Chapter 6: Neon Confessions
The silence at their table stretched, thick and surreal against the pounding bass from the dance floor. Tiffany’s hand remained over Ebony’s, her scales now a soft, pulsing mauve. Nicole placed her martini glass down with a deliberate click on the polished table.
“‘Deserves good’,” Nicole repeated, her voice a low murmur that cut through the music. “And what does that make you, Ebony? The opposite?”
“Nic,” Tiffany hissed, a flash of protective gold rippling across her shoulders.
“No, it’s a real question.” Nicole’s amber eyes were fixed on Ebony, sharp and unflinching. “You’re sitting here, stinking of cheap cologne and regret, and you’re already writing yourself out of his story. Why?”
Ebony pulled her hand back from Tiffany’s, wrapping both around her whiskey glass. The cool surface grounded her. “Because I’m realistic. Look at me. I just got fucked in a van for three hundred dollars. My last relationship ended with a black eye and a stolen TV. I work at Dante’s Inferno Pizza. My portfolio is trauma and poor decisions. Tyler… he has books. He has a sink that doesn’t drip. He has a rug.”
“So?” Tiffany leaned in, her voice fierce. “You think a nice rug is a personality? You think he’s never done shit he regrets? Everyone in this city has a stain somewhere, Ebs.”
“This isn’t a stain, Tiff. It’s the whole fucking fabric.” Ebony gestured vaguely at herself. The motion felt jagged. “He’s… normal. Stable. I’d bleed on that rug. I’d track in whatever the hell Jake is all over it.”
Nicole’s tail gave a single, slow flick. “Let’s table the rug discourse.” She sipped her drink, her gaze calculating. “You said you could see it. Being together. Describe that. Not the aftercare, not the sex. The mundane part.”
Ebony stared into her whiskey. The image came, unbidden and painfully vivid. “Waking up. And not having to calculate how to leave first. Maybe making coffee. Not talking. Just… existing in the same quiet space without it being a negotiation.” She swallowed. “Watching one of his boring nature documentaries and actually giving a shit about the meerkats.”
Tiffany’s eyes glistened. Her skin had settled into a warm, rose-pink.
Nicole nodded, once. “Okay. That’s a specific and mildly pathetic fantasy. But it’s yours.” She leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Here’s the thing you’re missing, kitten. This city eats ‘normal’ for breakfast. That stability you’re jerking off over? It’s fragile. Everyone is two bad days from being just like us. Maybe he needs someone who knows how to navigate the dark, not someone who’s afraid of shadowing his nice rug.”
The perspective was so quintessentially Nicole that Ebony almost laughed. She’d framed survival as an asset.
“She’s not entirely wrong,” Tiffany said, thoughtfully swirling her vibrant cocktail. “You’re street-smart. You’re resilient. That’s valuable. Maybe he sees that. Maybe the… transactional stuff… is just a job. It doesn’t have to be who you are.”
“It’s my rent, Tiffany,” Ebony said flatly. “It defines the hours I keep, the smell on my skin, the way I have to think. You can’t compartmentalize that into a neat little box.”
“So change the compartment,” Nicole said with a shrug. “If this guy sparks something, see where it goes. But do it with your eyes open. Don’t put him on a pedestal because he owns a washcloth. And for fuck’s sake, stop taking van gigs. They’re terrible for your posture and your aura.”
A reluctant smile tugged at Ebony’s lips. The weight in her chest hadn’t vanished, but it had shifted, become something she could maybe carry.
“Easy for you to say,” Ebony muttered. “Your side-hustles come with champagne towers and penthouse views.”
“And silicone-fed egos and a truly alarming fascination with my tail,” Nicole countered smoothly. “We all have our compromises. The goal is to upgrade them.”
Tiffany flagged down a server and ordered another round for the table. The moment of raw intensity was passing, smoothing back into their usual rhythm of shared survival.
“So,” Tiffany said, as fresh glasses appeared. “Practical next steps. You have his number?”
Ebony nodded.
“Text him. Not tonight. You smell like a locker room and regret. Tomorrow. Say thanks for the tea. Keep it light. See if he bites.”
“And if he does?” Ebony asked, the hope in her voice frighteningly small and quiet.
Nicole answered, her tone matter-of-fact. “Then you go on a date. Somewhere public. You assess if he’s a secret weirdo who collects toenails or if the calm is real. And you let him pay, because if he’s as ‘domestically competent’ as we’re hypothesizing, he’ll want to.”
“And you tell us everything after,” Tiffany added, pointing a glitter-tipped finger. “Every detail. We’re your council.”
The music swelled, a new track with a throbbing, insistent beat. The lights swept over their booth, painting their faces in flashes of cyan and magenta. For a second, they looked like anyone else—three friends out for drinks, caught in a colorful, chaotic moment.
Ebony finished her second whiskey. The numbness from Jake was receding, replaced by a sore but clean fatigue. And something else, small and tentative, that felt like possibility.
“Okay,” she said, the word barely audible but solid. “Okay, I’ll text him tomorrow.”
Tiffany beamed, her skin flashing a triumphant, shimmering gold. Nicole gave a slow, approving nod.
“Good,” Nicole said. “Now, since we’ve successfully navigated your existential crisis, I need to go charm a liquor distributor who thinks his money makes him interesting. Try not to acquire any new trauma on the way home.”
She slid out of the booth with effortless grace, her tail swaying behind her. Tiffany watched her go, then turned back to Ebony.
“She’s right, you know. About you being strong. Don’t forget that part.” Tiffany’s expression softened. “Want to crash at mine? My couch is a guaranteed glitter-free zone. Mostly.”
Ebony thought of her own quiet, dark apartment. The silence there felt heavy now, accusatory. The buzz of Tiffany’s constant, colorful energy was a welcome antidote.
“Yeah,” Ebony said, standing up. Her legs held her. “Glitter-free sounds like a fucking miracle.”
They left La Rosa’s, the club’s bass fading into the hum of the city night. The air outside was cooler now, washing over Ebony’s heated skin. As they walked, Tiffany linked her arm through Ebony’s, a solid, warm presence.
The cracked screen of Ebony’s phone glowed in her pocket, a reminder of the world waiting. But for now, she pushed it deeper, focusing on the sound of their footsteps on the pavement, the distant wail of a siren, the simple, uncomplicated truth of having a friend who offered a couch and believed, fiercely, in your worth. The night ahead was just a night. The text to Tyler was a tomorrow problem.
For the first time since she’d climbed out of Jake’s van, her next breath didn’t taste like exhaust. It tasted like cold air and city grime and a sliver of something that, if she squinted, could almost be hope.
The hope felt thin, a filament stretched taut against the weight of the walk-up. Their apartment door stuck, as always, needing a shoulder shove against the warped frame. Inside, the air was still and carried the ghost of last night's incense and microwave noodles.
"God, my feet are staging a revolt," Tiffany groaned, kicking off her glittering heels right inside the threshold. They skittered across the scratched laminate. "I'm showering. This club glitter is structural at this point, but I'm reclaiming my skin."
She disappeared down the short hall, the bathroom door clicking shut a moment before the pipes groaned to life. Nicole, moving with a silent, fox-like grace born of expensive vodka and sheer will, merely offered a tired wave. She retreated into her bedroom, the door closing with a definitive softness.
Ebony toed off her own boots, the leather stained with alley grime. She left them by the door, a familiar sentinel. The silence of the living room wrapped around her, different from Tyler's calm quiet. This was the quiet of drained batteries, of spent energy. She flopped onto the second-hand couch, a cloud of dust motes dancing in the dim light from the streetlamp outside.
The cushions exhaled a familiar scent of stale fabric and their combined lives. She stared at the water stain on the ceiling, shaped vaguely like Domino City itself. Her body felt heavy, a collection of aches and residues—from Jake, from the walk, from the whiskey.
Tiffany emerged sooner than expected, wrapped in a fluffy robe, her skin scrubbed to its usual, calm beige. Damp hair was piled on her head. She padded into the kitchen and opened the fridge, the light casting a sickly rectangle on the floor.
“So,” Tiffany called out, her voice echoing slightly in the cheap space. “Oh hey, how is our situation with the landlord?” The fridge door shut, plunging them back into near-darkness. She walked back into the living room, a water bottle in hand. “We can still pay half because of your… ‘special’ arrangements?”
Ebony sighed, the sound loud in the quiet room. She let her head fall back against the couch, eyes still on the ceiling stain. The temporary lift from the club was gone, evaporated like cheap perfume. The math was always waiting. The reality of their living room, with its mismatched furniture and lingering damp smell, was a stark contract she hadn’t signed but was bound to.
She didn’t look at Tiffany. “Yeah. The special arrangements.” Her voice was flat. “I’ve got my half. Jake covered it. Literally.”