The Treatment (The Program #2)(15)

“Ecstasy?” I ask.

“I’m guessing. But I’m not sure why they’d put it in the drinks. Either way, we should get out of here. Let’s find Dallas.” I curl my lip at the mention of her name, but we begin searching the club for her anyway. Faces are a blur, and the harder I try to concentrate on them, the more difficult it becomes. Features upon features, voices all around—inside my head. I’m slowing us down, so James plants me against the wall.

“Wait here,” he says. “I’ll be right back.” I watch him disappear into the crowd, and then I lean the back of my head on the wall and close my eyes. The sweetness of the red drink has faded into a metallic, chemical taste.

“Gross,” I say, wishing for a bottle of water.

“It’s phenylethylamine,” someone next to me says. “Among other things.” I’m not entirely surprised to see the pierced boy from earlier. He turns to face me, and his eyes are even darker up close, but not nearly as dead. It’s like he’s wearing contacts.

“The drugs are meant to give euphoria, mask the depression,” he says. “But really they just f**k us up.”

“I’ve noticed,” I say, fascinated by his face. I want to touch one of the rings, but then clench my hand into a fist to bury the thought. “Is it legal for them to drug us?” I ask him.

“It isn’t legal for us to even be here, so it’s not like we can turn them in.”

“Good point.” Although I know I’m not myself, I still like this feeling—this careless freedom. The sadness I came in with is gone. Now it’s like I’ll never be sad again. I feel invincible.

I wonder if it’s done the same thing to this guy. “What’s your name?” I ask him.

“Just call me Adam.”

“You make it sound like that’s not your real name.” He bites his lip to hide his smile. “It’s not. You know, you’re pretty clever for someone who drank an entire Bloodshot.”

“Or maybe you just hang around a lot of stupid people.” He laughs, moving closer to me as he does. When he sighs, it occurs to me his lips aren’t red—don’t have that slight red tint Dallas’s (and probably mine) have from the drink. Did he have a Bloodshot?

“We should get out of here,” Adam says, gesturing toward the door. “I have a car, a pretty nice place. Where are you staying?”

He doesn’t say it creepily, even if he is asking me to leave with him. And maybe I would have waved it off, mentioned how James would probably kick his ass, but I’m bothered by the fact he’s not giving me his real name. I am about to ask him when my boyfriend suddenly appears, walking from the crowd with Dallas trailing behind—holding hands with a guy with purple hair and way-too-skinny jeans.

James casts a suspicious glance from me and Adam. “And this conversation’s over,” he mutters, and pulls me away from the wall. I hadn’t noticed how much it was holding me up. “You really shouldn’t talk to strangers,” James adds quietly, shooting another look in Adam’s direction.

Dallas finally catches up and steps in front of us, letting go of her companion. “I’m not leaving yet,” she states. I’m about to protest, but she grins widely and holds up the keys, dangling them from her finger. “But you two go on,” she says, looking positively wasted. “I’ll get another ride back.” She nods to the guy next to her.

That seems completely reckless, but at this point, I’m not going to argue. This place is overwhelming, vexing . . . alluring.

James takes the keys from her hand and then starts toward the door. As we leave, I hear Adam’s voice.

“Have a good night, Sloane,” he calls after me. I turn and wave because he wasn’t a total jerk or anything.

“Yeah, you too.”

I follow James out, occasionally taking his arm as we pass through the bottlenecked crowd waiting to get in. It isn’t until we’re in the cool night air that I stop to look back at the building, a chill running over my skin. Because I realize . . . I never told Adam my name.

Chapter Six

THE WAREHOUSE IS QUIET WHEN WE ENTER. EVERY

movement I make sounds too loud—every step. Every breath.

Lacey’s door is shut, and the lights buzz as we make our way down the hall. We’re barely inside the bedroom door when James’s hand grazes my hip, moving me aside, but I grab him by the shirt and pull him to me.

As if we’re starving for each other, his mouth is on mine and he backs me against the door, closing it. We’ve slept together only once—that I can remember—and I’m feverish for him now. My hands slip under his shirt before yanking it over his head, and I hear my T-shirt rip more as he pulls away the fabric in his fist. When it doesn’t come off entirely, he growls, and then we’re moving toward the bed. I push him down and then climb on top of him, forgetting everything outside of us. Our layers of clothes begin to evaporate, and his skin is hot against mine. I whisper his name, and then he rolls me over, his weight heavy but perfect. He’s reaching for his pants that lie in a heap next to the bed, when I feel something under my back. I shift, thinking it’s a tag from the sheets, but when I reach to pull it from behind me; I see it’s a folded piece of paper.

James takes a condom from his wallet and then notices I’m holding something. He pauses. “What’s that?” he asks, his voice hoarse.