised chaos.
The top floor is a rooftop bar with a boho-chic vibe—soft house music, low lighting and enough seating for people who actually want to have a conversation.
The floor below is a different story. Red lights bleed across the walls, giving the place the appearance of a high-end brothel from the outside. VIP beds are tucked into the back, hidden behind velvet curtains, and there's a strict no-phone policy.
Downstairs, the ground floor transforms into a trendy coffee joint by day. I'm almost certain the owner sells more than coffee from behind that counter.
But underground?
That's where we're headed
The queue outside continues round the corner from the entrance. People squashed like sardines, arguing amongst themselves. The July air is thick and heavy—even at this time in the morning. I can't think of anything worse than standing in that queue. Especially now that my buzz is beginning to wear off again.
We spot one of our regulars from the club working the door and make a dash for him, ignoring the onslaught of abuse from the sweaty people in the queue.
Dave begins unclipping the red barrier rope—eyeing us like we're his next meal.
He's a decent guy, but you don't fuck with him. He works for some big-shot gangsters who own the club. I've seen some of them at our club, but if you're smart, you stay clear.
"Ah, my two favourite midnight ballerinas," he mutters in his cockney accent.
I avert my gaze to keep myself from reacting to his sleazy comment.
He stamps Ella's hand then takes mine. His hand feels rough and scratchy beneath mine.
"You look lovely Olivia."
His eyes are piercing blue but not in a nice or comforting way. And his breath smells like stale beers and cigarette smoke. I've never noticed Dave's uneasy, looming presence before.
The pressure of the stamp sears into my skin.
"Thanks Da-."
"Any sweets, Dave?" Ella cuts in, whilst running a finger down his chest. His smile grows, revealing a gold tooth. He pulls Ella in close, caressing her brown shimmering skin.
"For you two? Anything," he coos.
I internally cringe at their exchange.
He reaches into his vest and drops two pingers into Ella's palm.
"On the house princess. I'll see you soon."
He winks at her and bile rises in my throat. She's a certified flirt and never draws a line with men. It will be her demise if she isn't careful.
She snatches my hand, bouncing with excitement as she leads me downstairs.
The walls are soulless black, covered in posters of DJs. I drag my hand down the wall and feel the vibration of the music get more intense the deeper we go. We reach the bottom and collide with a swarm of people waiting to check in their belongings. Ella pulls me through the crowd into the large room.
It's packed with bodies, swaying through mist and laser beams.
Ella taps me to get my attention.
“Here," she mouths.
She takes my hand and shoves the pill into my hand.
She pops hers in her mouth and gulps it down with a bottle of water.
I look down at mine.
A red triangle. Stamped with a "Z".
My stomach dips.
Z
Why am I so fucking sentimental today? I need to get a handle on myself.
I toss the pill in my mouth and take a swig from the bottle.
Ella pulls me in for a peck on the lips then mouths "let's go" and pulls me to the dancefloor.
The bass doesn't just thump—it lives inside my chest, syncing with my heartbeat. I take Ella's hands and spin her under the strobe lights that smear into colour.
Her skin is warm and electric. Every touch lingers longer than it should. The beat of the music wraps around us, soft and heavy all at once, and for a second it feels like it's just us in the room—no crowd, no noise, just movement and light. Her fingers lace through mine, making me feel safe.
We don't even dance properly. Just swaying and jumping, grinning like idiots. She spins me round and I continue to let my body move to the beat. A wave of heat courses through my body, rushing to my head.
Hazily, I unzip my bag, moving the contents to locate my sunglasses. I look up for Ella, but she's not there. Grabbing my phone to check for messages I feel the world tilt on an axis and my jaw tighten. This is an unusual turn of events. The intense euphoria and inner peace I seek is nowhere to be found. Just like my friend.
Fuck.
Panic begins to simmer.
I glance down at my phone and my screensaver of myself and Ella has turned in to shifting, fluid patterns.
I can't phone her.
Double fuck.
Calm down, she'll be in the toilets.
The drugs magnify the anxiety washing over me. It's too much. Almost louder than the music.
I make my way through the crowd and find a platform that overlooks the sea of people. Grabbing onto the banister, I haul myself up to the platform and frantically scan for Ella.
Where the fuck did she go?
No matter what, we never leave without telling the other.
My eyes move from face to face, searching, scanning, but never landing.
Faces begin to morph into something more sinister. More demonic. I try to block out the fear and paranoia. A bead of sweat trickles down my temple.
A burst of smoke shoots out in front of me, hindering my vision even more.
A shiver rolls up my spine, making every hair stand up.
The feeling hits before the thought does.
Someone's watching me.
My eyes hover over the VIP section, knowing in my gut that they are there.
The smoke slowly evaporates and a familiar face comes into view—leaving me frozen in place.
My bag drops, its contents spilling across the floor.
It can't be.
Everything slows to a halt.
I jump from the platform, almost crashing into dancing bodies. Stumbling down, I retrieve my phone and sunglasses. Everything else is lost to the sea of plastic cups and bottles.
There's no way it was him.
It's all in your head. Just breathe. Gain control, you can do this.
When I stand up, I look over again and he's gone.
It's just the drugs fucking with your head.
What is that people say about taking an upper. Ride the wave? Well those people can get fucked. I don't want to be on the wave anymore. All I want to do is go home.
I spin round and collide face first into a wall of muscle. I look up as a hand grips my neck, keeping me at arms length. A thumb gently strokes my jugular and my breath hitches. My eyes take a minute to catch up but when they do, the world stops. Sweat rolls down the back of my neck. His dark eyes are on mine. Taking in every bit of my dishevelled appearance.
I can't hear him but his mouth forms the name I never thought I'd hear again.
"Eilidh Woods."
