Blue out of the Blue

The three drunk heads dragged one another out of the restaurant, swaying dangerously as they clutched balloons and the boxes they had brought along. One of those boxes held the cake—perfectly packed, untouched. Balancing themselves was hard enough, let alone the things in their hands, and Ashley, the only one without anything to carry, dramatically placed a hand over her eyes like a pirate searching for enemy ships in the middle of the ocean.

"I could have sworn I saw a bunch of luxury cars right over there!" She pointed ahead with exaggerated enthusiasm.

"Let's just go home. It's getting late, and I don't wanna do this," Sara muttered, rubbing her stomach slightly. It wasn't that she hated stupid ideas like this, but something about tonight felt off—an ominous feeling creeping under her skin.

Ashley didn't listen. Of course, she didn't. Instead, she grabbed Sara's arm—the same arm holding the towering two-foot cake—and yanked her forward.

"Okay! But let me put this down somewhere first!" Sara protested, struggling to keep the cake from toppling over.

Ashley finally noticed the box in her hand and nodded. "Oh, sure." She grabbed it from Sara and carried it as they stumbled forward.

A few paces ahead, they reached a small park-like space with a couple of benches. Ashley instantly placed the cake box down on one of them, then hurriedly rummaged through her bag, which was slung around her neck. A moment later, she pulled out a handful of lipsticks and shoved them at her friends.

"Come on!" she grinned mischievously, already turning on her heels and marching toward the street.

The other two followed, though Jenny seemed like she was sleepwalking—her head bobbing slightly, eyes barely open.

Just a few steps away, it was as if they'd stumbled into a different world. A heaven of sleek, lavish cars stretched before them, the brand names practically slapping them in the face. The metallic shine of the polished exteriors reflected the neon lights from the nearby club, making their drunken eyes squint against the overwhelming grandeur.

"Wow," Sara breathed, momentarily taken aback.

"I know, right?" Ashley said, puffing up with pride as if she personally owned all of them. "I'll get you a boyfriend from here. I got Liam from here too."

Her voice cracked slightly at the mention of his name, but she shook it off and strutted toward a White Mercedes like she was about to claim it as her own.

Without hesitation, she propped her foot onto the tire, balancing herself gracefully (or at least, she thought it was graceful). Then, in one swift motion, she planted a loud, dramatic kiss on the windshield before smearing lipstick all over the glass.

Not stopping there, she carefully began writing Sara's number across the windshield in bold, messy strokes.

Despite being drunk, Ashley's coordination was oddly impressive. She remembered Sara's number perfectly, scrawling it repeatedly like an advertisement on a public restroom wall.

"Okay! Done!" She clapped her hands together like a proud artist finishing a masterpiece. "Now it's your turn."

She turned to Sara and Jenny with a wicked grin.

"Pick a car you like and write on it. Both of you, hurry!"

Sara bit her lip, scanning the parking lot. Her vision swam slightly, the lights blurring together in a dizzying haze. This is stupid, she thought.

"I don't need a husband, Ashley. I'm just doing this for fun, okay?" Sara insisted, trying to maintain some dignity in this ridiculous situation.

Ashley didn't bother responding. She had already moved on, nudging Jenny, who looked like she was asleep while standing upright.

Sara's gaze drifted over the sea of luxury cars, their polished exteriors gleaming under the streetlights. But in the midst of all that extravagance, her eyes locked onto one—a sleek, deep-black car sitting further away, its presence almost ominous in the dim glow of the lot.

"Hmm," she muttered under her breath. Something about it caught her attention, but a lingering hesitation gnawed at her.

For a moment, she wavered. Should she?

Then, with a tipsy shrug, she shoved the reluctance into the backseat of her mind and sauntered forward, pulling the lid off the lipstick with a soft pop. Leaning over the cool, pristine surface of the car, she pressed the tip of the lipstick against the windshield and began scrawling her number in messy, drunken strokes.

She was just two numbers short of finishing when—

Her wrist was yanked.

Hard.

So hard that for a split second, it felt like her stomach had dropped to the floor.

A sharp gasp left her lips as she stumbled, barely catching her breath before her back slammed against the cold, unyielding surface of the car. A searing pain jolted up her wrist where fingers—strong, unrelenting—dug into her skin like a steel vice.

Her drunken haze vanished instantly, replaced by a jarring, electric awareness. Her heart pounded violently in her chest as her wide, stunned eyes finally met the man who had dared to seize her.

Black eyes.

Dark and depthless, swallowing the light around them.

His thick brows twitched, his chiseled jaw clenched so tight that the sharp angles of his face became razor-like. Every part of him radiated anger. No—rage. A smoldering fury that crackled in the air between them.

Sara's breath hitched as the scent of something potent—rich, dark, intoxicating—invaded her senses, sinking deep into her lungs. Her fingers trembled against the glossy car, her knees weak beneath her.

She needed to say something. Anything.

Maybe an apology. Maybe she should wipe the lipstick off. Maybe she should just run.

But her mind went blank.

Completely, utterly blank.

All she could register was the sheer force of his presence—the overwhelming power pressing down on her, suffocating, paralyzing. His grip on her wrist was unforgiving, his gaze unreadable, and for the first time that night, she wanted to cry.

This man wasn't just angry. He was dangerous.

His jaw was tight, sharp enough to cut glass, lips curled in something that wasn't quite anger but far worse—contempt.

"Filthy."

The word punched through the ringing in her ears. Sara blinked, her mind lagging, struggling to keep up.

'What?' Sara thought trying hard to make her mind process what just happened. 

Her lips parted, but before she could find her voice, his fingers tightened around her wrist, pressing down just enough to make her whimper.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" His voice was low, venomous, each word deliberate, like he was holding back something far worse.

Sara's breath hitched. 'No! I need to apologise! I-' 

She could still hear Ashley in the distance, giggling, Jenny egging her on as they defiled another car with lipstick and ridiculous hearts. But this was different. This wasn't funny. This wasn't some reckless joke.

Sara wasn't laughing.

"Who gave you the right to touch my things?"

Her stomach twisted. Her pulse was a chaotic mess in her chest, erratic and fearful, but her drunken haze made everything feel sluggish, like she wasn't quite inside her own body.

"I—I was just—"

"You were just what?" He cut her off, voice dripping with pure disgust.

Sara tried to swallow, but her throat was sandpaper dry.

And then—

"Whoring yourself out in the hopes I'd take notice?"

Her mind blanked. "Toooooooooot" As is a nerve was flipped in her ear and it started ringing after that. Her entire body blanked.

Did—

Did she hear that right?

His lips curled, a twisted mockery of amusement flickering across his face.

"Is that how desperate you are? You think scrawling your number on my windshield will make me so weak in the knees that I'll come running after you?"

Sara's nerves shattered.

She was drunk. Yes. But not that drunk.

Not drunk enough to hallucinate the sheer filth spilling from this man's mouth.

"No—" she tried, shaking her head, desperately grasping onto something, anything, but the ground beneath her felt like it was crumbling.

"Pathetic," he spat, and then—he leaned in.

Too close.

So close that his breath brushed against her skin, suffocating her in the overwhelming mix of cologne and cruelty.

"If this is how the call girl business operates now, they must be in dire need to have hired someone like you."

Sara stopped breathing.

Her body. Her brain. Her very existence.

Gone.

She felt her lips tremble, but no words came out. Nothing.

Her pulse throbbed in her skull, dizzying and painful, her knees weak beneath the weight of his words.

His eyes flicked over her—slow, derisive. As if she were something revolting.

"Ugly. Cheap. An eyesore."

What kind of insane fever dream had she stumbled into?

"If you were the last woman alive, naked and begging on the street, I'd rather rot than touch you."

The world crashed around her.

And then—

He shoved her.

Hard.

Her balance gave out instantly, her feet stumbling over themselves as she tumbled—sprawling onto the pavement like nothing more than discarded trash.

Her hands scraped against the concrete, pain stinging as tiny pebbles bit into her skin.

Her breath was a mess. A disaster.

What just—

What just happened?

Her mind spun, her nerves a mangled wreck, but when she looked up—he was already walking away.

Not just walking. Leaving.

Like she was nothing. And then— He pulled out a pack of tissues.

Sara watched—stunned, horrified, unable to look away—as he aggressively wiped his hands. As if she had tainted him.

And then—

The tissues.

Crushed. Tossed.

At her feet.

Her lungs froze, her blood ran cold, and all she could do was stare as the car door slammed shut.

And then—

A sharp rev of the engine.

Gone.

Just like that.

Sara sat there, knees scraped, heart in shambles, the smear of her lipstick staining her trembling fingers. The cold pavement bit into her palms, but she barely felt it—her entire body was numb, her mind spinning in slow motion.

"Sara!"

Ashley's voice rang through the night, light and carefree, the sound of someone untouched by the horrors of the last few minutes. She came stumbling closer, giggling as if the world were a dream she hadn't yet woken up from.

"Guess what?" Ashley beamed, oblivious. "Liam called! He's coming to pick me up! Jenny already left. Do you want me to drop you off?"

Sara didn't move. She didn't even look up.

Ashley frowned, finally noticing her crumpled form on the ground. "Tsk! What are you doing down there? Get up!" She huffed, bending to grab Sara's arm.

Sara barely reacted, her body sluggish, like she was moving through thick fog. Ashley sighed and dusted off her dress, pulling her along toward the park as if she were nothing more than a stubborn child who had tripped.

"Liam said he was sorry, and we patched things up again," Ashley gushed, her words slurring slightly as she let out a silly, drunken laugh. "Oh! There he is!"

She suddenly let go of Sara's arm and sprinted toward a tall figure in the distance. The man—blond hair, blue eyes, the very picture of a typical playboy—barely had time to react before Ashley threw herself at him, arms locked around his neck as she kissed him with wild abandon.

Sara just stood there.

Her breath felt trapped somewhere in her throat, like if she let it out, everything inside her would spill out too—her shame, her pain, the wreckage of her pride.

She turned stiffly, walking back toward the bench where they had left their things. Slowly, she sat down, her scraped wrists resting limply on her lap. The raw skin burned, but it was nothing compared to the ache swelling in her chest.

She wanted to cry.

But no tears came.