Archive of Our Own

Trixie Tang stood before her mirror, naked but for a pair of panties. Resting on the vanity top was an elegant wine-colored strapless bra that matched the modest thong she was wearing. Hanging behind her was a radiantly gorgeous off-shoulder dress, freshly unpacked from a careful Milan shipment mere hours earlier. The midnight blue fabric sparkled elegantly in the mirror's reflection, though to Trixie it shone more like armor than fabric. Her eyes snapped back to her own reflection and with a heaved breath, she slid her hands into her hair and started styling it.

Ordinarily, she would have had Maggie or Geraldine do her hair – it was in their job description – but Trixie wasn't yet ready to see other people. In two hours, she would be stuck at the annual DimmaDinner with dozens of people she really had no interest in socializing with. Not that she'd been very social over the last week to begin with.

She'd spent the ride home from PowCon, her first – and likely last – con ever, crying to the point she had to pull over twice because she couldn't see. By the time she got home, she'd cried out all of her tears and what was left was apathy. The time for mourning had passed. Now was the time for action.

She'd tried to steal away moments of truth for herself. She'd secretly developed outlets over the years for her to indulge in her hobbies and blow off steam. Her high level sea-elf in CaldorQuest and her digital comic collection could attest to that. But it had all been a fool's errand.

"The world is too small a place for someone like Trixie Tang to exist anonymously forever."

Turner's words from last Friday haunted her, stark and biting. And with them, memories of him kicked down the doorway of her mind, unwelcome and warm. They threatened to overwhelm her. She clenched her jaw as she strained to re-quarantine those memories. Nowhere safe from him and it honestly wasn't his fault: the world just seemed to push him into her path. After all, what were the chances that the player she'd gotten so chummy with over the last five years was also the boy she had a crush on for the last eight? Cosmic irony, indeed.

But she understood better, now. To be Trixie Tang was to be perfect. And to be perfect was to sacrifice. To be perfect meant to be refined, purged of impurities and flaws – perceived or otherwise. Her eyes went to the birthmark on her collarbone. She could still feel his touch…

"You shouldn't hide it, you know. It's not some sort of defect. It's just a little beauty spot."

I'm supposed to be perfect. "Tch." She swallowed a sour feeling and in a deft motion, she swiped some concealer onto her finger, then applied a perfect amount to the imperfection. Within seconds, the mar was gone.

She looked at herself again. She was spotless. She was perfect. The high chignon bun she'd put her hair in seemed almost like a crown with two locks of hair purposefully framing her face. She picked up her curling iron and began styling them. As she formed the intended stray locks into cascading, bouncing curls, her eyes remained fixed on her now-blank chest. 

It was such a small action, such a common one. She'd covered it up for most of her life and only let it breathe publicly over the last two weeks. Yet, the concealer felt heavy on the spot, felt hot. But the burning was necessary. She had to purge him from herself, body, mind and soul. And it wasn't like this was her first step in erasing or replacing him from her life, nor was it the most extreme. As she worked on curling the second lock, memories of last night played in her mind.

"Look at you," Chad, clad only in a pair of boxers, growls with a smile. His eyes rove her body as if she were a menu. "Good enough to eat."

She stands before him wearing nothing but an open-front draping halter top and a double slit maxi skirt that is more loincloth than skirt and barely reaches her knees. "Is that so?" Her voice drips with honey that she can't taste. "Why don't you show me?"

Chad's smile grows and he reclines on his bed. His muscles ripple with the movement and the bulge within his underwear becomes more prominent. He points to his tent. "Unwrap your present, babe."

Her mouth goes dry. She licks her lips playfully to cover her lack of passion. She leans forward and rests one hand on his bare thigh and her other hand goes for his waistband. The dangling top she wore does nothing to contain her breasts and Chad quickly palms one. He tugs on her nipple impatiently and she has to bite her lip to keep from wincing.

"And it's not even my birthday." She hooks her finger behind his waistband and teasingly runs her finger between the elastic and his skin. His pubic hair scratches her. She peels his underwear back and his meat flops out, hard and throbbing.

"But it sure feels like mine." Chad moves his hand from her breast to her cheek. His thumb strokes her face all while he wears that smirk. "Suck it."

Her stomach ties itself in a knot and for some reason she feels a pang of infidelity. But that is so, so backwards. That's why she was doing this: to erase Tim. That's why she has to do what she should have done a long time ago. She manages to keep her internal turmoil from showing on her face, then kneels between Chad's legs.

"Trixie!" Her mother's voice brought her back to reality.

She released the curler and looked at her mother. "Yes, mother?"

Her mother, Vivian, looked at her from the doorway, one brow arched. "I said your father and I are leaving. We will see you there."

Trixie nodded. "Of course, mother."

"And be nice tonight, darling," Vivian added with a plastic, sympathetic smile. "I know the Dimmadome's can be difficult to get along with, but we have to play ball with them while your father handles the Bentwood account. Alright?"

Trixie sighed, eyes closed, but nodded all the same.

"That's my girl." Vivian patted the door jamb a few times, then left without so much as a goodbye.

Trixie didn't miss it. She returned to finishing her hair and applying the barest amount of makeup. As she finished putting on her lipgloss, her phone buzzed. A text from her mother.

"And don't forget the stole that goes with that dress!"

Mechanically, Trixie walked to her closet to retrieve the scarf-like neckpiece. The door opened and light from her room spilled into the dark space. Without turning on the light, she entered, diving deeper and deeper into the lavish space that so often comforted her, but this time with ambivalence. She didn't really need the light on, anyway: she knew her closet like the back of her hand. After exactly seventeen steps forward and three steps to the left, she reached out and her fingers wrapped around a soft, satin fabric. She pulled it from its hanger, spun on her heels, and marched for the exit.

As she walked, a shimmer of iridescent green caught her eye. She stopped.

"What's this fabric? I've never seen anything like it."

She swayed in place, the memories of PowCon resurfacing after a week of repression. She did her best to manage them, to kick them back down; but she could still feel his hand, gentle and respectful, running up her arm. A shiver rolled through her and she slammed her fist against the wall. The abrupt thump gave her something to focus on and she strode out of the closet. But she made the mistake of turning around to close the door.

Her eyes instantly went to the Comet Commando costume again. It was ragged and torn, hanging haphazardly from a hook on the wall. It still bore the scars from what had turned out to be a tumultuous convention. The dark fabric was dirtied from her unexpected heroics and the tears were still unmended. Just thinking about the toppling display made her thighs hurt and even in the low light, she could see where Turner's blood had stained it.

Tears welled, so she closed her eyes. However, the fresh darkness brought with it memories and she winced as her mind replayed watching Turner nearly be crushed by the massive backdrop. She shook her head violently and forced her eyes open with a grunt. Her torn costume was back in her sight. Despite the grime and the damage, the fabric still caught what little light was allowed to reach it and glinted green. She closed the door.

Trixie threw the stole over the back of her computer chair and unracked the dress. After putting on her bra, she wiggled into the admittedly gorgeous item and posed a few times before her mirror, adjusting the folded band to sit properly around her shoulders and across her chest. She paid extra attention to the slit running up her left leg and tested sitting and walking to ensure she wouldn't accidentally show off any more than she intended. 

When satisfied, she pulled the stole from her chair and wrapped it around her neck. As she did, she looked at her computer in the mirror. She hadn't played on it since last week, she hadn't even turned it on. She couldn't. If she turned it on, she'd be tempted. As much as she missed playing CaldorQuest, she couldn't risk it. That was where he lived. If she logged into the game, he would be there, waiting for her. 

And she knew she'd be unable to resist.

Her eyes fell from the dark monitor to one of a series of dainty jewelry boxes that sat on her desk. Her eyes locked on one in particular, her favorite made of silver and studded with purple sapphire. Among a paltry collection of early earrings within it, it held a particular series of four photos. She didn't have to open the box to see them again, the images were burned into her memory.

"Why did it have to be you?

"What do you mean?"

"Why, of all people, you? Couldn't you just leave me alone?"

"...I'm sorry."

Trixie took a deep, shuddering breath and forced her eyes front. She adjusted the stole around her neck until it fell evenly down her back and then moved on to the next step of preparation. Dwelling on the past and what could have been wouldn't do her any good now. Her future was waiting.

Flashbulbs went off from all angles as Trixie Tang carefully parked her luxury electric car. The door slid open, making for a sleek and aggressive image, and provided her more than enough room to step out. She led with her left, allowing the slit of her dress to split open and flash some of her toned thigh. This simple action attracted the few paparazzi who hadn't yet been captivated by her arrival.

The Dimmadome doorman who'd opened the car door for her held out a hand which she graciously took. She allowed him to help her out of her car and he closed the door for her as soon as she was clear. As she straightened up, the cameras went off anew, their flashes illuminating her in the late afternoon light. She gave her practiced grin – not a full smile, mind you, just the tease of one complimented with a smoky look.

"Trixie Tang! Trixie Tang!" A chorus of vultures shouted her name in a bid for attention as she struck a few poses for the cameras. She never understood why the DimmaDinner was such a media-frenzy, but the reason didn't matter: either way, she was before the cameras now, all eyes on her.

"Trixie Tang, over here!" A short man in a pressed, though vintage, pinstripe suit managed to squeeze his arm out between two other columnists. "Chet Ubetcha, Chatter With Chet!" He waved his recorder as close to her as his arm could reach. "Trixie Tang, have you seen the listings available for auction? Are there any pieces that have caught your eye?"

"Oh, Chet, of course not! That ruins the fun of the auction!" She gave him a cute smile that squinted her eyes. "I prefer to be surprised at these lovely dinners!"

In truth, she hadn't bothered to check the listing previews to know what was going to be offered or what charities were being represented by the various elites in attendance. The DimmaDinner was one of her least favorite annual events, and that was saying something. There was stiff competition for that prestigious honor. She wasn't even sure why she still had to attend, aside from optics. Yet every year her father insisted – nay, demanded – that she accompany him and her mother to Doug Dimmadome's DimmaHome for the DimmaDinner.

"Trixie Tang! Over here!" A woman in her forties trying her best to look a decade younger caught her attention. "Loving the car! Nigel and Vivian are already inside. Any reason you chose to arrive separately from your parents rather than driving with them?"

She gave the woman a sarcastic smile. "Just a wish to distinguish myself now that I'm an adult." She winked at the woman. "Besides, arriving fashionably late is always à propros, darling. How else would I get you all to myself?"

The crowd laughed and she shifted in place, pivoting to the side as if standing on a rotating display stand, and allowing for another series of photos to capture her profile. She was sure a number of these pictures would grace a variety of tabloids and blogs read by those who had nothing better to do than focus on what other people were doing.

"Trixie! Fan Seadress!" A wiry woman shouted over the others. "Last year you wore a bubbly bright purple ballgown paired with gorgeous satin gloves. This year, you've stepped out in a very elegant and refined midnight blue item and matching stole! What's to account for the sudden mature style?"

Trixie looked at the woman out of the corner of her eye. The question felt inane. She was Trixie Tang. Did she need more reason than that? Furthermore, Fan had answered her own question: Trixie had matured. She wasn't a little girl anymore. "Oh, you know," she started with a dismissive shrug, "I wanted to try something different. Something mysterious. And this piece from the LauraLaura Series had my name on it the moment I saw it!"

She didn't give the woman time for a follow-up. She sashayed toward the DimmaHome's arched doorway, head held high and shoulders square. Each step was meticulously taken and the sway of her hips made the expensive fabric shimmer and bounce like the star-studded night sky given form.

"Trixie! Lauren Ralph, TalkToWe pod!" A coarse, young voice called out as she went by. "Speaking of last year, Dimmsdale's football prodigy Chad Registar was your plus-one, and as I understand it, you two are in a relationship! I notice you've arrived alone. Will he be joining you later in the night?"

She halted for a moment.

He holds her head in his hands like a football, squeezing a bit too hard, as he bucks roughly into her. His movements are rough and self-serving like always, as if he was owed this. He's in control and she felt little more than a toy to him. At least face to face with his groin she doesn't have to fake a smile or give coy looks. As he hits the back of her throat again, her eyes dull and she waits for him to finish.

Trixie bit the inside of her cheek to bring her back to reality. She fought against her initial response to flip off the questioner and instead, looked at him over her shoulder. She put on an alluring look and replied, "He has a previous engagement. I almost didn't come, but my father insisted I continue the tradition."

She faced forward and resumed walking, gliding up the mansion's stairs with soft and subtle clicks of her heel. 

She left the paparazzi behind. The media had been banned from actually attending the DimmaDinner after an incident with Skip Sparkypants. While the event five years ago had been harrowing for the teen heartthrob, the resulting ban had been one of the best things to happen to the godforsaken event. The dinners were now, at least, a touch more honest with people speaking more plainly of their backroom deals, insider trading, and, in some cases, even their contempt for one another. The pressure to perform for the media was sloughed off at the threshold, replaced with a different expectation.

The door closed behind her, locking her into the massive mansion's parlor entrance. The glitz and glamor was in full swing. Gold and black blown-glass spheres hung overhead from the vaulted archway and matched the rich white carpet that lay atop the checkerboard marble tile floor. Flanking the entryway of the event room were two waiters, both holding trays of hors d'oeuvre. Above them was mounted a large taxidermied bull's head, a decoration which Trixie found utterly grotesque.

She ignored the disembodied head and glided down the thin, snowy carpet. She stopped right at the entrance and faced one of the waiters. He was about her age, perhaps a year or two older. She watched him for a moment, noting the way his breathing seemed to become a bit more labored. The way his Adam's apple bobbed as he tried to swallow his nerves. The way his temple rippled and his lips twitched as he fought to not look at her.

Doug Dimmadome was a very salt of the earth person… at least, compared to the company he kept, but the DimmaDinner was an event attended by many people who were so far removed from the general public that they may as well have been a different species. She remembered the tongue lashing Tad's father had given a young man who dared greet him without being a designated greeter. The unfortunate kid had been fired on the spot. She tilted her head ever so slightly to see if he'd at least look at her from the corner of his eye, but he managed to resist.

She plucked a morsel from his tray. "Thank you," she said in her smooth and alluring voice, and she saw his lips part just slightly. He wanted to reply, she could see it in how flush his cheeks grew. He wanted so badly to speak with her, but they both knew it would cost him his job.

Dimmadome had them trained well. Was it cruel of her to so coyly push the boundaries and tempt the man? Of course. But that's who she was, that's who they all were here: tempters and gods pretending to care about the whims of those beneath them. Besides, trying to get a waiter to break character was far from the worst she'd seen the staff treated.

She stepped into the entryway, tossing the uneaten stuffed pepper she'd taken from the tray in a diamond-encrusted wastebin, and took in the room. Immediately, she spotted her parents: her mother was hobnobbing with Robert Flapperston and LaShawn LaBrown, two TV personalities, while her father was rubbing shoulders with Doug Dimmadome and a few of his associates. Trixie was about to try and blend into the crowd when she and her father locked eyes and he waved her over with a smile.

"Dimma-Dammit," she muttered. She allowed disappointment to flicker on her face for only a moment before putting on a debutante's smile and walking to join her father, snatching a flute of champagne from a passing waiter as she went. She wasn't old enough to drink, but no one really cared here. And she sure could use one.

"How are you, dear?" Her father greeted her in the most flat voice possible. He reached out and wrapped his arm around her shoulders, drawing her into a hug that felt clinical and calculated.

"Fine, Father," she hummed back with just the slightest twinge of disdain. She took a sip from her flute and gently rested her head on his shoulder, making for a rather picturesque image of a girl and her father.

"Oh, Nigel, she's growing so much!" One of her father's associates, Chadwick Deerbreath, a European investor even shorter than her father, gave her a toothy grin. The white-gold lapel pin proudly displayed on his smart black tuxedo identified him as a member of a prestigious hedge fund. "What is she now? Sixteen? Seventeen?"

"Seventeen, I'd reckon," Doug Dimmadome grumbled good-naturedly as he stuffed another pig-in-a-blanket in his mouth.

"Wrong on both," Nigel replied with a curt nod. "She's eighteen now."

"Eighteen?" Mr. Deerbreath's eyebrows shot up. "Why, she'll be paying taxes next year!" He looked Trixie in the eye. "University, too, no? Any prospects?"

Five pairs of eyes all went to her as the men eagerly awaited her reply. However, this was one of many topics she just wasn't sure about. 

Veronica seemed all but certain that she and Trixie would head to Southern California and become roomies. Chad repeatedly hinted that he wanted her with him at South-Roth. Her mother wanted her to attend Brightsburg Mountain University. All while her father held his alma mater in Paris  over her head like the Sword of Damocles, pressuring her to follow in his footsteps and take on the world of Finance. It was a lot to think about, and the guidance counselors at Dimmsdale High School were of little help. And on top of all that, there was a trio of universities on the East coast she was privately considering.

But she couldn't say all of that. So, instead, she rolled with the same tactic she'd employed on the Delight-Lee Podcast: keep them guessing. The mystery was part of her allure, right? "So many prospects." She put the flute to her lips again and closed her eyes as she sipped the alcohol. A clear signal she wasn't going to say much more.

Mr. Deerbreath wheezed a laugh and his eye darted from her to her father. "Nigel, old chap! You still haven't sealed the deal on her attending Versailles University?"

"What can I say? She has my stubbornness," Nigel admitted. He squeezed her shoulder, keeping her in close. The action wasn't so much a loving squeeze as a warning. "But I'm sure I'll get through to her, yet."

Trixie cracked open an eye as she sipped and looked at her father. But there was no hint on his face as to what she'd said wrong. Instead, his eyes were still set on Doug Dimmadome, who was currently squeezing two more fingerfoods into his already full mouth, dirtying his grey mustache with foodstuffs and spittle. She closed her eye back to blot out the corpulent display and thanked her past self for not yet partaking of the hor d'oeuvres because otherwise her stomach would have been quite upset.

"Just make sure you get it figured out quick, missy," Doug managed to say between chomps. "Nigel, you remember how tryin' it was to get Dale to go to Cowspur. I really wanted him to get more in tune with his roots but he was doggone set on Dimmsdale University." He unceremoniously rubbed his hands together and a cascade of crumbs and half-chewed morsels fell to the freshly polished floor. No sooner had these crumbs hit the ground was an attendant there to sweep up the mess. "Sometimes these kids just want to stay comfortable, but eventually they see you only want what's best for 'em."

Trixie watched the woman brush the discarded food into a dust tray and then scurry away to dump it without so much as a word.

"Hm." Nigel straightened a bit and relaxed his grip on Trixie's shoulder, his arm dropping to his side. "Well, Dale turned out alright so maybe there's hope for my little jewel yet." He gave her a smile that should have been fatherly, then returned his attention to Doug and began chatting about stock and investments.

Trixie glanced at her mother across the room, but only further retreated into herself when she saw her mother's glazed eyes were glued to another woman's phone, probably mindlessly scrolling the LA-It digital showroom which had been updated earlier that evening. She rolled her head back front, put the glass to her lips, and drank.

"Trixie Tang."

She nearly choked mid-swallow. Her name on his voice made her shiver and a feeling of dread, with a sprinkle of annoyance, came over her. She turned on her heels with a click. He wore a smart black tuxedo with a crisp white shirt contrasted by a blood-red bowtie nestled perfectly at his neck. In one hand, he held a wine flute in a naturally loose grip while his other hand rested in his pocket, thumb hooked on the outside. To most, he appeared to be – like her – the quintessence of affluence and sophistication, but she didn't let his polished presentation impress her. She knew him well enough to be wary. Trixie discounted his flawless façade and looked him in his eyes. They were dangerously devoid of humanity. "Dale."

The corner of Dale Dimmadome's mouth was curved upwards in a deadly smirk. "What's this I hear about you turning eighteen?" He closed in on her until they were mere feet apart. "How's it feel," he asked in a husky tone, his eyes drifting south, "to be freshly an adult?"

His gaze lingered a beat too long on her body. Trixie tightened her lips and barely kept her composure. "Is there something I can do for you?" she asked with the barest of sweet tones as she antsily scratched at the flute in her hands.

Dale's eyes jumped from her bust to her face. His smirk relaxed into a more charming grin that curled the corners of his mouth and curdled her stomach. "It's always such a privilege to see you." He brought his glass to his lips. "And you, as well, Mr. Tang." He sipped.

Trixie looked behind her and saw her father had turned around. She wasn't sure if he'd caught Dale ogling her, but if he did, he said nothing. He offered his hand from his waist to Dale and the young man readily shook it.

"Dale, always a pleasure." Her father wore a diplomatic smile. Too diplomatic. Trixie couldn't tell if her father truly meant what he'd said or if he was just performing. She hoped to be as unreadable as her father one day. "How are you keeping?"

"Fine, fine," Dale replied, smooth as spider's silk. "Just returned from a trip overseas. Tonight's my first night back home." His eyes drifted to Trixie. "Hoping to make my stayover memorable before I'm off again." He blinked lazily, and when his eyes opened, they were back on her father.

"And where are you coming from this time, Dale?" another associate, Marvin Steetch, burbled as he finished his second glass of the night.

"From going this way and that through Thailand. Roaming its land, up and down." He took a sip of his drink, letting out a satisfied, "ahhh" as he lowered the glass. "Delightful. Oh, Trixie. Grapevine says you're celebrating your high school graduation with a summer trip to Europe?" He smiled at her. "I could move some things around and accompany you. I know some of the best obscure sights."

She shivered but managed to retain a polite smile. "I'm not even sure where I'm going yet, Dale. But I know this is something I'd like to plan on my own. Thank you for the offer, though." She graciously curtsied. More than he deserved, but what was expected.

Mr. Tang let out a hum and placed his hand on Trixie's shoulder again. "Don't be so quick to discount Dale's help, Trixie. He's well-traveled, as you know. I'm sure he could provide some insight into at least the logistics and planning."

Before she could reply, Doug Dimmadome rested his hand on her father's back. "Nigel. I see Marsha Waynewright's here now. How's 'bout we rustle up some finger foods and discuss Bentwood with her?"

Mr. Tang craned his neck to see over the attendees milling about the large room. "I don't– Oh, yes. There she is." He nodded. "Let's do that." He withdrew his hand from Trixie and started in the direction of the tables set up for dining along with Doug and the rest of his associates. Mr. Tang barely looked back as he abandoned his daughter. "I'll see you at the table, dear."

Trixie watched her father leave to pursue more business and tightened her jaw, again fiddling with her flute.

"Dads, am I right?" Dale likewise sounded deflated, though markedly not as much as her. "Pity." She heard him take another sip. "I'm hurt, Trixie."

"Why?" She didn't dare turn and face him.

"You had a birthday bash without me. Why, I was looking forward to sharing your 18th with you and your friends." As a circulating waiter walked by, he placed his half-finished glass on the partially full tray without so much as a glance, as if he'd expected it to be there. "You know I'm a ton of fun."

"Your fun and mine don't mesh."

"Is that so?" He leered at her with the same discomforting look he'd given her since she was fourteen; a look that undressed her, always made her feel naked. She could almost feel the trail of slime as his gaze slid down her face, down her neck, and came to rest on her cleavage. His smirk stretched just a bit more. "I'm sure you could come around to it."

"Hm. When next I have a party, I'll be sure to invite you, Dale." She gave him a sly smile and drank some of her champagne. "I'm sure Chad would love to catch up with you." She raised her shield.

Dale slid to her side, head cocked back. "Trixie, don't tell me you're tied down already?"

"Well, he and I have been dating for over a year," she replied easily; however, she felt dead saying it. While her and Chad's relationship had never been one based solely on passion and love, they had found it easy to find lust for each other in the past. But the last few weeks had been revelatory for her, and since him, she just couldn't be satisfied with lust alone.

He extracts his manhood from her mouth, leaving her gasping for air with threads of saliva dangling from her lips. He'd stopped early and she's disappointed – not because he didn't finish, no, rather because she knows what he was holding out for – what she'd promised him this night. She wipes her mouth of spit and with it, her regret.

"Fuck… you're so good at that," Chad said, hooking his finger under her chin and tilting her face up. He looked down at her, a sinful smirk on his lips. "Such a pretty mess…" He crouched before her and planted his lips on hers.

She couldn't kiss him back. How many times had she given him head before without issue? How many times had she kissed him because she was supposed to? Why did she feel this way? Why was it different now? Why couldn't she reciprocate?

She kicked memories of last night out of her mind and gave Dale a cold shoulder as she finished her thought. "Surely some things are sacred to you, Dale." She tacked on a slick, malicious smile for effect.

Dale chuckled, unaffected by her chilly disposition. "Everything has a price, Trixie." He sucked some air through his teeth slowly. "After all, you're here and he's not. You clearly didn't pay him enough."

"Excuse me?"

"Excused." He lackadaisically put both hands in his pockets and looked around the room. "Biggest event of the season, you look so radiant, and yet… solo. No boy-toy hanging off your arm. No gal-pal chasing your lightning." He bent to the side, making a show of looking around her.  "So beautiful… So alone."

Trixie's cheeks burned and a bitter taste welled in her mouth. She hated how right Dale was. Veronica hadn't been invited, again, and refused to go without Tad, and Chad wasn't one for black-tie events. He'd attended last year's DimmaDinner only out of obligation to her. Their relationship was new and, thus, had to be visible. First impressions are often all that people remember, and he made a damn good one. He cut a good-looking figure and photos of the couple flooded teen pop magazines for a week. Still, it had been like pulling teeth to get him to go.

"I can be your plus one. Just for the night, keep you company."  Dale's offer shook her. "It can be our little secret?"

The only external expression she allowed herself was a curious raise of the eyebrows. She took another sip of her drink. "Aren't you a bit too old for secrets?"

His retort was quick, almost as if he'd anticipated her response. "Not if they're good ones. Not if they're worth keeping." He reached back as another waiter walked by, picking a cherry-topped pastry from the tray and eating it in one bite. Then, after working his mouth a bit, his lips parted. The cherry's stem was clenched between his teeth, tied in a neat knot. "What do you say?"

She let out a dry chuff and rolled her eyes, unimpressed. "Aren't you talented? Must have been a hit with the girls in Thailand." She hadn't even finished her sentence before she'd already turned away and begun scanning the room for anyone – anything – more enjoyable than matching wits with her creeper.

"Oh, you have no idea…"

The way he answered sent a chill down her spine. On instinct, she turned and looked at him, face pallid at the dark undertones of his reply. She caught him staring at her, a predatory smile on his face and his penetrating eyes on her rear. She stiffened, straightened, and took a step back from him. His eyes raised to hers under his brow, the smile remaining, and her mind went blank.

Usually, she would have a comeback ready, a retort of some sort or a snide remark. But she had nothing. There was something so unsettling about the tone he'd used – moreso than ever before – and yet, it wasn't just what he'd said or even how he said it that unsettled her. It was what he didn't say, what he left to her imagination… She took a few deep breaths and stared into his eyes, searching for the barest inkling of humanity.

Nothing.

"Offer's still open to travel Europe's countryside together." He broke eye contact with her. His voice had lost that edge as quickly as it had come and he was again speaking in his slick, bored fashion. "It's not like you'll be with him that much longer, anyway."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Her voice was barely above a whisper.

Dale rolled his shoulders. "You're slick, Trixie, but we're more alike than you think. I know a joint business venture when I see one, even the most abstract." He tapped his forehead knowingly. "You and he won't last." He adjusted his cummerbund. "And you know it."

She clenched a small bit of her cheek between her teeth to keep her face neutral. She wasn't sure what she wanted to do: part of her wanted to run and another part of her wanted to kick him between the legs. But neither action would have done her any good or convinced him otherwise. That Dale had so easily pegged her relationship with Chad for what it was – a quid pro quo arrangement – annoyed her. It wasn't supposed to be that obvious, even to Chad. But this conniving snake of an individual saw through her clearly. It takes one to know one, I suppose.

As she stood there and tried not to make her discomfort apparent, the stole hanging down her back was unceremoniously yanked from around her neck. She let out a sharp trill and her free hand shot to her neck. Then she heard a familiar laugh and turned.

A blond her age dressed in a crisp white and black tuxedo with a pale red bow-tie and matching cummerbund was laughing. In one hand he clutched her stole, raised to the heavens as if a prize. "Goodness, Trixie. You acted like someone got shot!"

"Remy!" A genuine smile spread over Trixie's face. She embraced him with open arms and relief. "Oh my god! It feels like I haven't seen you in forever!"

Remy twitched under her, surprised at the overly warm response. "Well, I suppose I should steal away to Cabo more often if this is the welcome I get." He pulled back from her and grinned. "I was going to ask if you missed me, but it seems we have our answer." Then, he looked behind her. "Dale, old chap, I didn't realize you were back in town?"

"Oh, only recently." Dale adjusted his stance, putting one foot forward. It was clear enough to Trixie that he wasn't all that keen on Remy's presence. "Trixie and I were just discussing summer plans."

"Oh?" Remy, finally free of Trixie's embrace, polished his nails on his lapel and then  looked at them. "Is that so? Where are you two headed?"

"We're not heading anywhere," she quickly corrected. "Dale, here, just offered to help plan my graduation trip to Europe—"

"Plan and accompany," Dale interjected.

She gave him a gracious smile. "–An offer which I respectfully decline."

Dale gave her a dangerous look. "It's for your own safety, Trixie. I would hate to see something happen to you out there."

"I respectfully decline," Trixie reiterated pointedly. She coated the verbal dagger in all the honey she could scrounge up and stared down the junior Dimmadome just daring him to push more. 

But he didn't. Once was a suggestion, twice was insistence, but three times? Three times would be desperation and she knew if there was one thing Dale Dimmadome hated, it was desperation. Instead, he stared at her for a moment before his face relaxed into a cold smile. "Just trying to help."

Remy looked from Trixie's determined moue to Dale's steeled gaze, then back again. "Well, that's kind of you, Dale, but if she thinks she can handle the planning on her own, indulge her. I think she's capable enough to chart her own course. That is the point of her trip, I'd think – doing something on her own?" He handed Trixie back her stole. "Your hair looks gorgeous, by the way. Very classy."

"Why, thank you, Remy!" Her voice was sweeter now, and not out of necessity. "I love the pop of red. Really brings life to this rather dreary place." She pretended to look around the room at the other attendees dressed to the nines in black and white, but made certain to lock eyes with Dale for a moment to cement her victory. Get fucked.

Dale, restless for the first time, shifted his weight and exhaled sharply. "I see your father with mine by the wine table. They're probably chatting business." He chuckled, eyes on her, but there was very little humor in his voice. "Your champagne's probably flat by now. Do you want a new drink? Let me fix you a new drink." Then, without waiting for her reply, Dale walked away.

Trixie let out a breath she didn't realize she'd been holding. 

"You both okay?" He gave her a scrutinizing look under his brow. "I know you've never liked him, but you've always been cordial. But just now, you looked like you wanted to hit him."

She shook her head and was about to speak when she noticed that Dale had wormed his way back into her father's conversation with his father, Doug Dimmadome. As the three shared a belly laugh, his eyes found hers and he hid a worrying smirk behind a glass of wine. She bit her tongue and revised her answer. "It's fine. Sometimes he's a bit much."

"Oh yeah?" Remy laughed. "Don't tell me he's barking up your tree, too?"

She let out another breath and allowed herself to smile. "Would you be that surprised?" she asked, eyeing him out of the corner of her eye. 

Remy shook his head softly. "No, you are Trixie Tang, after all. Who isn't barking up your tree?"

"You."

Remy let out a pensive hum before replying. "Unlike Dale, I respect your relationship too much to make my admiration of you  known," he said. Then he leaned in closer and whispered, "But if our DMs are any indication, I don't think it'd be too difficult for me." He winked and Trixie felt heat touch her cheeks. He straightened up and smiled back at her, soft and friendly. "But can you blame that poor boy? You are here, in a dazzling dress, unchaperoned."

"I'm an adult, Remy," she replied as a bit of the embarrassment wore off. "I can go where I want. Dale's actions aren't my responsibility. And Chad's his own person, too. We can be together while also interested in different things." She sipped her champagne, then made a face. It was flat. "We don't have to do everything together."

"Hm. Of course." Remy frowned behind her.

Trixie followed his gaze to the wine table. Her father was long gone, as was Doug Dimmadome and the rest of the old men. Only Dale remained, now speaking with Margot Cashalot and a member of the wait staff. The two wealthy heirs were both chortling and in good spirits as the young lady working to clear the table of used wine glasses smiled nervously along with them. Dale carried two flutes of champagne and, on catching Trixie's eye, raised one in toast to her and then resumed his conversation. She turned away.

"Sometimes I wonder about him…" Remy trailed off.

"You're giving him more thought than he deserves," she laughed. "Definitely more thought than I give him." That was a lie. "And if anything, I'm sure Chad would have no issue dealing with him." She let out a satisfied sigh, smoothing a rumple in her dress.

"And yet Chandler is not here." Remy gave her a grin. "Oh! Speaking of, I caught your interview with Lee and Jo, by the way. Honestly, I'm surprised that bull of a boy hasn't managed to bed you." His elbow met her side teasingly.

She winced.

Chad presses her against the wall, his lips meeting hers in a domineering fashion before chewing his way down her cheek to her neck. He gnaws at her skin as if ravenous. With one hand he braces himself against her while his other roves her now-naked body with reckless abandon as her skimpy outfit lay scattered on the floor.

She moaned. Her breath came in hot gasps. His hands were surprisingly smooth, though his touch felt rough, entitled, and owed. Not at all how she enjoyed being touched. Not at all like him.

Chad's hand finds her hip and squeezes. It hurts. She hisses, but before she can make her discomfort known, he bucks against her. He inadvertently robs her of her breath as his semi-erect manhood pushes against her entrance. She's dry.

Trixie pushed the thoughts from her mind to focus on the here and now. A sardonic smirk graced her lips. "Not for lack of trying. Believe me." She hoped to heaven for a conversation changer.

"Okay, you little minx." Despite Remy's teasing tone, she can sense an air of disappointment. "Your attempts, or his?" Remy adjusted his position and took his place at her side, watching as the attendees started scampering for their seats in preparation for the dinner to finally begin.

Trixie's mind, however, was still locked in the memory.

Chad thrusts against her again in an attempt to penetrate her, but she isn't welcoming him in. "What's wrong, babe?" he rumbles into her ear, low. "You said you wanted this, right?" His hips rock back and forth, sliding his shaft repeatedly between her legs.

He's doing what's worked before, but she isn't feeling it this time. Now, there's a pink barrier in place that it needs to be torn down, but she can't find the strength to do it alone. "You can't just rush to the main event, silly." She's doing her best to convince herself that, yes, she does want this. "You've got to get me wet, first. You know I love foreplay."

A sly smile crosses Chad's lips and his hand slides down her toned belly to her crotch. "As you wish." Without warning, his middle and ring finger penetrate her slit.

It is rough, sudden, and jarring. His fingers, though soft, were dry and the abruptness of the action bordered on invasive. It sent a shock through her which jolts her in place – a reaction he seemed to gleefully – but mistakenly – interprets positively. He pulls his fingers out only to slam them inside her a second time, reaching deeper, violating the sanctity of her sex. His palm rubs roughly against her mound in excitement, painfully grinding what little of her clit dared poke out from its hood against her pubic bone.

Another slam and then another. There is no rhythm. There is no poetry. She tilts her pelvis to help guide his fingers, to give her clit a break. But no matter the position of her hips, she still feels like squirming away. As she adjusts herself, he ramps up the speed. She grunts and bites her lip. She beats down a protest because this is what everyone's expecting of her.

She has to do this.

She has to endure this.

After the first thirty seconds, the motion becomes nearly unbearable. After a minute, she wants to cry.

"His." She couldn't help the touch of darkness tainting her one word answer and looked into her drink, hoping Remy hadn't caught it.

He had. He was quiet for a second. "Well… Don't let him wear you down. This may come as a surprise to you, but I find it refreshing to know some girls can keep their legs closed. Most our age have surrendered their chastity by now." He offered his arm to her. "So knowing you're as pure as you are beautiful does put a smile on my face." And he did smile.

But Trixie couldn't smile back. His hypocrisy seemed almost to spotlight hers. She knew Remy wasn't the purest himself, having lost his virginity at his 16th birthday party to an exotic dancer. And based on text messages that they'd exchanged, as well as pictures they'd sent each other in secret, he was very much sexually active. Still, he was the closest thing to a friend she had at these functions and he was kind. She managed the barest of pleasant looks. But she did accept his offered arm, linking her elbow with his and talked with him to their table where her father, mother as well as a few others were already seated. Remy guided her to her seat beside her father, then pulled out her chair for her.

"Oh, thank you!" She sucked on her tongue to keep from speaking her mind.

"Chivalry is a lost art," Remy replied. Then, he surprised her, by taking the chair next to her.

"What are you—"

"You won't be glad for the company?" Remy answered before she'd even finished her question, then nodded subtly to the others at the table.

Aside from herself, her parents were the youngest at the table. Across from her sat Adross Grēnbakks, a retired military man who'd made a fortune in the arms industry and was now making waves in the insurance market.  He gave her a thin smile that seemed out of place on his leathery, wrinkled face. Next to him was Belinda Deeppockets, the recent divorceé of Baron Barry Deeppockets – who himself sat two tables away with a model barely older than Trixie wrapped around his arm. She looked around the rest of the table and had to admit Remy had a point. These events truly were an old man's game.

"Fine, but if you get in trouble, don't look at me for help," she replied with a smirk.

"Wouldn't dream of it," Remy unbuttoned his jacket as he settled into his seat. 

As he did so, Trixie's father reached over Trixie with an outstretched hand. "Remington. It's good to see you."

Remy took the offered hand confidently, but not aggressively, and gave it a solid shake. "You as well, Mr. Tang." He released Nigel's hand, then waved politely at Vivian. "Mrs. Tang. Ravishing, as always."

Vivian hid a prim giggle behind her palm. "Remy. How are you doing?"

His reply was well-practiced and clean. "Well, and you, Ma'am?"

"I'm doing good, myself." She looked at Trixie with a twinkle in her eye. "It's lovely to see the two found each other! You know, Remy, she missed you at the last function."

"Mother!" Trixie let out a hushed exclamation and gave her mother a stressed look, to which her mother only laughed.

Belinda let out a series of high-pitched noises which Trixie took as a giggle, as well. She hated being made a spectacle.

Remy faced Trixie, a cheeky smile on his face. "Is that so?" he asked in a leading tone. "I was gone for a few weeks and you couldn't take it?"

Trixie looked into her lap and stifled a smile. "Well, you do make these dinners palatable…"

Her father gave her a curious smile. If she didn't know her father better, she would have assumed it was a smile of pride in her. "You see? These fuddy-duddy functions still serve a purpose, Trixie. You two otherwise wouldn't have met and become so close."

She watched her father for a moment. There seemed to be the hint of something in his smile, but she couldn't quite determine what it was. Her eyes jumped from him to her mother and she wore a similarly secretive look. She brushed it off and turned to Remy. "You sure you don't want to sit with your parents?" she asked with a nervous chuckle. "Mine seem broken at the moment."

Remy chuckled, too, and leaned against the table. "It's a bit late to move, I'd say." He pointed to the stage on which Doug Dimmadome had ascended and was fighting to lower the microphone stand. "It seems the auction's about to begin."

"For charity," Trixie added as a server placed a healthy platter of appetizers in the center of their table.

"For charity," Remy quickly agreed with a smile. He was the first to help himself to one of the potato skins on the platter.

Doug Dimmadome finally positioned the microphone right where he wanted it and welcomed his guests with the Southern hospitality he was so well-known for. He let off a few jokes, some crasser than others, and all in attendance laughed regardless of whether or not they actually found them humorous. He thanked the wait staff, the chefs, and security. And he blundered through remembering the names of some of the charities represented by Dimmsdale's elites that night. It didn't matter, though. With no media present, a sanitized and polished recounting would be published by the next day anyway.

Trixie shifted in her seat, her butt starting to fall asleep from sitting so long, and she looked at Remy. He looked back at her out of the corner of his eye. He swallowed the chump of food he was eating, and made a face at her, winking one eye and sticking out his tongue. She giggled and fake-yawned, earning her a subtle laugh from him.

"Trixie! Remy!" Her father hissed at them under his breath. "Behave!" He slowly reclined back against his chair. "Yabai… Both adults… You'd think they'd act like it…" He let out a low string of mutterings as his sharp eyes went back to the stage.

Trixie stared at her father and felt a bit of embarrassment creep up her cheeks. Then she looked at Remy and saw much the same face. The two locked eyes and in the next second had to hold their bellies and mouths to keep from breaking into giggle fits.

A few smothered snorts slipped between Remy's fingers and he reached over, resting a hand on her thigh to stabilize himself. "I forgot how wound up he could be."

Trixie felt his hand on her thigh and ignored the impulse to brush it off. "That just means your family's overdue for a visit."

She felt his hand slide ever-so-slightly up her thigh and looked down at it, then at him.  At least he wasn't squeezing her, but it was still a surprisingly forward action. "Uh, Remy? Your hand lost?"

He let out a breath and pulled his hand from her. "I just wanted to feel the fabric of your dress. You know how I am with shiny objects."

"Good cover, Remy," she flatly replied in whisper. "Totally believable and I'm sure Chad would buy it in a heartbeat."

"Good thing he's not here, then," Remy settled in his seat. "Completely unrelated, remind me of your excuse when you sent me that tit pic last month?"

"I was bored." She rolled her eyes and let out a sigh of faux exasperation. "Are you ungrateful?"

For the first time, the squeaky clean veneer cracked and a flicker of depraved desperation darkened his face. "Of course not. I am patient, as well." His eyes dipped to her cleavage, but unlike Dale's predatory leer, she felt his gaze was more tempered and respectful. Deny as he might, he was down bad for her, still.

She curled her shoulders in and shied away from him cutely. "Remy, Remy, Remy… You wish you had X-Ray vision, don't you?"

He blushed and hid his smile behind his hands on the table.

She looked around the table to see if her parents or any of the others noticed that she and Remy weren't actually paying attention. Their eyes were still fixed on the host as he prattled on about how well his Dimmadephia investment was doing. She looked back at Remy and was about to further poke him when a hand reached between them and took her stale drink.

In the same smooth motion, a fresh flute of champagne was placed before her. She looked up and saw Dale smiling down at her, holding her old drink in his off hand. He had a glimmer in his eye. "I promised I'd get you a new drink, didn't I? You're welcome." He nodded at her, then at Remy. "Buxaplenty." With no further words, he moved on from their table, taking his chill with him.

Remy wore a slight frown as the young Dimmadome left. The jovial spirit between him and Trixie was now extinguished. "That was rude."

But Trixie was more concerned with the drink Dale had placed before her. She glanced at her father. He looked at her from the corner of his eye, then looked for where Dale had gone off to. She licked her lips and studied the glass. The pale gold liquid inside was tempting – she hadn't yet had enough alcohol to get her through the night – but she wasn't keen on accepting something given so freely, so abruptly. And there was something about how the bubbles in the drink seemed a bit more spirited than Remy's.

As if on cue, Remy leaned into her ear and whispered with a bit of a nervous chuckle. "Yeah… I wouldn't drink it either."

She let out a giggle of her own and felt some of the pressure release. "Okay, so I'm not being paranoid, right?" she whispered back.

He shook his head. "Aboslutely not. He's clearly trying to get in your good graces." He gave her a knowing look. "Emphasis on in."

The sinking feeling in Trixie's heart grew larger. Despite it, she grinned and pushed the glass from her place setting. "You can be so crude."

"I call it like I see it." He sat back up, reclining against his chair as Doug finally wound up his speech and introduced the first item to be auctioned off, a glittering tiara encrusted with precious stones, as the waiters started circulating the tables with the dinner's first course.

The auction was slow going. Doug Dimmadome insisted on being the auctioneer, and he was rather good at it, too. The speed at which he rattled off the items and pending bids was impressive to say the least. But even that couldn't make the actual event enjoyable.

The gaudy tiara had been sold to one of the Cashalots for five figures, a century home in New England went to an elderly man for nearly a million, and currently there was a bidding war between Belinda Deeppockets and her ex-husband over Dimmadome's own restored Stryker Z classic. Trixie could not have cared less.

"Five-fifty, we have five-fifty! Do I hear five-seventy-five? Five-seventy–" Doug barely paused for breath as he pointed to where Baron Barry silently raised his paddle and a murmur of excitement rippled through the audience. "Five-seventy-five! Do I hear six hundred? Six hundred, six hundred, anybody?"

Belinda raised her paddle.

"Six hundred puts it back with Belinda the beautiful! Six hundred for Belinda, six hundred! Do I hear six-twenty-five? Six-twenty-five, six-twenty-five. Do I hear six-twenty-five?"

Baron Barry again raised his paddle. "Six fifty!" he called out.

"Six hundred and fifty!" Doug swept his gaze over the audience, emphatically repeating the number. "Six-fifty—" He was barely through the rhythmic repeat before Belinda already made her number known.

"Nine hundred!"

Shock broke out among the attendees. Baron Barry shot a scowl at Belinda from his table and Trixie tried to imagine what it'd be like if he were to spontaneously combust. At least then something interesting would be happening.

Doug laughed into the mic. "Nine hundred thousand! Nine hundred, Nine hundred for this hot button item!"

As Doug continued his chant, Vivian leaned in to Belinda. "Bel, I didn't take you for such a car aficionado. Why, I don't think I've ever seen you behind the wheel of a vehicle!"

"Oh, heavens no!" Belinda laughed back under her breath. "It's a screaming metal death trap. And what's more, it's a stick shift!" She shook her head, then raised her paddle to up her bid to nine-fifty. "I don't want the car at all. I just don't want Barry to have it." She smiled through her teeth at Barry and wiggled her fingers in a wave. "His mistress and his midlife crisis demands a flashy car to feel better about himself. Far be it from me to make it easy for him."

Trixie looked at Barry as well and saw the older man whisper something into his blonde companion's ear. She scrunched up her nose in a look of disgust, then tossed the look over her shoulder Belinda's way. Ugh… Please, V… Avoid this path.

"One million dollars!" Doug's jubilant voice rang through the dining room. "How's about that? One million dollars to Belinda's charity, Fur-ever Homes!"

A series of polite claps and cheers that sounded like the gentle lapping of waves washed over the audience. Trixie smiled at Belinda in an attempt to appear engaged as she joined in the performative applause.

Belinda daintily waved while she was the center of attention, and grinned at her ex-husband. As the claps died down, she settled back in her seat, smile still on her face. "What a lovely evening."

"Fur-ever Homes is going to love you for this," Vivian said as the auction moved on.

Belinda looked at Adross, confused for a moment. "What? Oh, yes, the charity! That's the one that rehomes the dogs, isn't it?"

Trixie spoke up. "Pets in general, really, but their focus is on dogs and cats, yes. You didn't look into them?"

Belinda shook her head dismissively as she started cutting up the steak on her plate. "My assistant handled the charity accounts," she answered. "I just had to show up and spend some money. Which I'm quite good at, by the by. Ask Barry."

The table laughed.

"That's quite a pretty penny for a car you won't drive," Adross remarked.

Belinda stuffed a cut of meat into her mouth. "I mean, it's not my money," she clarified. "I'm paying for it from the divorce settlement. Barry should feel like a winner!" She smiled again, maliciously this time, at her ex across the way. "He's paying for his darling Stryker Z either way."

Trixie settled back in her chair with a sour taste in her mouth. She'd volunteered with Fur-ever Homes in middle school and always had a soft spot for cute and cuddly animals. The organization was run surprisingly aboveboard for a charity but suffered from a severe lack of funds. There were always more animals than the few workers had time or resources to provide for, especially after the recession five years ago had led to a devastating uptick of abandoned pets over a summer. She looked up at Belinda, lips pursed tight.

"Two good things, then, it seems."

"Hm?" Belinda looked her way from her phone with an instinctual smile.

"Two good things," Trixie reiterated. "You got back at Baron Deeppockets and you've made a difference in the lives of countless forgotten pets."

Belinda's smile shifted from one of instinct to one of pity. "Oh, of course! One does matter more than the other, though," she said with a wink. "Pets are a dime a dozen but revenge, however petty, is priceless."

"Is it?" Vivian asked cheekily. "It seems like it cost you a cool million to me."

The two women shared a biting laugh and Trixie felt keenly out of place with her empathy for animals.

"That's something I love about you, Trixie," Remy leaned her way with a sideways grin. "You've got such a pure heart."

She pouted at him. "And here I thought she was passionate about helping animals." She tried to sound tongue-in-cheek, but couldn't help some of the earnestness from poking through.

Remy gave her a look. "Trixie. The former Mrs. Deeppockets is wearing a real mink fur scarf. You should know by now that no one is here out of the goodness of their hearts."

She looked at him. "Not even you?"

"Honestly?" He took another morsel of his steak and chewed. "I'm really just here for you." He swallowed. "You'd be bored otherwise, remember?"

She sighed and felt a bit foolish for expecting some humanity from the gilded persons present. "You truly are a philanthropist." Her tone was clearly sarcastic, and when she heard Remy nearly choke on his steak, she had to stifle a smile.

"High praise from you, m'lady."

She cringed, a playful smile on her lips. "Ew. Don't ever call me that again."

Their banter was interrupted by Doug announcing the next item. A second edition faberge egg had just gone to an oil magnate for just over seven million dollars, all of which would be going to, ironically enough, an ocean preservation charity. Now, a distinctly odd painting rested on the pedestal and Doug Dimmadome launched into a spirited description of the art piece. Remy shifted in his seat, facing front with a wide smile.

"Oh, don't tell me you're into that crusty-looking thing?" Trixie admonished him.

He waved her off. "It's a Becksworth original," he replied quickly. "One of a kind made by Richina Becksworth herself!" As soon as the bidding began, he raised his paddle for the starting price of five thousand dollars.

"You've got to be kidding. That thing is hideous!"

"I know," Remy laughed as he topped an opposing bid at eighty-seven hundred. "And it's a piece she's super proud of. That's why I need it." He raised his paddle again.

Trixie rolled her eyes and sulked back in her seat. She pecked at her food with her fork, appetite steadily decreasing. A server swooped by her table. As he gathered up used dishes and exchanged them for clean ones, she flagged him down.

"Excuse me, could I get a different drink?" She tapped the base of the champagne glass Dale had set before her. "This one's bad."

The server didn't ask any questions, not about her age or even how she knew it to be bad without taking a sip, he just did his job and exchanged the suspect glass for a freshly made one.

As her glass was swapped out, she looked around the room for Dale. She caught him chatting up again with the female waiter from earlier, this time at his table as she collected the empty appetizers tray. Trixie watched Dale's hand hover over the young worker's rear mere inches from touching her. As the worker scooped up his salad plate, Dale abruptly leaned into her ear and said something before leaning back and laughing.

She laughed, too, and as she turned from the table to move on with her rounds, Trixie caught the smile the worker wore. It was a reserved one. The kind of smile some of the boys in middle school would have when she lowered herself to speak with them. The kind of smile that was fed by trace amounts of hope that the attention thrown their way was more than just a passing pleasantry; that the attention was a chance to mean something to someone who mattered.

"Yes!" Remy pumped his fist and placed his paddle on the counter with a rather loud 'thwak!' "Got the painting!" He looked at Trixie and grinned. "And it only cost me seventy-five thousand dollars!" He was remarkably giddy. "Suck it, Margot!" He stuck his tongue out at Margot Cashalot, who was seated across the room and playfully returned the gesture.

Trixie shook her head as she scooped a modest helping of mashed potatoes and garnish into her mouth. "Congratulations, you bought an eyesore." She chewed, then swallowed. "Where in heaven's name will you put it?"

"Uh, what?" He looked at her, lost.

"The painting, Remy." She pointed to the canvas currently being moved from the pedestal. "That thing's half the size of a door and it clashes with the aesthetic of literally every room in your mansion. Where will you put it?"

"Oh, I'm not putting it anywhere," he corrected. "I'm going to burn it. Like you said, it's hideous." He took a bite of his salad. "I'm hoping to cleanse the world of Richina's so-called art. That was the point." He cleared his throat as he took another forkful of greens. "I thought I made that clear?"

Trixie looked over her shoulder to where Richina sat with a pleased look on her face. "But she doesn't know you're going to burn it."

"She's crap at art. When next she visits Buxaplenty Grounds, she'll no doubt ask where it is and I'll be the one burdened to tell her that it really just didn't settle in any room and that regrettably, we had to dispose of it." He curled his lips to hold back a laugh. "Pity, that."

"Yes," she half-heartedly agreed. "Pity." Her eyes went back to Dale's table, but the server and Dale were both missing. 

"You're not planning to bid on anything?" Remy asked.

She shook her head and the pointed to her father, who was perusing the catalogue again while her mother chatted with Belinda excitedly over the latest furniture offerings from Vogue Antiques. "Between the two of them, I'm sure we'll go home with something," she replied. "Besides, I never properly attached myself to a charity to participate."

Remy looked at her, shocked. "What? And here I thought we both moved up in the world once we hit eighteen," he said with a grin. "Now that we are adults and can play adult games, you want to hold onto adolescence?"

It does make things easier when decisions aren't your responsibility. She didn't really nod, but felt her head tilt slightly to the side. "Remy, you're not out of adolescence until twenty. And that aside, you bought something you fully intend to destroy. Isn't that wasteful?"

"It's not even a hundred grand," he replied flippantly. "Barely pocket change to either of us. And it's not the having," he added pointedly, "it's the getting. Besides, it is good to appear so generous on your debut!" He adjusted his tie as if preparing for a photo.

She smirked. "And what charity is your oh-so-generous donation of not even a hundred grand going to?"

He shrugged a shoulder. "Hell if I know. But the check'll have my name and that is what matters most."

Trixie let out a short laugh and picked up her flute. As she sipped, her eyes scanned the wealthy attendees. Across from her, Adross put up his paddle to bid for a dubiously sourced artifact from Ancient Rome. Two tables over, Lysbeth McChaching whispering under her breath to the equally sour-looking Conrad Wealthmun as they scrutinized some jewelry, and at a table near the rear Dexter Richardsonson overstuffed his maw with an unseemly amount of pastries. The overabundance of excess made her feel sick.

Next to her, Remy sighed. "I don't know what you ever did see in him."

"Who?"

"Chandler. Of your little squad at Dimmsdale High, I always assumed you and Veronica would wind up together." He hid a smirk behind some lettuce.

"I don't swing that way." She made it sound a bit more straightforward than it was. She and Veronica had experimented in middle school, but it never blossomed into anything more. "Perhaps your time at that boys-only military school skewed your idea of 'just friends'?"

"No such thing." He pushed aside his plate and a server was there within seconds to whisk it away and replace it with a lobster plate. Remy pulled off a leg carefully. "Still, what is it in Chandler that you see? Or saw?"

"Why past tense?"

He gave her a look as he started to eat the flesh from the lobster leg. His voice dropped low. "Chandler doesn't seem like the sharing type. And I'm sure that includes pictures."

Trixie twisted her mouth to the side. She liked Remy well enough. Despite all the pain of the DimmaDinners and other events they were subjected to, he'd been a consistently friendly face. But she wasn't sure if he was someone she could trust with the truth about her relationship with Chad… Even if she'd trusted him with a small gallery of tastefully nude pictures behind Chad's back. "He was just in the right place and the right time," she finally replied.

"Convenient."

She nodded but kept quiet.

He watched her for a moment as he finished the second leg and then began working on the tail. "Hm. You are a curious young lady, Trixie Tang." He gestured to his plate. "Would you like some?"

She shook her head. "No, thank you. I'd like to keep this dress oil-free." She finished her own plate of food and felt a strange beat of discomfort as a boy her age swept up her plate and deftly replaced it with a sizzling hotplate of grilled vegetables and chicken. She picked up her knife and fork, and began cutting a portion.

"When did you know it was over?" Remy asked quietly.

Chad lays her flat on his bed. He looms over her, that wild smile still on his face. It's the happiest and most self-assured she's ever seen him. Like a lioness looking down at her prey with pride over a successful catch. His hands slide down her legs and pull them apart, then his eyes walk from her face to her crotch. Her breathing increases. This isn't the first time he's seen her naked, but the context makes it new.

"Don't worry, babe." He kneels on the edge of the bed and inches forward until his hips were between her legs. He supports her legs with a hand behind each knee. "I'll start off nice and slow."

She consciously breathes slowly through her mouth, in and out, doing her level best to be cool and ignore just how exposed she feels on her back, legs up. The feeling of unfaithfulness as he looks upon her nakedness refuses to leave. She feels his cock thump heavily on her mound and lets out an unprompted yelp.

"You alright?"

She squinches her eyes shut and nods. Her fingers curl tighter and tighter, bundling the sheet more and more into her grasp. "Are you going to fuck me or not?" She hates to rush, but she needs this to happen. Once it's in, there's no looking back.

She can't see him, but she can hear the eager smile he has. "Eager, eager beaver."

His cock slowly slides back over her groin as he leans over her. Her legs stretch more open as his muscular frame comes to rest atop her toned body. His glans brushes the hood of her clit and she feels her belly tighten in anticipation.

The head of his cock prods her entrance and panic shoots through her. Chad's cock parts her entrance and she jerks back violently and retches.

"Jesus fuck, Trixie!" Chad falls back from her, his cockhead leaving her entrance. "The hell's wrong?"

She can't respond. She sits up in a flash, hand covering her mouth as nausea hits her. The back of her throat uncomfortably waters. Without explanation, she rushes to his bathroom, slams the door, and then falls to her knees before the toilet, dry heaving. As one hand clutches onto the porcelain for dear life, her other firmly clamps over her pussy as if a shield.

Her core tightens again and again as if trying to purge her system of invisible bile. It hurts as nothing actually comes up but her body goes through the motions anyway. As the spasms die down, she sees Turner in her mind as he was on those stairs last Monday. She sees his disappointed but accepted expression. She starts to cry and rests her forehead on the rim of the toilet seat.

She stays there for a time that feels endless, but in reality couldn't have been more than half a minute. She clears her throat and spits into the toilet, then flushes. She takes a minute to splash some water on her face and give herself a pep talk to remind herself why she's here, why she's doing this, and what's at stake. With a deep breath, she leaves the sink and exits the bathroom.

She finds Chad half dressed and searching for his socks. She frowns. "Um, what's going on?"

He barely looks her way. "Sorry, Trixie, but something's come up." He finishes pulling on his socks and then grabs his undershirt.

"Something more important than me?"

"Rochester Simms is running a pick-up game with Steven Marrie and Kirk Chesterfield. They're on the South-Roth squad," he replies with the ease of someone who wasn't just about to fuck Trixie Tang for the first time. He finishes pulling on his shirt and starts stuffing his cleats in his bag. "Ah, you wouldn't understand."

She heats up. Is he really ditching her to play ball? "So playing a stupid game is more important than fucking your girlfriend for the first time?"

He pauses packing and looks up at her. "Damn, you really want me, huh?"

She can't bring herself to answer.

"Well, we'd be screwing right now if you hadn't killed the mood freaking out, babe." He seems to catch himself. "Sorry, that's bitch of me." He approaches her and as he does, he cups his bulge. "I was looking forward to it, too. But you kind of went dead fish on me there, then freaked out. Can't be helped, I guess. I'm bigger than average."

He's actually barely bigger than Turner and no more remarkable than a few other dicks that she'd seen in person, but she doesn't tell him that. Instead, she lets the delusion stand. It was easier this way. Perhaps if she played her cards right, she could get him into a quickie.  A simple 'wham-bam, thank you, man' was all she needed to just get it over with.

She pouts at him, giving him doe-eyes, and pushes her breasts together. "But Chad… I was really hoping we'd do it tonight."

Chad licks his lips, the look of unrestrained carnal desire comes over him again, but he doesn't act as she hopes. Instead of bending her over and taking her, he simply comes closer and places his hand on her pussy. 

"You're such a slut sometimes, Trixie," he says with odd affection. 

He drags his fingers over her folds. It sets her teeth on edge. The feeling of repulsion starts to claw its way back up her throat but she manages to swallow it back down. And just in time, as he presses his lips against hers with a hunger and passion that she tries to fake.

Their lips part and he gazes into her eyes, seemingly searching for something. She hopes he finds it. "We'll finish this later. Promise."

He leaves her there in his room, naked and shaking. No sooner is the door closed does she release a held breath. It didn't happen. A feeling of relief washes over her. Then, she collapses in a heap on Chad's floor among her clothes in anguish at her relief.

Someone was snapping their fingers in her face. "Trixie? Trixie!"

Trixie jumped, inhaling sharply, and looked to the side. Remy was looking at her with more concern than she'd seen from him since he'd met Veronica. "W-What?" she asked, voice wavering.

"Should we get you a shot glass next time?"

"I don't…" Her voice trailed off as she looked at her hands. Trixie found herself holding an empty glass. She looked at it blankly. She didn't remember finishing it and yet it was clearly devoid of liquid courage. She heard someone clear their throat to her left and saw her father staring at her disapprovingly. She quickly avoided his look and set the glass on the counter.

"It's been that bad, huh?" Remy jokingly tried to lighten the atmosphere. "One question and you guzzle the whole thing."

She laughs, too, nervous and uncertain. "What– ah, what was the question?"

"Now I'm not sure if I should ask it," he said. He wrapped his fingers around his drink, playfully guarding it from her. "I asked when you knew you and Chandler weren't going to work out."

She is on the floor in his room. Her brain is a confusing cocktail of pleasure, relief, and self-loathing. Pleasure that Chad had left. Relief that she was still his. Self-loathing from how messed up her whole life had gotten.

She kicked the memories of last night out of her mind. That wasn't when she knew. As much as she hated to admit it, that wasn't when she knew. "Three weeks ago," she admitted quietly.

Remy was quiet as Doug Dimmadome rattled off an obscene amount heading to some charity for terminally sick kids in exchange for a statue of Venus carved out of diamond sourced from Sierra Leone. He tapped his arm restlessly as he seemed to either be giving Trixie a moment to collect herself or was taking the moment to find the right words to say. Either way, she was glad for the silence.

"I'm sorry," he finally offered.

She let out a sardonic huff of a laugh and aimlessly toyed with her food. "You don't have to lie about feeling bad, Remy."

"I know. But it's still the proper thing to do."

She glanced at her father out of the corner of her eye. His ire had since left her and he was currently bidding on the diamond statue. Her belly felt a bit unsettled and her mouth dry, so she picked up her water glass – which had been untouched all night – and began to drink.

"That's non-alcoholic," Remy teased.

"I know," she managed between gulps. She was about to demand from him why he seemed so curious about her status with Chad when a particular urge hit her gut and her pelvic muscles tightened. Nature was calling. A fine time for her, too. She grimaced and pushed herself back from the table. "I'll be right back."

Remy, and a few others at the table, watched her stand. He took a sampling from the claw of his lobster. "It was only a matter of time." He shook his head and gestured to her empty glasses.

She thumbed her nose at him, then headed for the restroom.

Despite the venue being Dimmadome's literal mansion, the restroom felt about as removed from the dining area as the restrooms at the convention. There were a number of restrooms available to Dimmadome's guests on the first floor and it took her a moment to remember where the closest one would be. But once she did, she made a beeline for it.

Along the way, she spotted Dale Dimmadome posted up in the hallway leading to the guest wing. His arm was braced against the frame of the doorway and the waiter he'd been chatting with through the night was effectively trapped with him in the dark. Trixie could see a shy smile on the waiter's face as she tried to stay professional all while Dale was clearly making advances. 

He held what looked like a biscuit with caviar up to her lips and seemed to be tempting her to take a bite: a dangerous offering. The waitstaff weren't allowed to sample even the barest of dishes per Dimmadome's instructions. The waiter laughed slightly, clearly aware of the faux pas being teased her way. As she looked to the side, her eyes caught Trixie's and she lost part of her smile as if caught with her hands in the cookie jar – or rather, caught being forced to put her hands in the cookie jar.

Trixie didn't spend much more time on the scene. All she could think at that moment was, at least he's not focused on me. It was a dark thought, but one she fully owned. She didn't bother giving the two a second look before she pushed open the bathroom door. 

Trixie slipped inside with all the grace and poise of a ballerina, but the moment the door closed behind her, her hands were on her knees as she gasped for breath. She felt like she was losing herself. She reached back and fumbled with the doorknob until she heard the distinctly comforting click of the lock.

With a gasp, she shuffled to the bathroom mirror and inspected herself. The picture of perfection. Her dress was still free of wrinkles and creases that weren't pre-set, her hair was still neat and natural, and even her lipgloss remained unsmudged. Then why do I feel so dirty?

She slid away from the mirror and hiked up her dress, thankful for the light fabric and the slit which made it easy for her to attend to basic biology. She pulled her panties down to her  knees and hovered over the toilet bowl after placing two protective layers of toilet paper on the seat. She crouched there for a moment, partially collapsed on herself and breathing heavily. She hated being here now more than ever before.

She missed last week – Oh! how she missed last week. The stress had been manageable, the burden of wearing three faces when most others only expected two had been one she could shoulder thanks in part to the third face. Now, she'd lost that one and only outlet because of him. Because of her. His kindness and her cowardice. A match made in fucked-up heaven.

She breathed out in a controlled fashion and forced herself to clear her mind. She felt elements of her stress melting away. Not all of it, but enough. She could still hear the sounds of the gala outside. It sounded almost like a movie: the distant din of unrecognizable conversation, the occasional laugh from the boisterous host on stage, the clack-clacking of footwear that easily cost more than the common man's wardrobe, all of it backed by soothing strings that had set the ambiance for the evening since she arrived. All of it communicated sophistication and elegance. All of it a lie. She was glad there was at least one place she could escape to.

She adjusted herself and, after another cleansing sigh, relaxed her muscles and started to relieve herself. The gentle tinkling from between her legs almost drowned out the taunting pleasantries beyond the locked door. She looked down at her shimmering dress and couldn't help comparing this function to the last she'd been to. Sure, the con had been filled with a number of weirdos and geeks, but they felt more like people than anyone here did.

She was nearly halfway done when she heard the door handle rattle. She sucked in a breath and instinctively puckered up, halting her stream. "Someone's in here!"

The rattling stopped and was replaced with a sound that haunted her: a key slid into the knob and the lock clicked open. Her eyes went wide as saucers and she slammed herself down onto the toilet seat just as the door opened, thankful she'd had the forethought to put down those layers of toilet paper.

Dale Dimmadome entered the bathroom and smoothly closed the door behind him, clicking the lock back into place. His eyes connected with hers for a brief second, challenging her, then dropped to her exposed thigh. She shivered as his gaze lingered a bit longer on the curve of her backside than was comfortable. "Don't stop on my account," he said, finally breaking what had felt like an eternal silence. His eyes left her and he strode to the sink.

"What are you doing in here?" She managed to soften her demand.

Dale, now with his back to her, looked at himself in the mirror and turned on the sink. "Freshening up. A bit of caviar wet my hands and I'm not keen on soiling my suit." He began washing his hands. "Unless you'd prefer I smell like fish the whole night?" He looked at her in the mirror, though his eyes didn't meet hers. They tracked lower.

She felt her jaw tense and could feel his burning gaze, but she knew better than to make a scene. She kept her voice light and disaffected. "I mean, why are you in this bathroom, Dale?"

He laughed as if her question was nothing more than a silly joke. "This is my house, Trixie." He dried his hands with a waiting hand towel, then turned around. The sink still ran. "Unless you're going to start telling me there are places in my own home that are off limits?"

"Your father's home," she corrected a bit too quickly.

If he took offence to it, it didn't show. With a casual tilt of the head and flick of the wrist, he brushed off her correction. "Sure, but you've seen how my old man eats. He's not long for this world." A subtle curve pulled at one corner of his mouth and he replaced the towel.

"Alright, you've washed your hands," she said low with no compunction about speaking plainly with the man. "Can you leave?"

"Why?" The subtle curve curled more into a restrained smirk.

"Because I'm taking a shit."

That seemed to surprise him. His eyebrows bounced up for a moment, but the smile never left his face and it was pretty clear he didn't believe her. "I didn't take you for a dirty talker, Tang." He shook his head, then turned his back again and adjusted his bowtie. He toyed with it for a time, tilting it this way and that, before settling on it again being perfectly straight. Then, he smoothed out wrinkles in his jacket and pulled at his sleeves. Throughout the whole ritual, he never once looked at her, never said anything. All while the water continued to run.

Her butt was starting to feel sore from sitting on the toilet for so long. Her legs started to feel more like static and less like flesh. Her bladder ached from incomplete release. She watched him under her brow fiddle with his cuffs and heard, just barely over the running water, him humming a little ditty as if any of this were normal.

She watched him mess with one cuff, then the other, then return to the first with a put-upon frown as if fixing some flaw invisible to her. She stifled a groan as she held it in and recognized the uncomfortable silence for what it was: a test of just how long she could hold out. Who would blink first? Not her. Even as she longed to finish, she refused to give him the satisfaction even in her most vulnerable moment. This war of attrition was one she was determined to win. "You done?"

He arched a brow, but didn't look at her right away. "Are you?" He went again to fix his sleeve, and the cufflink fell, clattering on the tile floor near her feet. "Oh, could you get that for me, please?" His voice was smooth, almost endearing and casual. But she could hear the subtext in his voice prodding her to move.

She looked down at the cuff near her foot, just out of reach, and tried not to grimace. If she picked it up, she'd risk exposure, but if he bent down to pick it up, he'd have to get in close. She honestly wasn't sure which was worse, but she knew she had to choose quickly. To hesitate would be weakness. "Sorry. You'll have to crawl to it yourself."

Dale gave a resigned sigh and got down on one knee before her to pick up his item. He paused and his eyes rested on her bare thighs, which were squeezed shut tight as a vice. Dale ran his tongue over his upper lip slowly and looked up at her with a dangerous glint in his eye. "You like me on one knee?"

Repulsed, Trixie sneered and kicked the cufflink. It clacked across the floor and came to rest under the sink. "Fetch." She couldn't keep the disdain out of her voice any longer.

He let out a humorous huff at her defiance and drank in her legs again before looking for his cufflink under the sink. Instead of crawling to it, he remained crouched before her and reached for it with one hand. As he leaned, his off hand shot out for something to grab onto for support. His fingers found her panties resting around her calves and wrapped tight around the crotch. 

The suddenness of his weight pulling on her panty tugged her forward on her seat, and she let out a sharp gasp. Her whole body twitched and she lost control of her bladder for a split second. A distinct hiss echoed in the bowl and Dale looked back at her with a chilling look of pleasure. She caught herself, cutting off the stream against her body's urges; but before she could take further action, like kicking him, he plucked the cufflink from the floor, released her panty, and stood. 

"Got it." He held it up with a triumphant grin. His cold eyes swiveled from his prize to her mortified, indignant face. "Thank you for your help, Trixie." He held up his hand, the hand that had just invaded her space, and replaced the missing cufflink, maintaining eye contact with her. As he did, he took in a deep whiff of his palm as if smelling cologne. "Hm. At least now my hand won't smell like fish, right?"

Trixie couldn't help shaking as she sat, now on the edge toilet, legs numb, butt sore, and heart palpitating. She could tell he knew she'd lost. Get the fuck out. But she couldn't bring herself to speak.

He straightened his cummerbund, checked himself one last time in the mirror, and swept his other palm over his well-coiffed hair before heading for the door. "I'll see you out there, Trixie. Don't take too long." He unlocked the door, then looked over his shoulder, his eyes sliding to where she sat, vulnerable, on the porcelain throne. "And next time, lock the door, alright, love? Wouldn't want anyone accidentally walking in on you." He wore a cruel smile and gave her a wink before striding out of the bathroom, whistling a jaunty tune.

The door clicked closed but remained unlocked.

Trixie sat there in stunned silence. She fought to keep from panicking. She could feel her breathing growing shallower, her hands growing clammy, and everything below her waist screaming. The urge to pee was still there, but she no longer felt safe enough to finish her business.

She activated the bidet but barely felt the warm, pressurized water rinsing her folds. A moment later, the bidet was off and she was patting herself dry. She was going through the motions like an automaton. She didn't consider her actions until she reached down to pull up her panties. Her hand fought her and she swallowed a lump as she stared down at the wine-colored garment that Dale had so roughly grasped. To now have it touch her most sensitive skin… She shuddered at the thought.

For a moment, she considered stripping the item off and tossing it. Her dress was long enough to guard her dignity even with the slit. But she decided against it. Not only was it safer to still have that barrier, she had to be unflappable. She was a Tang and nothing should unsettle a Tang. Without giving it much more thought, she pulled the panties up and winced as the violated fabric rested against her sex. She pressed on.

Trixie smoothed out her dress and walked mechanically to the sink. Her butt was still numb and her legs felt like pins and needles were repeatedly stabbing into her, but she did not wobble. The water was still running and she turned it off. The silence was somehow worse. She turned it back on and began washing her hands.

As she washed, she looked at herself. Her hair was perfect, her dress unwrinkled, her makeup understated and subtle, her skin clear, her posture immaculate. She was the picture of perfection. She wanted to break the glass. Instead, she unclenched her fist long enough to dry her hands.

The door opened again and she had to fight every urge to jump and scream. Instead, she managed to lazily look over at the doorway where an older gentleman started to enter before recognizing the room was occupied.

"Oh, excusez-moi, mademoiselle!" the man apologetically bumbled in French. "Je ne savais pas que vous étiez à l'intérieur!"

"Ça va," she replied perfectly, though her response was more clipped than intended. "I was just leaving." True to her word, she headed for the door without so much as a smile.

The older man nervously chuckled and stepped out of the bathroom so as to not impede her exit. "Perhaps next time you – how say –  lock the door?" He mimed turning a key. Even though she knew the man's joke had been an innocent one, it felt targeted.

She barely glanced in his direction, well aware that if she did, her gaze would petrify him. "I'll keep that in mind."

She glided back to her table with barely restrained rage. Each step she took felt heavy, like if she wasn't careful, she may explode. Her breathing was as heavy as her steps, hot and bull-like. Her eyes scanned the hallway toward the dining area and scrutinized harshly each dark corner, every darkened doorway, expecting Dale to jump out like some sort of horror villain and drag her away. But he never did. 

She made it back to the dining area where the golden monsters clapped as yet another overpriced piece of junk was auctioned off to someone who had no need for it. As she drew closer to her table, she spotted Dale pecking at a fruit platter with one of Forge Magazine's 30 under 30. His eyes swiveled to her and he smiled as he took another bite of papaya. She felt her chest lock up but didn't give him the satisfaction of seeing her tremble. Instead, she shot him a withering glare and then took her seat.

"Welcome back," Remy turned her way with a grin. "You took your sweet time. Everything go alright in there?"

She'd been accosted in the bathroom. Her privacy had been breached, the sanctity of the bathroom had been broken, and to top it off, she still had to pee. No. "It went fine enough. I just had to wait for someone ahead of me."

"There are at least four bathrooms on the ground floor, Trixie."

"I forgot."

"Weren't you just here two weeks ago or so?" He chuckled. "I didn't realize you had such bad short-term memory."

She gave him a weak smile, but said nothing.

"Oh, see here? I found the article." Adross caught Trixie's attention as he leaned toward her mother. He spoke in casual tones to Vivian. "A terrible thing, that." He sighed. "Putting children so needlessly in danger."

"Hm?" Nigel, arms crossed with paddle at the ready, leaned forward to join the conversation. "What do you mean?"

"The convention center in San Tiago filed an insurance claim. There was an incident last weekend at that pop culture convention, what's it called? Pow Convention? Anyway… Apparently, some sort of display nearly fell on some children." He shook his head. "Of course, I'm denying the claim because my investigators found evidence of rust on the installation's anchors, but still…" He let a moment of silence hang in the air.

"Some kids were almost injured at that comic event?" Vivian asked, aghast. "My word…" She looked at Trixie. "See? This is why we kept you far away from those useless things! I couldn't imagine allowing my child to attend some scrubby convention only to be grievously injured by the incompetence of the dregs of society!"

"Well, no one was too horribly hurt," Adross chimed in lazily. "The backdrop collapsed, sure, but some attendees managed to slow its fall.  And for that, I am thankful. Not only does it provide my firm more justification to reject the claim, but it also makes me feel better about doing it."

Trixie felt her blood begin to boil.

"Clearly the danger was of their own making and was easily mitigated by the freaks in their silly, childish costumes." He blew out some air. "But that's what happens when the average Joe attempts to put on an event celebrating childish things."

"The degenerate Joe, more like it," Belinda cheekily corrected Adross. "I know that pop culture has its place and I'm aware that there is money to be made there – just look at Nigel's portfolio and how well his stake in Wonder Studios has paid off – but I can't help but be disappointed at the barbarity and regression often on display at those events. They celebrate such inane characters and have the audacity to call it art, literature, and cinema."

"And so much of it is animation! The lowest form of entertainment next to comedy." Vivian shook her head, clearly agreeing with her friend's sentiments. "It is no place for anyone," she added resolutely. "Much less a child."

"Hi-ya!" Liam smiles wide, braces glistening in the auditorium lights. She matches his gumption with a battlecry of her own.

Liam's sister smiles as she snaps the picture. As soon as the viewscreen is presented, Liam excitedly pores over the photo. 

"This is so cool!"

"What do you say, Liam?"

He looks up at her, eyes sparkling through the holes in his cloth mask brighter than the metal on his teeth. "Thank you!" 

She looks down at him through her lenses. "You're welcome, Space Spectre."

Trixie kept her lips tightly sealed and her fingers toyed with her dress to keep from fidgeting. Her mother had always been the warmer of her parents, but whenever it came to Trixie's incontrovertible interest in geek culture, she was always the first to quash any potential participation. Unlike her father's cold indifference, her mother actively criticized Trixie's enjoyment of comics and related media.

Adross continued. "My office is trying to subpoena the CCTV footage. The convention center supposedly has a decent array of high quality security cameras. According to the building manager, at least one of them should have captured an angle of the incident."

The blood that had been burning through Trixie's body immediately chilled. There were cameras? Of course there were cameras. It was a prominent building, after all. The thought hadn't even occurred to her that security cameras could have caught Turner's heroics… or her exposure. Her cheeks went flush at the thought of what would happen should Adross obtain the footage and find Trixie on screen, clear as crystal.

Remy laughed next to her, oblivious to her silent distress. "Man… What I would pay to see that footage." He leaned forward. "Adross, sir, if you do manage to get a hold of that footage, could you let me know? I'd love a copy." He reclined in his chair with one arm over the backrest. "Can you imagine it, Trixie? A bunch of scrawny dudes in themed pyjamas struggling to hold up a canvas?" He laughed again and a few at the table actually chuckled as well.

Trixie didn't join in.

Turner struggles under the weight of the intricate and detailed display. Every muscle is flexed and his joints shake as he fights against gravity to keep the backdrop from collapsing on not just himself, but on the child and her as well. 

The child before her is terrified beyond belief. Fear is written all over his face as he blubbers in place, snotty and paralyzed. Trixie can hear his mother's wails, but they sound miles away. All she can hear is Turner's strained grunts, the suspended fixture's threatening groans, and the child's soft sobs.

She extends her arm, handing over the mask she's hidden behind all day. "Can you hold this for me?"

The kid numbly takes it and holds it close.

"Thank you." She smiles in an attempt to exude confidence. "Everything's going to be okay."

"Trixie?" Remy asked again.

"What?" she replied with a touch of hostility.

He gave her a worried look again and nodded to her glass. "He's asking if you want more wine or champagne."

Trixie looked from Remy to the waiter hovering behind her shoulder. She'd zoned out again. She let out a scoffing laugh and shook her head. "Right, of course, sorry. I was somewhere else for a minute, there." She looked up at the man still patiently waiting with the bottle. She dismissed him. "I… think I've had quite enough for a time. I'll stick with water."

He gave a professional nod, then moved on to her father with an empty glass and gave the same offer.

"It's wise to be careful at how you discuss such things, Adross." Nigel raised two fingers, just enough indicator for the waiter to pour a fresh glass of wine without having to address him. "I understand your position, but even in a space like this it would be prudent to not be so transparent."

"And they are people, still," Trixie added on, low. She thought of the blistering red scrapes on Turner's back that bled through his torn up costume. "Even if the backdrop didn't fall on anyone, the people who caught it could have been hurt in the process." She thought of Micah and Noah and how frightened they looked as the fixture fell. "And that's not even counting potential emotional scars."

Adross looked at her with a wry smile. "You're starting to sound like my opponent," he said. Then he looked at Nigel. "She really is a chip off the old block, Tang. Thinking from all angles. Luckily for me, all claims for injury must spin off of the initial statement, which was that something fell but was caught and no one was under the item when it fell." He winked. "People getting hurt stopping it from falling on others aren't covered. If they wanted a payday, they should have let it hit someone." He sipped his drink. "And we don't cover emotional damage as that's too hard to objectively measure."

"Besides," Vivian stepped in. "What emotional damage could possibly be suffered?"

"Oh, my god!"

She watches as the heavy prop bears down on Turner as he loses his footing. The harrowing moment seems to stretch on forever and her stomach drops to her bowels. She feels herself moving without thought and, before she knows what's happening, she's on her back and her thighs are on fire.

The lip of the massive wooden frame is held up by her feet. She takes a truncated breath as her abdominals burn. Under the prop, Turner lays on the floor, unmoving. For a moment, she worries he's dead and that she'll soon join him.  She denies that outcome. "Hey, shit-fuck! Move your ass!"

Turner wearily lifts his head. He's not dead, but he looks close to it. The two make eye contact and he mouths something to her. Now, she knows what he said.

"Trixie?"

He wastes no more time and limply but quickly scampers out of danger. As soon as he's clear, she feels someone loop their arms under hers and yank her out of harm's way. At the same time, she kicks her legs, forcing the prop upwards for a mere moment. It's just enough grace to avoid disaster as the whole fixture slams into the ground a hair's breadth from her.

Trixie took a gulp from her water glass to straighten herself out, then looked at Remy. He was working on a new plate of food: a series of crab legs with biscuits, spread, and caviar on the side. He greedily went to town on one of the legs, careful to not dirty his still-pristine white jacket. "You want some?" he asked, moving the side dish her way.

She stared at the caviar and felt her appetite shrivel up. "Mm, no, thank you," she said with the shake of her head. "I'm not in the mood for fish tonight. Shouldn't you be paying attention to the auction? I'm sure your charity could do with more change."

"Well, there's not much on offer that I want," Remy admitted between slurps. "I really just wanted the painting – and you already know why. Regardless of my activity, the charity's guaranteed a one million dollar donation from my family." He shrugged and patted his mouth clean with a napkin. "The seventy thousand or however much I spent is just a bonus. No need to pretend to be interested."

A small dessert plate with a tempting slice of rich red velvet cake was placed before Trixie. Her mouth watered and she carved a little section from the tip off with her fork. "So if you're not one for dusty relics or showy works of modern art—"

"Arguable art," he playfully slipped in.

"–right. What would catch your attention at the next DimmaDinner? Because otherwise, why do you come here?"

Remy put a cracker with spread in his mouth and chewed before answering. "You."

She did a double-take. "Me?" Took another slice of her cake. "Wait, Me what?"

"Now there's an idea," Belinda boldly inserted herself into the conversation. "I'd imagine you'd go for a pretty few hundred thousand." Her eyes glimmered with something Trixie was afraid to name.

"Only a few hundred thousand? Please, you underestimate the desire Trixie's built around herself," Remy dusted off his hands and pushed his meal aside. "I'd wager more than a million would be at least the starting bid for a dinner with her."

Vivian clapped her hands with glee. "Oh, yes! A date auction! I remember those being some of the most exciting events! Raised a lot of money for a lot of good causes." She turned to her husband. "Do you remember them, Nigel?"

Mr. Tang gave a tight-lipped smile and a single nod. "But of course I do. And I think Remy's correct. A fair number of our friends here would pay through the nose for a night on the town with you, Trixie."

She looked at her father in disbelief. "You can't be serious, Father? Auctioning me off like some sort of prize?" She could barely keep her voice level.

"It's just a harmless event, dear. And it wouldn't just be you." Nigel waved off her concern. "There are a number of other young debutantes who'd be eligible and desirable. Margot over there, for instance–"

"And perhaps your friend Veronica could finally get invited this way," Remy tactlessly tacked on with a chuckle.

She glared at him and his laughter died.

"Oh, come on, Trixie." Remy tried to soften the insinuation. "It'd all be in good fun." His eyes drifted over her shoulder and he nearly jumped from his seat. "Speaking of good fun, they've set out some lovely sweets. I'm going to try and snag one." Without further word, he slid from his seat.

Trixie watched him go feeling deserted and betrayed. She knew Remy wasn't as considerate as he tried to appear, but she hadn't expected him to so readily back such an archaic and backwards idea.

Her displeasure must have been written on her face because her father subtly leaned her way and spoke. "Don't be too hard on the Buxaplenty boy. He's growing into a good man with a good head on his shoulders. He'll make someone a fine husband some day."

She looked at her father questioningly.

"Don't act so surprised, Trixie. He does his best to be respectful and hides it, but he's enamored with you. And I can see that you both have grown rather close over the years, thanks in part to my efforts." He surprised her with a chuckle.

"What?"

He quirked a brow, a surprising amount of humor for him. "Why else do you think I keep dragging you to these dusty functions?"

"Father!" she hissed, almost as if to scold. She'd caught a whiff of his intentions earlier, but hadn't thought much of it. Now, she was certain he held about as much respect for her choice of partner as Dale did. "I'm with Chad! You know this!"

He straightened a bit and looked at the stage where the penultimate item was being paraded out. The uncharacteristic mirth he'd just displayed had already vanished. "We both know that boy is a matter of convenience and nothing more," he said, his tone taking on a flat and dark lilt. "I won't question why the two of you got together, but I trust that you did what you had to do." He looked at her, hard. "But his path and yours will diverge the minute you walk across that stage in June. I know it. You know it." 

It was rather disappointing to know that not only had Remy seen the writing on the wall of her relationship with Chad, but her father as well. Though, it didn't bother her as much since it was from her father that she learned how to put up a front. He may have taught her everything she knew, but clearly he hadn't taught her everything he knew. Yet, there was an aura of finality to her father's words that she couldn't understand – as if he'd accounted for her potential relations in high school and planned accordingly. As if it hadn't truly ever been her choice.

Father and daughter exchanged tense looks that communicated in a second more than words could have in an hour, and then the unspoken dialogue broke as Remy returned.

He settled back in his chair with a plate of small shortbread cookies slathered in foreign chocolate. He licked his lips. "If I'd known Dimmadome had access to Arabic chocolate, I would have gone easy on my third course."

Vivian smiled at Remy. "Those cookies were Dale's favorites growing up. The orange- and lemon-flavored ones less so after the lemonade stand incident, but still." She sighed, content. "I'm surprised you managed so many."

Remy took a bite from one and offered Vivian another. "Dale's otherwise occupied at the moment." He nodded to the side wall.

Trixie looked to where Remy indicated and saw Dale had again cornered the woman he'd been circling all evening. The worker looked a bit disheveled and her body language was clearly withdrawn. Dale again stood over her, arm outstretched and braced on the wall by her head and his other hand in his pocket. Trixie felt her pulse quicken.

Belinda's laugh pulled Trixie's attention. The mature woman seemed to find humor in the situation, which frustrated Trixie. She'd had more to drink than Belinda; and even if Belinda was mildly inebriated from the champagne, there was no way she couldn't see the conflict on the young worker's face.

"He's such a lady's man!" Belinda said between giggles.

Trixie's mother seemed less willing to laugh about it, but smiled just the same. "Yes, it's a trait that he developed early." Her eyes met her daughter's and then she looked straight ahead. "Oh!" She quickly patted Belinda's arm. "Look! Chadwick's nearly won the turtle!"

Seriously? Trixie looked around the table, bewildered. Her father was scrolling some news site wearing a frown. Her mother and Belinda had their eyes locked on the stage where a blinged-out sea turtle piece sat. Adross was busy writing an email on his phone. Remy was eating another cookie with not a care in the world. No one else seemed to notice – or care. She looked back to where Dale and the waitress stood where wandering eyes wouldn't catch them. She watched him pull his hand from his pocket and stroke the young woman's cheek. The leer he wore was one all too familiar to her. Even if the waitress thought herself special, Trixie knew the truth: he was not seeing something unique in her, he was just seeing through her. The waitress wasn't in his class, so his sweet words had a short shelf life and as soon as he got the memory he wanted, she would be discarded.

Even so, what was she to do? What could she do? Nothing would change. The rest of the table, the only ones seemingly privy to Dale's actions, were already occupied with other things that they deemed more important. This was just who they were.

She saw the woman's eyes dart to the floor and a nervous laugh twitch her lips. 

The wires snap. The display topples forward. Time stops. 

Two children are in danger, children she doesn't know. Children she'd likely never meet again. She hasn't even seen their faces; and though she's barely heard their names, she doesn't know which is which. It's not her problem. The tragedy won't touch her more than a bad memory. She's just a bystander and they are strangers. Strangers in danger. All she can do is watch.

The kids scream. Then, Turner is there. Yellow and black holds it back. Time resumes.

She watched Dale take the girl's chin in his hand and caught a glimmer of apprehension in her eyes. A distinct feeling of sonder came over Trixie, and with it, a strange indignation and driving fury. She understood now why Turner put himself in harm's way for people he'd never met before; why he seemed so amicable and calm. He wasn't meek because he was weak. And even if it was too late for her – for them – she could go down swinging.

Without a word, she pushed herself away from the table and marched towards Dale.

If anyone at her table called her name, she didn't hear it. The sound of her pulse pounding in her ears nearly deafened her. The walk was barely a few seconds but to her it felt like hours. Her legs felt like lead and she nearly turned around twice before she was within speaking distance of Dale and the woman. As she slowed her approach, she forced herself to unclench her fists as she caught the tail end of their conversation.

"...a long line of Southern auctioneers. Back to the 1800s, actually. It's family tradit—"

"Dale." She made her voice light – playful, even. Despite everything tonight, she still didn't want to cause a scene. To break would be a travesty and already she was in dangerous waters. "What are you doing?"

Dale tilted his head just enough to look at her out of the corner of his eye. "Just having a conversation with Marisol, here." He smiled. "Isn't that right?" The woman, Marisol, reciprocated with a laugh, but it was clear she found little to no humor in the situation. "Why? What do you need?"

Trixie bit her lip. She hadn't thought this far ahead. "My father. He… He said something's up with Bentwood. And seeing as your father's on stage, he wants to speak with you about it."

Dale's movements were slow and lazy, as if he had all the time in the world. "Really? Hm, tell him I'll be there in a bit."

She smiled politely. "He said it's urgent, Dale."

"Of course it is…" He sighed and nodded. Then he smiled at Marisol. "Go on, I'll catch up with you later, darling." His words dripped with honey and for a moment Trixie almost took it as sincerity. But as Marisol dashed off, she caught a look of relief in her eyes and knew she'd done a good thing. However, Dale didn't leave. He simply turned around and leaned against the wall.

Trixie looked around, lost, then looked back at him. "...Well?"

"Well…?"

She frowned and took a step back. "Aren't you going to speak with him?" She hoped the redness on her cheeks wasn't as apparent as it felt.

He stared at her with a smirk. "You're cute when you're coy."

She blinked a few times and mustered a ditsy, confused smile. "I'm sorry, what?"

"You're a terrible liar, Trixie."

"I'm-I'm not—"

"Our fathers sealed the deal on Bentwood an hour ago. You wouldn't know because you were busy cavorting around with Remington." He crossed his arms. "So, I know it's difficult for you, but let's try a little more honesty." He flashed his teeth in something that should have been a grin but came across more threatening. "Why were you looking for me?"

"I-I wasn't," she stammered. "I was just…" She trailed off and shivered. She wasn't sure where to go from here. She had been so focused on getting the girl out of his grasp she hadn't considered how she'd get her out – or, now that the waitress was out, his attention would be on her, instead.

"You were just?" He copied her with a pitiful expression. "Please, Trixie, have some respect for me. I'm not stupid." 

"I never said you were," she replied with a nervous laugh.

"Then why can't you just tell me the truth?" He finally pushed off the wall and stood straight, arms still crossed.

"The truth?" she repeated abrasively. "The truth is I was saving her from you," she hissed. "Your playboy act isn't as charming as you think, Dale."

"Your words would wound me if your body wasn't saying otherwise." He took a step forward. "But since you seem to be so blind to your mind, allow me to… give you a second chance to admit it." He looked her in the eye. 

She just about turned on her heels and marched away, but part of her wanted to rub it in his face that she'd robbed him of a night with the help. "There's nothing more to admit. You've been attempting to seduce her the whole night. And I won't let that happen."

He laughed. It was a short and breathy sound that was almost golden. "You're something else, Trixie Tang. You really are." He strolled by her as if to leave and then paused for a moment before wheeling around and facing her. "You know, I almost believe it."

"Believe what?" Her pulse thundered through her body but she managed to keep her face neutral.

He took a few casual steps back her way. "Believe that you came all the way over here to 'rescue' a waitress. That you chose tonight of all nights to play the misguided white knight." He took a few more steps and then Trixie realized he'd positioned himself perfectly between her and her exit.

She took an instinctive step back, but when her butt hit the wall, she realized she'd effectively traded the waitress' safety for her own. Don't flinch. She parted her lips to regulate her breathing. "Dale—"

He put up a finger, stopping her. "Trixie, I've known you since you were fourteen. I've had the pleasure of watching you grow from a gorgeous teen into a stunning young woman." He smiled and his teeth seemed to catch the light in such a way that they appeared more like fangs. "And in all that time, I've never known you to go out of your way to help someone else."

"Is it so hard to believe that I have basic human decency?"

He laughed again and casually rested one hand on the wall beside her head. "I would believe it if I didn't know the truth. Even if you can't admit it."

"And what's that truth, Dale?" she bit back.

"You saw me with her. You got jealous."

"What?" She was almost beside herself. "Are you fucking kidding me?"

"You and that potty mouth of yours." His eyes roved her for a second before snapping back to her face. "I could get used to it."

"I'm not jealous!"

"No?" He pushed closer to her, his elbow bending and allowing him to halve the short distance  between them. "By your own admission you've been watching me all night. And don't think I haven't noticed, Trixie. The furtive glances, the averted gazes…" His breath was heavy and oppressive on her face and his eyes, ice blue, seemed to lock her in place. "You are slick, but not slick enough."

"Dale–" She cut herself off as she realized something was on her side. She looked down. His right hand rested on her waist, his fingers boldly pressing into her, just enough for her to finally notice. How long had his hand been there? She tried not to think too much about it. "Get your hand off me," she seethed through gritted teeth.

He ignored her demand. "Or what?"

I'm trying so hard to not kick you in the dick right now, you have no idea. She shifted her weight. "Or I'm going to do something I may regret."

"You put on quite a show of defiance in the bathroom," he purred as the corner of his mouth curled and his eyes narrowed.  "But be honest: you want to finish what we started."

Her shoulders tensed and she felt herself shaking. Her eyes darted to the side to see if anyone in the dining area noticed her extended absence or cared to even look behind them. Nothing. They were all too consumed with the string consort play a concerto to notice – or care – about what was happening behind them. Her breathing became shallow and erratic. All at once, she was sixteen again and alone with Tad in the dark Caldwell manor.

Dale didn't just seem to miss her distress, he seemed to feed off of it. "You're here with me already, aren't you?" he continued, leaning forward to put his mouth to her ear. "What more could you regret?" His hand slid from her waist to her hip, then lower, toward the slit of her dress. "You have to pretend you don't want this, yet you came back to me." His hand slipped up between the slit and his fingers clenched her bare flesh.

Get the fuck out. 

Like a spear of lightning, the thought came again, stark and clear. Earlier, she'd assumed it was her body's unspoken command to Dale in the restroom, but now she understood better: the command had been for her. She had ignored that still, small voice for far too long. It was time she tried something new. It was time she listened.

Before Dale's hand could travel further over her rear, she drove her knee into his crotch like a bullet. He let out a pained and guttural yelp as both hands went to his groin. He doubled over and fell to the ground, slinging a trail of choice curses her way.

Trixie looked down at him, shaking. "You're a grade-A piece of shit!" She bit her lip and she fought to keep her face neutral even as her eyes began to burn and tears began to stream down her face. "Fuck you." 

She took a modicum amount of pleasure in his pain, but more so now she felt afraid. Chairs were shuffling, jackets were ruffling, and silverware was clinking: Dimmsdale's elites were turning around, and without context, she was sure the conclusions drawn wouldn't be in her favor. This was his house, after all.

Trixie heard her father call her name, but she didn't dare look up. Instead, she walked as briskly as she could for the front door, head held high. She did her best to not wipe her face while at the center of attention. The last thing she wanted was for anyone to know she was crying. To cry was to admit weakness. Now was not the time for weakness. Now was the time to leave.

Trixie staggered alone in the dark to her car. The sun, like the media, was long gone and though the night was still young, it was nearly pitch black as the giant trees and massive mansion at her back clawed into the sky as if to consume the stars. She could hear the string consort in the house resume their playing. Their music tugged at her ear and the desire to go back and seek the comfort and faux warmth of the DimmaDinner was a Siren's song. But like Odysseus, she stopped up her ears until she was locked safely in her car.

She saw the grand doors of the DimmaHome open and a golden light washed the front steps before a dark silhouette eclipsed it. The shadowy figure called her name but she already knew who it was: her father, coming to condemn. She didn't have the bandwidth for that. With shaking hands, she fumbled with the start switch and, after a few nerve-wracking seconds, she managed to turn on the car and pull out of the parking lot. The figure began approaching, but before he was even down the stairs, Trixie had already fled.

She breathed heavily as her car cruised down the long driveway. The driveway to Doug Dimmadome's mansion was a winding road that at times felt like a slalom between the tall trees on one side and the plunging cliff on the other. It would have been accurate to describe the road as 'precarious' but at this moment, Trixie couldn't have cared less. She shot down the twisting road, well exceeding the speed limit. But none of that mattered. She'd fucked up so bad.

Dale was a creep, of that there was no doubt, but to hit him? She shouldn't have had to resort to that, especially the very same night their fathers solidified a business deal. Her words should have been enough. Her words had always been enough. But how do you deal with someone for whom 'no' has no meaning? You don't hit them, that much was certain, especially with no witnesses and in their own home. Stupid, stupid, stupid!

But she'd done the right thing, right? That girl, Marisol, was barely Trixie's age and she could tell from her hesitant smiles that he was promising the world to her. If she hadn't stepped in… Trixie clenched her eyes. She didn't want to think about it, but at the same time, thinking about it was all that vindicated her careless actions to herself. She opened her eyes and panicked.

Her car was heading straight for the cliff's edge. Immediately, she hit the brakes and turned the wheel sharply to the left. Tires squealed and the cabin shook under the strain of the abrupt action. The smell of burnt rubber filled her lungs as the edge grew closer. For the first time in her life, she thought she was going to die.

The car didn't careen off the ledge, though. Instead, it swerved just a few feet shy from the dropoff and took her back onto the road. She fought with the steering wheel to regain control as the car whipped back and forth with the momentum of her life-saving measures. Through it all, she kept her mouth clenched tight and not a scream escaped her lips. 

The car veered back onto the road as she fought against her overcorrection. As her vehicle headed again for the edge, but at a shallower angle, she slammed on the brakes hard. The car jolted to a stop abruptly. Her forehead bashed into the steering column and for a moment, everything went black.

A few seconds later, her eyes fluttered open. There was a ringing in her ears and her vision was blurry. She wiped her face on the steering wheel to clear the tears from her vision and noticed a sticky red substance stained the wheel cover. She sat there, head still resting on the steering wheel as the car idled in the middle of the driveway. Tears mixed with blood and dripped on her pristinely pedicured feet. After taking a few to recoup and come to terms with her near-death experience, she came to a rather lucid conclusion: she was in no condition to drive.

She sat back up and was about to put her hands on the wheel when she realized she'd never let go. Her hands were still stuck in a white-knuckle grasp. She looked past her hands out the windshield and saw the next curve of the driveway was exceptionally sharp. It was almost inviting. Yeah… definitely not good to drive. She managed to ignore the intrusive thoughts and pull her car to the side of the road.

Once safe on the shoulder, she killed the engine and finally extracted her hands from the wheel. Immediately, without the lights from the car, Trixie was plunged into darkness. It was oddly comforting. For the first time in forever, she felt unseen. She took a deep breath, then another, and then another. Despite all the breaths, she still felt short of air. Her breathing got shallower.

She fumbled for her phone. Her hands were shaking but she managed to unlock it. The bright screen scorched her corneas and she found herself squinting against the harsh AMOLED light as she navigated to her contacts. Her thumb breezed down the list and tapped on Veronica's name. Ordinarily, she wouldn't have called her, she would have just kept her distress to herself. But tonight was different. Tonight was something new. She put the phone on speaker and called.

After two rings, Veronica answered. "Uh, hello?"

Trixie was already babbling. "V, I need help, alright?" She wasn't sure if she was doing this properly. Usually, the shoe was on the other foot and it was Veronica who needed saving, not her. "I'm at the DimmaDinner… and Dale… Remy… Cufflinks…" Her mind outpaced her mouth, throwing at her everything that had assailed her. She wasn't even sure she was making coherent sense. "He grabbed me, and—"

"Trix? Oh, I'm so glad you called, bitch," Veronica replied, disaffected. Had she even been listening? "Taddy's in Austria and literally just posted a picture with, like, a bajillion German supermodels." Trixie could hear the frown on Veronica's face. "What the hell, right?" she slurred and then was quiet. Trixie could hear the sloshing of something in the background and a hefty gulp over the line. "D'you think he's thinking of me?" Her words were even more slurred.

A conflict roiled in Trixie's mind, turbulent and chaotic. Veronica was drinking again and she had the urge to drive to her friend's home and rip the bottle from her hands. But she was in no state to help anyone. She needed help. "V, are you hearing me?" she cried. "I need you right now… Please?"

"Oh. Em. Gee!" Veronica squealed angrily. "He's freaking got this bitch kissing his cheek!" There was a muffled bang as the blonde threw her phone, and then a series of other slams as she raged on the other line. "What the hell, Taddy! What the hell!" She screamed as she hurled more items. "You said you were fucking mine!" Veronica's shrill voice, even distant, struck a nerve with Trixie.

She sat in her seat helpless and hopeless, trembling as tears flowed freely and her friend raged. She put her hand to her mouth to keep her sobs to herself as she listened to Veronica spiral on the other side. She heard glass breaking, feet stomping, walls being struck. The sound of Veronica's scornful rampage filled the car's cabin like a miasma. And when Trixie could bear it no longer, she hung up.

She felt like she was choking for air and in an attempt to calm herself, she reclined her chair. It didn't help. She still felt like she was drowning. What's more, she felt itchy – really itchy. Like something was crawling under her skin. She started scratching herself as she tried to catch her breath; however, no matter where she scratched, the tingling remained just beyond her fingers. As one hand scratched, her other raised her phone over her head and found Chad's number in her favorites. 

She should have known better than to call Veronica for help. Even aside from the Art Deco Incident, Veronica was her project. The dynamic was well established and it would have been too much to flip the script on her so abruptly. Shit, my mind's not working. I should have called Chad first. Without a second thought, she dialed her boyfriend.

The phone rang.

And rang.

And rang.

"Hey, this is Chad Registar. You know what to do, you filthy—*Beep*"

The voicemail message that Chad had been so proud of in 10th grade played and Trixie felt almost insulted it had gone to voicemail. Not that she hadn't left him messages before, but the audacity of him being busy right now when she was in need of a hero was astounding to her. That's not fair, she thought against herself. How could he know?

"H-Hey, Babe!" She tried her best to sound bubbly but couldn't help the sniffling as she fought to not scratch at her skin. "It's me! Uh, so, I'm at Dimmadome's dinner and not feeling too great." She unsuccessfully attempted to swallow a lump in her throat. "I could use a DD. Can you come pick me up?" Something burned behind her sternum and she rubbed her chest to try and quell it. "I'll make it worth your while." She tried to sound seductive, but her voice cracked and she was sure she came across way more desperate than she'd intended. Either way, the message was over and there was no chance for a re-do.

The line beeped, signalling her time to record had ended and then a cold message played. "I'm sorry, but the mailbox for this subscriber is full."

Trixie's grasp on her phone tightened. No… The shaking returned and she licked her lips to wet them and hung up only to dial him again. Answer the phone, dammit! There's no one else! She waited for the phone to ring and again it went to voicemail.

"Chad? Please pick up your phone?" She left a quick message on the off chance space had opened up in the few seconds it had taken for her to redial.

"I'm sorry, but the mailbox for this subscriber is full."

She kicked herself and dialed again, desperate and frayed.

"Hey, this is Chad Registar. You know what to do, you filthy—*Beep*"

"Pick up the stupid phone, you jerk!" she screamed into the receiver. "You're supposed to be there for me! That's your damn job! Pick up!" Her brain went fuzzy and she started seeing red. She rocked back and forth screaming into the device clutched in both hands. "Pick up, pick up, pick– Ah!" She jumped as the center console brushed her hip and her mind went to Dale's unwarranted touch earlier.

The recorder beeped again. "I'm sorry, but the mailbox for this subscriber is full."

Trixie screamed again and redialed as she felt herself coming undone. "Fuck you!" she yelled. "Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you! You fucking shit-fucking fucker! This shit is why I fucked someone else behind your fucking back! If it weren't for Tad, we'd be so fucking over so fucking quick! You don't love me – you never have! – and I sure as hell don't love you!" It was getting harder to breathe. "You fucking suck! I hate you!"

"*Beep* I'm sorry, but the mailbox for this subscriber is full."

"Fuck!" She threw the phone onto the passenger seat. It bounced, hit the wall, then settled face up. The screen illuminated the car interior, but she didn't notice. There were other things on her mind – and her mind was burning. She felt like she was being constricted, like the frame of the car was closing in on her, like the dress was consuming her, like the world was collapsing on her.

She kicked off her shoes and wiggled her toes. That feels good. She started pulling at her dress next. Desperate and panicked, she tugged at the shoulder band, but her mind was in such a haze, she couldn't figure out why it wasn't coming off. The more she struggled, the worse it became and the more the midnight blue dress devoured her.

In a bid for an anchor, she flung her hand to the passenger seat and retrieved her phone. With shaky hands, she dialed him again. And again, voicemail. "Chad? Baby? I'm sorry, okay?" Her voice teetered on the edge of sanity.  "I'm sorry about what I said. I'm sorry I went behind your back and I'm sorry I insulted you. Okay?" She sniffled and wiped her nose with the back of her hand. "I promise I'll be better. I promise I'll be good. Just come get me… Please?"

But she knew he would never hear the message. She knew he wasn't coming. She stared at the phone as the automated voice reminded her again that nothing she said would ever reach Chad's ears.

As the automated message ended and the call disconnected, she started to laugh. Interspersed with her tears came bitter-tasting chortles and cackles. She wasn't sure why she was laughing, but she couldn't help it. She tossed the phone aside and focused on surviving the night. She had to survive being eaten alive and constricted by… What was constricting her? Oh, right. Everything. She arched her back in an attempt to get above the atmosphere choking her, but the car's lap belt restrained her. She unfastened the belt with sweaty hands. It only provided a moment of clarity.

There was no one else. She was not okay and there was no one else. 

Trixie wailed and threw herself back against her seat, thrashing violently. She scratched at her skin, gnashed at the air, and pulled at her clothes. Her fingers found the lip of the dress' shoulder band and she yanked it down, snapping the clasp of her bra in the process. Her breasts spilled out over the fabric and she felt like her lungs could expand fully for the first time that night. She took a gulp of air as if she had been deepsea diving and finally surfaced but she still felt the deficit. The more she gulped, the less she had. And the sobbing didn't help things any. It was unseemly, undignified.

She grasped at herself, pawing at her exposed breasts as her other hand tore at her dress. She finally recognized what was happening to her, what she was going through.

Please, she thought between gasps for air. Somebody. Anybody. But there was nobody. She was Trixie Tang, one of the most popular girls in Dimmsdale. Everyone wanted to be her. Everyone wanted her. She was always the center of attention, the center of affection. Everyone was always nice to her. So why was she in her car, drowning on land, alone? Why was she always alone? Where was her entourage? Where were her friends? Why was there no one she could call on for help?

No, not alone. The thought was fragmented, as if her very mind was gasping above ethereal waves. There is someone. 

She grabbed her phone with one hand even as her other hand fought her dress. She struggled to catch her breath as she scrolled her contacts and came to rest on one entry: Empty Bus Seat.

But with you I matter, with you I'm enough. To you, I'm your princess no matter my mess. You treat me as me. I love you, Pinkcrush.

The closing lines of her poem played through her mind and for the first time, she felt a sense of calm even as she continued to choke on her sobs. She quickly tapped the contact and his phone number was prominently displayed along with a picture she'd snuck of him during Chemistry class. The hand that had been yanking at her clothes stilled itself and started stroking her inner thigh.

The softer touch reminded her of him. His care, his tenderness, and the way he seemed to actually be concerned with her well-being. She remembered the way he looked at her as she reclined on his bed. She wasn't some prize to him but his dream girl, and he looked on her with reverence and sincerity.

As she thought about him, she allowed her free hand to rove her body. It was as if it had a mind of its own. It started with her breasts, massaging them gently, and then slowly worked its way back down her body to her thighs. With a hiss, she closed her eyes and felt herself up through the expensive dress, rubbing and groping her sex through the layers of fabric.

Behind her eyes she could see him so clearly. The way his smile never seemed forced. The way his laugh lightened her spirits. The way he carried himself with a quiet, understated confidence. Each memory was like an anchor, holding her steady amid the storm. And with each anchor, her touch became lighter and calmer. The fog began to lift and sense started to return. She knew what she was doing was wrong, that at any moment someone else could leave the dinner early and stumble across her, half dressed and touching herself, but she didn't care. All she could think of right now was the fantasy.

Perhaps he was already on his way? Perhaps somehow he knew she was in distress and completely alone. She imagined him as a firefighter coming to her rescue, throwing open the car door and scooping her out of the burning wreckage of her life. At the mere thought, her hand found its way past the all fabric between her legs and graced her skin. She shivered as a finger dipped inside.

Then she stopped. She was getting ahead of herself. There was no way he could know she was in danger. Not if she didn't call. The onus was on her. She opened her eyes and stared at the screen. Her one hand's thumb hovered over the dial icon as the other hand's middle finger stroked her inner walls.

The heaviness on her chest returned. Her breath grew laborious again. All she had to do was tap the green circle. Her thumb wavered. 

You can't do it.

There was no more than a millimeter of space between her thumb and the screen. All she had to do was cross the distance.

You can't do it.

Just one tap and it would be done. The phone would ring, the call would connect, and Turner would save her.

You don't deserve that.

"Why?"

Her hoarse question was answered with a chilling memory. A memory of unnecessary, uncalled for violence. A memory of Turner staggering back from her with a look of devastation on his face. A memory of a stinging palm –  of the hand that now so gingerly delivered pleasure to her most intimate area betraying her in juvenile desperation.

. I… didn't mean it… 

The fingers inside her curled sharply. She winced.

"I do not like you, Timmy Turner." She steps back from him, an emotionless expression on her face. "I barely tolerate your existence."

That's not what I—

"We?" She stood opposite him, cooly taking in his crestfallen face. "There is no 'we', there never was a 'we' and there never will be a 'we'."

Trixie choked on a sob as terrible memories surged forth. Please! You have to understand— The slap played in her mind over and over again and she saw the hurt in his eyes so clearly each time. The fingers in her pussy picked up the pace, sabotaging her attempts to steady her breath. Her other hand, still holding the phone, trembled as she stared at his profile picture; a stolen image rather than a consensual photo. She gasped for air.

"We are nothing, Empty Bus Seat." Her voice is sharp and definitive. "You are nothing. You have and will always be nothing."

She tried to find something to hold on to, but the anchors she'd put in place earlier were fading fast. Her fingers worked double time under her dress, but the pleasure wasn't as sweet as moments earlier nor was it as calming. Instead, it only made her feel worse. Dirtier.

She bit her lip and gyrated in her seat as she replayed more forbidden memories. His embarrassed expression as they stumbled out of the janitor's closet. The look on his face as they stood face to face while he painted her underside against the lockers. His cute, nervous look when she met him at the water fountain. The determined grimace on his face as he saved Noah and Micah from certain tragedy.

The look on his face after you hit him.

The hand working her crotch slowed to a crawl as cold reality shattered her fantasy and took its place. All the anchors were cut loose as every memory evaporated but one: the aftermath of her violent outburst. The look of forgiveness he gave her even as his cheek turned red. He loved her. Through all the lies, insults, and even assault she'd put him through, he still loved her.

You don't deserve him.

Trixie let out a mournful cry. The itching returned with a vengeance. She dropped her phone as if it had burned her and sobs began anew. Her hands roved her body again, but this time, they didn't even feel like hers. Instead, they felt foreign and vindictive. Nails scraped at skin and palms pushed roughly into flesh. A hand found her breast and grabbed it so hard she was afraid it would be torn off.

Her other hand was already back between her legs and yanking on every bit of cloth guarding her sex. It pulled recklessly at her panty and ripped it aside. The sound of the $200 fabric tearing barely registered as two fingers dove inside and started repeatedly ramming her moist hole.

She writhed and twisted in the driver's seat, peppering her sobs and moans with curses and apologies. She pulled at her nipples, dug her nails into her chest, slammed her palm against her clit so hard that she felt as if she'd vomit. But she couldn't stop. It was all she could feel. Her expensively manicured nails scraped inside of her. She smushed her breasts together, hard, and bucked as the fingers in her crotch jabbed an exceptionally sensitive spot. As she slammed back into her car seat, she caught her reflection in the rearview mirror.

Gone was the glamorous and untouchable Trixie Tang and in her place was a disheveled mess of a person she could barely recognize. Her face contorted with hatred for her image, even if it accurately reflected how she felt inside.

"Fuck you!" she screamed at her reflection. "Fuck you, you piece of ruinous shit! You contemptible quim!" She scratched and pulled harder at her breasts and rammed her pussy more harshly than she ever had before as she let out all of her pressure. "You ruin fucking everything!"

Her face was streaked with tears, her sex was going numb, her hair was a wild nest of black, and her breasts were throbbing. She was in pain but she didn't dare let up. The pain was real. The pain was good. The pain was deserved.

As she rammed her fingers harder and deeper into herself, she could almost picture him arriving, even now. If she did call, he would no doubt answer, right? He'd come to her immediately, no matter their history. That's who he was. Or was that just what she wanted to believe of him?

She imagined again of him coming across her car, but rather than ripping open the door and saving her, carrying her away like some princess; instead, she believed he'd finally see her for what she was: a vile and reprehensible person undeserving of his forgiveness and compassion. He'd look down on her from outside the window and see her debasing herself in public on the side of the road and finally understand that she was not his dream girl: she was a nightmare.

She could almost hear his condemnations now.

You're such a bitch. Turning tricks is all you're good for.

Her eyes ached. Her vision was blurry from exhaustion as much as from bawling. "Please," she croaked out the window at the hallucination in pink judging her.

I don't know what I ever saw in you.

"But I love…" she tried to plead with the conjured Turner.

You don't deserve love. You don't even know how to love.

You disgust me.

Her hands continued to ravage her body even as her mind screamed for the torment to end. She felt something building within her. Some sort of pressure in her gut and groin. She recognized it and yet it felt so alien in this context, so unwelcomed.

"But I love you, Timmy Turner..." she finally managed the words out just as an involuntary spasm took over her body. Her hand shot from her breast, leaving nail marks behind, to the window for stabilization, her palm striking the tempered glass so hard, a crack lanced out from the impact. Her other hand pressed firmly into her pussy even as her walls constricted around her fingers trying to force them out and her hips shot forward.

Trixie let out a prolonged animalistic screech and squirted as the drug-like high of ecstasy mixed with self-hatred peaked. Not even a second later, urine streaked out from between her legs as she lost control of her bladder. The pee she'd been holding since her unfortunate bathroom encounter was released. Her hand fled from her genitals as piss sprayed out, striking the steering wheel and dashboard, and soiling the one-of-a-kind dress.

Her limbs unlocked and she dropped back to her seat roughly, a sopping, sobbing mess. The luxury car smelled of sex, piss, blood, and shame, and she felt about the same. Her vision flickered in and out and finally the sobbing. Trixie's hand dropped from the cracked window to her side as a weariness like no other set in. She looked at her other hand coated in juices and pee, and could feel urine trickling out from her like a dying hose as her bladder finished emptying itself.

Coated in her own filth, anyone would have described her state as desecrated, but she knew the truth. She was never divine to begin with. At least now the outside matched the inside.

Her head rolled to her shoulder. Her phone rested on the center console face up. The harsh screen was still on with Turner's contact info still prominently displayed. The green dialing icon taunted her. Just one tap and she could have escaped this. It would have been easy. Even now, perhaps. Just one tap and he would come running. He'd find her broken and help put her back together. He'd make her feel beautiful.

But she didn't deserve that.

I love you, Timothy Turner. I'm sorry.

She managed enough energy to flip the phone over, extinguishing the light. This was the life she earned. This was the life she deserved. She panted, slow and thirsty, as she lay on the seat with her breasts out and legs spread. Her torn panty was crumpled under her bare foot and her dress was beyond the point of salvage. Exposed and filthy, she sighed a shuddering and hollow sigh as if giving up the ghost. Her heavy, unfocused eyes rolled back in her skull as the world faded to black.