Stain (Stain #1)(38)
Shaking my head, I say, “I’ll take your word for it. Ready?”
“Yup, let’s get out of here,” she answers, slipping inside a pair of expensive red-bottomed black heels.
Chapter 15
Aylee
The white Mercedes parked in the circular driveway is an early birthday present from Mallory’s MIA father. It arrived about a week ago just in time to soften the blow of what would ultimately be his absence. This is the latest extravagant gift from Gregory Peters. A corporate attorney who has gone through a much publicized divorce with Mallory’s mother after it’d been discovered that he’d had an affair with a client. Needless to say, Darla Peters has come away with a fortune, but deep-seated psychological issues have force her into seclusion where, according to Mallory, she pops pills and bathes in alcohol all day long. She pretty much ignores Mallory, allowing her to do whatever she wants. It’s kind of sad when you think about it, and I know it hurts Mallory more than she lets on, but according to her, she has the best of both worlds. She has the parental guidance without the unnecessary baggage that goes along with it while conveniently tapping into the Daddy ATM whenever she feels like it.
“How’d you get your car fixed so fast?” I ask, slipping inside the passenger seat after she unlocks the doors.
“Your dad pulled a few strings and got his mechanic to take a look at it for me.” Mallory swiped another car the day after she got the Mercedes. She’s an atrocious driver. And in typical Tim fashion, he goes out of his way for other people but refused to fix the chain on my bike when it broke twice last year. Adjusting her rearview mirror, she puts the key in the ignition, starts the engine, and flies down the street. She takes the ramp onto the highway and goes from zero to seventy in six seconds flat. I’m used to her driving this erratically since getting her license two years ago. But that doesn’t mean I’m not gripping the inner door handle for dear life or that I’m not nervously peering behind us, almost certain a hidden police car will drive out of the woodwork any minute to pull us over. The exit to our destination comes quick, a few turns later and we’re driving down Route 127. Separating the factories and auto shops lining the road is Corwin River, infested with trash and reeking of sewage.
Turning the volume down, I glance at her, “Where exactly is this party?” My brow knits as she turns on a barely lit dirt road. “I thought we were heading to someone’s house.”
“Nope.”
I wait to see if she’s going to provide any more information. She doesn’t. My eyes return to the view outside as she pulls behind a massive red-brick building that’s mostly broken windows with a small sea of cars parked in the dirt lot in front of us. There’s a crowd, teenagers like ourselves wearing white rabbit masks as they make their way inside a dark entrance. Though with a quick second glance, I do spot a few older people that look over twenty-one.
“It’s a Wonderland rave. Alice in Wonderland theme, I guess,” she says, coming to the same conclusion I do. She doesn’t give me a moment to process our surroundings or allow me to talk to her about safety and staying together when she opens the car door and bounds out like an eager puppy.
“Mallory, wait!” Running in heels is the worst thing I can possibly do but I don’t have much of a choice at this point. I catch up to her just as she’s entering the dark interior of the building. There’s an enormous man standing in the partially lit, graffiti-filled hallway. We pay the entry fee and he hands us the same white rabbit mask everyone else is wearing. We proceed farther inside with a small group directly in front of us. When they open the heavily-scratched and dented, rusty metal door we step inside and instantly we’re transported to another world. It’s a world comprising of hypnotic neon strobe lights piercing through the darkness, pulsating to the hard, pounding bass blasting through the subwoofers. It’s a world of euphoric chaos, where lust and sex converge in an arousing orgy of debauchery. My eyes bounce everywhere, unable to focus on just one thing. I feel completely overdressed, and even Mallory’s dress seems modest compared to what the gyrating mass of sweat-stained teenagers are wearing. Which is essentially almost nothing.
Everyone is dancing, swaying to the hard, driving EDM song rumbling through the floor. I keep close to Mallory in fear of getting lost in the crowd, but I’m looking at everything, absorbing everything. The air is stale, overcharged and overheated with a myriad of smells that’s intensely overwhelming. A guy steps directly in our path sporting the same creepy rabbit mask almost everyone else is wearing. The fact that he’s not wearing a shirt makes it possible to see the massive set of butterfly wings strapped to his back. The rainbow tutu skirt hides all that needs to be hidden, while thigh-high leather boots accentuate his slim legs. He has a multitude of glow stick necklaces around his neck, while a rainbow of caricatures glowing prettily in the dark decorates his torso.
“Hey, bitch, ‘bout time you got here!” Invading Mallory’s space, he steps close enough that he can be heard over the music all the while pulling his mask up over his head to reveal a grinning face. Henri Kingston is the indiscriminately brash, boisterous, and often times catty friend Mallory picked up last year in drama class. I’m not a fan of his, namely because when he and Mallory get together it rarely ever ends well. Henri can always be counted on to make Mallory’s habitually bad decisions worse.