Riptide

A shiver ran down her spine as icy water splashed onto her face, making her gasp. The mix of beer and tequila was seriously getting to her head, turning the floor beneath her feet a little less steady with every passing second. Sam was not exactly the type to party until sunrise—much less the kind to end up blackout drunk in a crowd of noisy strangers. She was in another category altogether: the girl everyone noticed when exams were coming up, the one you asked for perfect notes or last-minute help, but who everyone somehow forgot to invite to parties the rest of the year. And yet, here she was tonight. And something told her she probably shouldn’t be.

Her circle of friends had always been small, and by now, half of them were scattered all over the country, already swept up in the chaos of their new college lives. She’d gotten a few texts over the summer—bits and pieces of news swapped between vacations—and then nothing. What hurt most wasn’t the silence, but the way the person she thought was her best friend had slowly drifted away. They’d promised never to lose touch, to text every day, to tell each other everything like before, and to meet up every break—naive promises, made with all the conviction of people who think nothing could ever change.

But those good intentions hadn’t lasted long. At first Sam told herself it was just the frantic pace of the new term, but as the weeks went on, she had to face the truth: the distance wasn’t an accident. It was a choice. Out of sight, out of mind. After all those years of friendship, she was now just a distant memory—a name slowly fading away.

She needed to move on. This first year was supposed to mark a new beginning, a break from the reputation she’d been stuck with all her life. She had to. She was tired of being the “daddy’s girl,” too well-behaved, too predictable, the one who spent more time buried in books than actually living.

New year, new college, new opportunities.

For the occasion, she’d bought herself an elegant black dress, cinched at the waist with a thin gold belt. She’d chosen it carefully, wanting to blend into a world where appearances were everything. She’d spent hours perfecting her makeup, straightening every rebellious strand of hair, making sure every detail was flawless. Her shoes were killing her, but they were the only designer pair her mom had agreed to lend her. Here, the girls wore Chanel, Prada, Vuitton—nothing less. Every detail mattered; every outfit told a story of privilege and ease. She couldn’t afford mistakes. She had to play the part and blend in. Tonight, more than ever, she needed to make a good impression.

That’s just how things worked around here—a real social food chain ruled the campus. At the top were the so-called Chanels: the kids whose entrance had been bought with a check of many zeros, who strutted through the halls in luxury brands, treating lectures like a fashion show—there just for show. Right beneath them were those who had both the money and the grades to be here. Rich enough for the tuition, smart enough that nobody could claim they’d bought their way in.

And at the very bottom: the scholarship kids. Admitted solely on brains and hard work. Brilliant, but invisible. Tolerated but never truly accepted—ghosts nobody even bothered to address by name.

Sam was somewhere in the middle. She’d earned a scholarship for her stellar grades, but she also came from a well-off background. Her parents had money—a lot, though never quite enough to compete with those at the very top.

Here, it was all about appearances. You had to blend in, learn the codes, play your role perfectly. And above all, never let it show that deep down, you weren’t at all sure you belonged.

The dull buzzing in Sam’s head had been building for what felt like forever before she realized it was actually the sound of a fist banging on the bathroom door. She sighed, wiped her face with a towel, and turned the handle.

On the other side stood a curvy girl squeezed into an evening dress two sizes too small, glaring impatiently. Her garish makeup made her look like something out of a bad movie.

“Finally! What were you doing in there, writing your memoirs?”

Sam stammered, caught off guard. “Sorry… I just needed to freshen up…” “Yeah, great. Don’t give a shit. Move! I gotta pee.”

Without waiting, the girl shoved past her and slammed the door. Sam just stood there, mouth half open, before looking away. Awesome first impression, Sam. Real smooth.

She made her way back to the packed living room, where a wave of partying students pulsed to deafening music. The house—a sprawling mansion with colonial vibes—was overflowing, packed with the heirs of New Hartford’s elite: lawyers’ sons, politicians’ daughters, nephews and nieces of big bosses. Flawless faces, already trained to smile for cameras or scheme from the shadows, all there to celebrate surviving week one like the future was already theirs. It could have been a cliché remake of a 90s teen movie: dimmed lights, red cups perched precariously on every windowsill, girls dancing on the tables without a care, fuelled by booze and freely circulating joints. Some guys hollered along to old rap tracks, others filmed the chaos, banking memories or blackmail for later. Laughter rang out, tangled with the bass that made the walls tremble. Beer spills, sweat, and overpriced perfume thickened the air—a weird cocktail of decadence and privilege. Large yellow and green banners on the wall shouted out a fraternity name, decked with tasteless crests and Latin mottos no one understood but everyone worshipped, a symbol of this golden caste built on inheritance, connections, and appearances. Sam wove through the crowd, dodging spilled drinks and over-enthusiastic dancers. A half-shirtless guy blocked her path for a moment, offering her a sticky bottle shot. She shook her head, refusing. When she finally reached the couch she’d left a few minutes earlier, her stomach clenched. Her friends were gone, replaced by a couple entangled in a passionate make-out session—on her leather jacket, crumpled beneath them like a throw pillow.

She winced and cleared her throat. “Uh… excuse me?” Nothing. She tapped the guy’s shoulder, trying again. “I just want to grab my—” Without even looking at her, the guy waved her off, dismissing her like she was a mosquito interrupting his high. Then, pulling his partner closer, he basically had her straddle him. Sam sighed. Forget it. She wasn’t about to cause a scene. She spun on her heel and headed to the makeshift bar balanced on a billiard table buried in bottles and empty cups. Without thinking, she grabbed something at random, poured a shot, and tossed it back. Fire shot down her throat; she grimaced. She probably should’ve checked the label first.

“Whoa, careful with that—that stuff’s the real deal.”

She looked up. The voice belonged to a smiling guy watching her with amused eyes. She gave a sheepish smile.

“So what’s a pretty girl like you doin’ drinking alone?”

Sam almost burst out laughing—it was such a cliché. Seriously? He really went there? But against all odds, a pang of flattery crept in. The alcohol was already clouding her head, and, on a whim, she muttered:

“Well, with you here, I guess I’m not really alone.”

He laughed. “Nice. Quick on your feet—I like that.”

She felt her cheeks flush. He grabbed a rum bottle, poured them both a shot, and handed her one.

“To us, then.”

She hesitated. She knew she was drinking too fast. But the look in his eyes made it clear she had two choices: play along, or admit her reluctance.

Not wanting to look like a prude, she discreetly inhaled and downed the shot. Her stomach immediately rebelled; she had to focus not to spit it out.

Bad idea. Very bad idea.

“So, still haven’t told me—why are you on your own?”

Sam shrugged, searching for words. “My so-called ‘friends’—” she mimed air quotes, “—probably found something better to do.” “So now you’re drinking to forget they ditched you.”

The comment hit her like a punch to the gut. She lowered her eyes, unable to deny it.

“That’s about right…” she murmured sadly.

Suddenly, the room started to spin. She lifted a hand to her temples, wincing at the dizziness.

“You okay?” the guy asked, a little amused but not totally indifferent.

“Yeah…” she managed. “Massive headache coming on. I should probably slow down.”

He smirked. “Want me to fix you up? I’ve got just the thing, upstairs if you want.”

She hesitated.

“Relax,” he said matter-of-factly, “it’ll perk you right up. C’mon, you can’t let a headache ruin your night—right?”

She stared at him a second, uncertain. The voice in her head told her to say no, but the alcohol blurred her judgment, making her vulnerable to things she’d usually brush off. Finally, she forced a smile.

“Yeah… okay.”

He grabbed the rum bottle again and motioned for her to follow. He moved confidently through the crowd toward the stairs, Sam stumbling along behind him.

The living room door opened, releasing a wave of air heavy with sweat, stale smoke, and spilled booze. Hailee inhaled reflexively—and instantly regretted it.

She let out a long sigh, eyes sweeping over the pulsing, jam-packed crowd. With her hoodie pulled low and her cold stare, she looked like a boxer about to climb into the ring. That was her signature: a beanie, a cap, a hood—always something to cover her head. A silly ritual, but it gave her a thin sense of security.

She loathed these kinds of parties. Spoiled rich kids—she couldn’t stand them. Arrogant, so sure the world was theirs; playing dumb games about who was richer, who could drink more, who would hook up with the most girls in a night.

For a moment, Hailee let her mind wander. It would be so easy to rob them all. Half-blind with booze and drugs, they couldn’t tell friend from stranger. Like stealing candy from a baby. She brushed the thought away and focused on her mission. Scanning the room for her target amid the blurry swaying bodies. Nothing. Whatever. She slipped between guests, shoving past a few shoulders without apology.

“Hey, Hailee!”A girl’s voice called after her. Hailee closed her eyes briefly in exasperation. Of course. She turned slowly, sighing as she responded with zero enthusiasm:

“Christie…”

Christie grinned, like she’d been waiting for this.

“I didn’t think I’d see you here.”

“Can’t say the same…” Hailee replied, crossing her arms. “You seen Nolan around?”

Christie raised an eyebrow, briefly disappointed.

“Nolan?” she toyed with her hair, “He’s probably off drinking with the guys from his class.”

A tense silence stretched. Then, more softly:

“If you’ve got nothing going on… you can always call me.” She paused, then with a bit of daring, “We could, I dunno, hang like we used to.”

Hailee hesitated. She’d played this game too many times: Christie drifting in just long enough to give her hope, then vanishing into somebody else’s arms. Hailee had learned the hard way—but even now, the temptation was real. It would be so easy. No flirting, no complications, no endless talking. Just one night, nothing more. A single word and it would all shift. Christie seemed to sense her hesitation, closing the gap, fingers trailing along Hailee’s forearm. The moment stretched—then Hailee broke into a real, amused smile.

“We both know that’s a bad idea.”

Christie bit her lip, mock-offended, but Hailee could tell she wasn’t giving up.

“I think it could be fun…” Christie whispered, gaze burning straight into Hailee’s.

Hailee told herself it was done—but Christie was like a drug. Not the kind that gives you a harmless high, but the kind that burns you out, leaves you broken, hollow, hating yourself. They’d gotten together and split up a dozen times or more. Hailee had lied, stolen, fought for her. Given everything, forgiven everything, started over and over. Every time, swearing it was the last. Every time, relapsing. Why would this time be any different?

“Fine… I’ll call you later.”

The words were out before she could stop them.

“Cool… see ya.”

With a last satisfied smile, Christie melted away into the crowd, leaving Hailee standing, disgusted with her own weakness. She shook her head, fists clenched. This wasn’t the time for that. Focus. Nolan. That was why she was here. The DJ’s electro was drilling into her skull—she half wanted to smash the speakers. Annoyed, she pushed her way to the makeshift DJ booth and waved at him. He didn’t react.

“You know where Nolan is?” she yelled.

“WHAT?” he shouted back, lost in his music.

Hailee rolled her eyes, snatched one of his headphones, and yelled:

“NOLAN!”

The DJ jumped, startled.

“Shit! I dunno! I don’t even know who the fuck Nolan is!”

Hailee’s patience cracked. She exhaled loudly.

“THE GUY PAYING YOU!”

He blinked, shrugged.

“Oh. Him. No idea… I think he went upstairs with some chick?”

Good enough. No thanks. Hailee spun for the stairs. Fifteen minutes. She’d been here fifteen fucking minutes and she was done. Passing the pool table, she grabbed someone’s unattended beer, cracked it open, and took a long swig. Might as well do something useful.

Upstairs, Hailee spotted a student leaning against the wall, beer in hand. She walked up and asked for the host’s whereabouts. He shrugged, pointed at a door at the end of the hall. Hailee muttered a “thanks,” set her beer down on a wobbly side table topped with a pretentious figurine, and grimaced. She’d never understand the rich and their ugly, overpriced garbage. She pounded on the door, impatient. “Nolan, open up, it’s me.” Silence. She knocked harder. “Nolan, I know you’re there. I’m not leaving without my money.”

A guy’s annoyed voice came from inside: “Alright, alright, I’m coming!”

Seconds later Nolan himself appeared, smug smile plastered on his face.

“Damn! you could at least put some clothes on?” Hailee groaned, rolling her eyes.

Nolan smirked.

“Oh, relax, it’s just a dick. Chill!” He grinned wider. “We were just getting started—wanna join?”

Hailee grimaced.

“Thanks, still not interested.”

He shrugged, moving aside, revealing a girl sprawled on the bed, half undressed. Her glassy eyes and sluggish movements left no doubt as to her state. She was struggling to sit up, as if her body wasn’t listening anymore. Hailee felt anger coil in her gut. She frowned.

“You okay?” Nolan, rummaging through a drawer, answered without looking up: “Yeah, yeah… Don’t worry she’s fine.”

But Hailee wasn’t buying it. The girl’s pleading stare was a silent cry for help. Hailee knew Nolan—she knew how far he’d go to get what he wanted. A slow tear ran down the girl’s cheek. Hailee’s whole body went cold with rage.

“You asshole!” she spat.

Without thinking, she rushed to the girl, yanking the sheet free to cover her up.

“Hey! What are you doing?” Nolan shouted, caught off guard. “You outta your mind?”

Hailee ignored him, slid her arm around the girl to help her sit. She was barely conscious, collapsing nearly her full weight onto Hailee. Nolan grabbed Hailee’s shoulder.

“What the fuck are you doing?!”

Hailee turned and shoved him, hard. He flew back and hit the desk.

“WHAT’D YOU GIVE HER?!” she roared.

Nolan looked away, evasive.

“What—nothing... She was drunk, I just gave her something to help, that’s all…”

He didn’t get to finish. Hailee’s knee shot up, smashing into his groin. Nolan crumpled with a scream, curling up on the floor. Hailee glared at him in disgust.

“You’re a piece of shit. I should break your face.”

But she didn’t have time for him. She tightened her grip on the girl and steered her to the door. Behind them, Nolan groaned between ragged breaths:

“You’re fucking crazy! Say goodbye to your cash!”

Hailee paused at the threshold, a wicked grin crossing her lips.

“Keep it. Buy yourself a conscience.”

Then she disappeared with the girl into the hall. Supporting her with one arm, holding the sheet around her trembling body, Hailee charged for the exit. Sam’s eyes, blurred with tears, could barely make out faces—only vague shapes, laughing, drinking, oblivious to the nightmare she’d just escaped. No one seemed to notice. Or maybe no one wanted to. The music thrummed through Sam’s bones, amplifying the chaos in her head. Her breath came ragged; every step was agony. She felt like she was floating outside her own body, as if this was all happening to someone else. Hailee didn’t slow. She cut through the crowd, jaw clenched, eyes fixed on the door, ignoring the curious stares and mumbled questions in their wake. She flung open the front door—a burst of cool morning air hit them. That’s when Sam’s stomach finally caved.

As soon as they stepped outside, Sam doubled over and vomited into a decorative flowerpot by the door. She was wrecked, her head splitting, afraid and ashamed, desperate to disappear, to forget every second of the past few hours. The car door opened, and she collapsed into the passenger seat. The door slammed, amplifying the pounding in her head. The driver’s side opened.

“Where do you live?”

Sam tried to collect herself, blinking as she tried to focus.

“What?”

“I’m taking you home. Where do you live?”

A wave of panic. No way she could go home like this. She mumbled, struggling to form words.

“No… not home…”

Not the answer Hailee wanted. She sighed, exasperated.

“Great.”

She started the engine, the thrum echoing Sam’s nerves. Hailee gripped the wheel too tightly, jaw locked, eyes fixed on the empty road. Silence filled the car. She didn’t even know where she was headed—not really. Just following instinct, the need to put as much distance as possible between Sam and that house. Every passing minute drove her deeper into a mix of simmering rage and doubt. She should’ve beaten Nolan. Made him face what he’d done. Wiped the smug from his rich-boy smile. But she hadn’t. She thought of this girl—her state, her bare skin, how she could barely stand. And she chose to run. Now this stranger, wrapped in a stupid sheet, was slumped in the seat beside her like a broken doll. And it drove her nuts. She hated this—getting involved, carrying someone else. Especially a girl she hadn’t even known an hour ago. But now that it had happened, she couldn’t turn back. Not when Sam was half-conscious, lost, shaken. She probably didn’t deserve to be abandoned. So she kept driving. The wet streets stretched like endless corridors, until she reached the familiar entrance of the bar where she lived. Her hideout. Her cave. The one place she didn’t owe anything to anyone. And now, she was bringing in a girl whose name she didn’t even know. She took a deep breath. Too late to back out. She pushed open the bar door and edged through the crowded, yellow-lit space, weaving between battered, alcohol-stained tables, trying to stay invisible, with Sam still clinging to her, bundled in a sheet. The air carried the smell of cold smoke, greasy fries, and a faint whiff of old sadness. The regulars barely glanced up from their drinks—men weighed down by life, glued to their stools like it was all they had left; women with weary eyes, propped against the counter, dragging on forgotten cigarettes. Not a stopover but a battered refuge for lost souls, where silence pressed heavier than the scratchy old rock on the busted jukebox. No one seemed surprised by the sight. Here, weird was just part of the decor, and a girl wrapped in a sheet barely earned half a shrug. Hailee moved forward, jaw set, ignoring the dim light and stares.

Behind the bar, a man pouring a round of whiskies barked: “Wait, you serious right now ?”

Hailee kept walking, waving him off without slowing: “I’ll explain later.”

Hauling Sam up the creaky stairs to her apartment was no easy feat—it was risky even for someone sober, let alone lugging a half-fainted girl. Once inside, she helped Sam collapse onto the bed. The place looked like a makeshift attic room more than a real apartment. Low ceiling, exposed beams, lending it a secret hideaway vibe. A small, dirty window let in a cold slice of streetlight. The bed took up most of the space—rumpled sheets, a too-thin comforter, as if they’d been tossed together in a rush. Opposite sat a small dresser with a cracked antique mirror. All the mismatched furniture looked like flea market finds, scavenged in storms and restless nights. Near the door, a shabby kitchenette held a tottering stack of groceries and chipped dishes. A cracked bathroom door revealed a tiny space barely big enough to stand in under harsh light. Hailee plugged in a socket; in a flash, fairy lights strung on the ceiling glowed, washing the worn walls in a fragile, golden glow. On the bed, Sam was still fighting nausea, eyelids drooping, breathing ragged, body deadened by booze and whatever else she’d taken. She murmured, voice weak:

“Where are we?”

Hailee ran some water, handing Sam a glass. “My place. Drink up.”

Sam sat up slowly, wincing as movement made the spinning worse. She cradled the glass, barely whispering: “Thanks.” Draining it, she sank back to the bed with a little groan. She felt sick, lost, terrified. But at that moment trusting this stranger—who had, for reasons she didn’t understand, saved her—was all she could do.

Hailee felt a pang of discomfort. She had no idea what she was supposed to do next.

Sam broke the silence: “Are you gonna get in trouble?”

“What?” “The guy downstairs didn’t seem too happy to see me.”

“Don’t worry, he’ll get over it.”

Before awkward silence could settle in, Hailee added,

“You should try to sleep. You’ll feel better.”

Sam nodded, curling up, eyes closing hopefully. Hailee stood for a while, watching her, mind buzzing. What the hell was she thinking? She’d just brought a total stranger into her bed, punched the son of one of the city’s most powerful men, and blown any chance of getting the money she’d come for. You sure know how to land in trouble… she thought, biting her lip.

The muffled noise from downstairs—the bar’s voices drifting through the floor—snapped her out of it. She glanced at her watch, unplugged the lights, and let darkness wash over the room. On her way out, she gave Sam one last look.

Something was tightening in her chest—a feeling, hot and fragile at the same time. Sam slept, or at least looked like she was sleeping, curled up in sheets way too big for her, as if she was trying to disappear. Hailee had no clue what she was doing, or what would become of any of this. She hadn’t meant to bring home a lost girl—much less to feel anything, watching her breathe. She closed the door softly, like shutting a parenthesis. The stairwell smelled of spilled beer and stale smoke. Laughter climbed from below—familiar, messy. She drew a long breath, pushed her hair back, and went down the steps, letting herself sink back into the mask she wore here—the one nobody messed with, the one who could handle anything. Soon as the bar noise hit her, she was back in her element. Here, nobody asked questions. Here, she knew exactly who she was. She grabbed her apron and slipped behind the bar, where the man who’d called out earlier was waiting. He was only a little taller than her, but solid, like a linebacker. That fit—he had played football in high school, back when he and Hailee had been classmates until they’d both gotten expelled.

Before he could say a word, Hailee cut him off: “I know, I know—don’t even start. I just need a drink.”

“You said you’d be gone an hour! I’ve been stuck dealing with a bunch of lunatic drinkers at game time.”

Hailee grabbed a bourbon bottle.

“I told you I’d make it up to you. So, who won?”

He snatched the bottle from her, replaced it with a cheap one.

“Don’t change the subject. And quit touching the good bottles. Who’s the girl?”

Hailee poured herself a shot of awful whiskey and grimaced.

“Ugh… this is disgusting… She’s nobody. Long story.”

He smirked.

“Well, your ‘nobody’ is pretty damn hot…”

“Matt, shut up. It’s not what you think.”

“Oh really?” He leaned on the counter, grinning. “So you don’t have a wasted hottie waiting in your bed upstairs?”

She rolled her eyes. “I do, but not for that.”

He burst out laughing.

“Yeah, right… So what’s her name?”

Hailee shrugged while pouring two more shots.

“No idea.”

Matt snickered.

“Seriously? Wait—she’s legal, right?”

Hailee groaned, handing him a shot.

“You’re such an ass!”

“Alright, alright. No worries.”

Hailee clinked glasses with him and knocked hers back.

“Found her in Nolan’s bed… completely wasted.”

“I see…” Matt didn’t need details. He knew Hailee—and Nolan—far too well. Hailee was about to say more, but a loud crash from across the bar cut her off.

She sighed. “Trevor?”

Matt nodded.

At the back of the bar, two men squared off, nearly coming to blows. When Hailee got there, the onlookers scattered instantly.

“Trevor, how many times do we have to do this?”

One of them—a burly, thoroughly drunk man—slurred, “He started it!”

“I don’t care, Trevor! It’s always the same with you!”

He knew Hailee well. A regular—especially at causing scenes. Most of the clientele here were like Trevor, but Hailee, even as a woman, was respected. With a boxer’s build, big shoulders, strong arms, she commanded a certain authority. Her dark hair was tied back, loose strands framing her face, and her sharp black eyes made her vibe clear. She didn’t fear confrontation—physical or otherwise—and she knew how to keep over-eager men, or anyone, in line. Trevor knew better than to push it tonight. He made a grumbling exit under the wary stares of the bar’s client base. Matt, picking up the fallen stools, loudly declared:

“Alright, folks, nothing to see. Next round’s on me!”

Cheers greeted him and the place slipped back to normal. Behind the bar, Hailee’s phone started buzzing. She reached over the counter—Christie’s name lit up the screen. She’d all but forgotten that maybe-plan, but apparently, Christie hadn’t.

Matt peeked over her shoulder, muttering: “She still around?”

Hailee pocketed her phone, looking a bit sheepish.

“Yeah… Ran into her at the party.”

Matt pulled a pint, sighing:

“And you thought getting into Medusa’s arms was a smart move?”

Hailee huffed.

“I don’t know what I was thinking… She was there, so was I, and…”

“And now, here you are, dragging some drunk girl through my bar.”

“Yeah…”

“Remind me to thank that girl when she sobers up, okay? She saved you from a huge mistake—and saved me a pile of trouble.”

Hailee rested her elbows on the counter, rubbing her face, trying to sort out her thoughts.

“You should go to bed.”

Hailee stiffened.

“No, it’s fine.”

“Seriously, I’ve got this. You’d do well to check she’s still breathing, anyway.” He nodded toward the stairs. “Last thing I need is a corpse in your bed.”

Hailee cringed.

“Did I ever tell you how hilarious you are?”

“That’s why the ladies love me!”

She rolled her eyes, unable to hide a smile. Grabbing a stray bar towel, she wiped her hands, looking over the noisy room. The blur of noise, the swirl of alcohol, the tangled conversations—all familiar, usually reassuring. But tonight, her head was somewhere else.

Matt wasn’t wrong. Even if his joke was trash, the message stood: she couldn’t just pretend nothing had happened. She’d brought home a near-unconscious stranger and left her alone. Just thinking about it made her throat tight. With a sigh, she tossed the towel aside and headed for the stairs. They creaked under her feet, the bar’s racket fading as she rose into stillness.

She walked in quietly. Sam’s soft, wheezy breathing told her she was okay. Something, at least, was going right. Hailee lay down gently beside the stranger, unable not to study her. Matt was right about one thing: Sam was cute. But not Hailee’s usual type. From what she’d gathered, Sam was a “normal” girl—likely a privileged student who got whatever she wanted, every whim answered.

Hailee, meanwhile, was always drawn to complicated girls. Lost ones, usually addicts, haunted by their pasts. She hardly dared move, for fear of waking or scaring Sam. It wasn’t the first time she’d shared a bed with someone whose name she didn’t know, but it was the first time she felt this vulnerable. A gnawing guilt churned inside; she had strong reason to think she was the one who’d supplied the very drug that landed Sam in this state. She’d never really cared about what happened to the stuff she dealt—just a job, nothing personal. She delivered, never asked questions about where it came from or how it’d be used. It was hypocrisy—a way to pretend she wasn’t to blame. But lying beside Sam, Hailee couldn’t help but imagine what might’ve happened if she hadn’t come for her money tonight. She’d always comforted herself that her buyers were grown adults, making their own choices. But tonight proved otherwise: the ones who suffered weren’t always the ones knowingly taking the risk. Sometimes, they were innocent—and it was partly on her.