Chapter 4: The Invitation
Ethan approached like a man walking to his own execution, his shoulders hunched, the borrowed confidence of the convertible utterly absent in the close, intimate gloom of the corner. He stopped a few feet from the table, his eyes—a pale, watery blue—darting from Maryshka’s knowing smirk to Enya’s composed, watchful face, then to Leo’s lazy sprawl.
“This is Ethan,” Leo said, his voice layered with amusement. He didn’t gesture. “Ethan, this is Enya and Maryshka. They liked your car.”
“Hi,” Ethan managed. The word cracked. He shoved his hands deeper into the pockets of his chinos.
“Sit,” Maryshka said. It wasn’t an invitation. It was an instruction, smooth as poured oil. She nudged the fourth stool out with her boot. “You look like you need a drink.”
Ethan shuffled forward and lowered himself onto the stool, the wood creaking. He was wedged now between Enya and the cold brick wall, a trapped animal sensing the circle of predators. Maryshka reached for the half-empty bottle of whiskey—the same one from before, its label smudged with fingerprints. She poured two fingers into a clean-ish glass and slid it across the scarred wood. It stopped an inch from his hand.
“For your nerves,” she said, her smile not reaching her eyes.
Ethan stared at the amber liquid. He picked it up with a trembling hand and took a gulping sip, coughing as it burned its way down.
“So,” Leo drawled, leaning back to observe. “Ethan’s a first-year. Economics, right? Thinks leverage is something you use on a balance sheet.” He chuckled at his own joke.
Ethan nodded, mute. His gaze flicked to Enya, who hadn’t spoken yet. She was studying him with a painter’s eye—the patchy stubble on his jaw, the inflamed red clusters of acne across his cheeks, the way his Adam’s apple bobbed nervously above his collar. There was a rawness to him, an unvarnished vulnerability that was the polar opposite of Leo’s crafted ease. She felt a confusing twist in her gut: pity, distaste, and beneath it, a dark, pact-fueled curiosity.
Maryshka’s hand disappeared under the table. Enya felt Leo shift slightly beside her, a quick intake of breath. Maryshka was touching him, a private signal.
“You know,” Maryshka said, her attention locking back on Ethan, “we were just talking about convertibles. The feeling of the open air. It’s… freeing.”
“It’s rented,” Ethan blurted out, then flushed a deeper crimson, as if admitting a crime.
“That’s honest,” Enya said, speaking for the first time. Her voice was quieter, calmer than Maryshka’s. It seemed to startle him more. “Most guys would lie.”
He looked at her, really looked, and some of the terror in his eyes softened into something like awe. “It’s a BMW Z4,” he said, a fragment of pride breaking through. “Two-liter turbo. Got it for the weekend.”
“Must be fun to drive,” Enya mused, tracing the rim of her own empty glass. “Fast.”
“I haven’t… I haven’t really opened it up yet. City streets, you know?”
“What a waste,” Maryshka sighed, theatrical. She turned her head, her lips close to Leo’s ear, but she spoke loud enough for all to hear. “Baby, I’m feeling a bit lightheaded. Walk me to get some air? Just for a minute.”
Leo’s eyes sparkled with understanding. He stood up, pushing his stool back. “Sure thing. You kids hold the fort.” He dropped a wink that was meant for Enya and Maryshka alone, then guided Maryshka up by the elbow. They melted into the crowd, leaving a sudden, pressurized silence in their wake.
Ethan stared after them, then at the abandoned drinks, then at Enya. He was panicking. “I should… maybe I should go too.”
“Why?” Enya asked. She turned on her stool to face him fully, her knee accidentally brushing his. He flinched. “You just got here. And your drink’s still full.”
“I don’t… I’m not really good at…” He gestured vaguely at the table, the darkness, her.
“Talking?” she offered.
“This,” he said, his voice small.
Enya leaned in slightly. The flickering string light caught the dark waves of her hair, the smooth line of her shoulder.
The flickering string light caught the dark waves of her hair, the smooth line of her shoulder. A new song bled from the main room, a slow, grinding synth-pop ballad that replaced the frantic energy with something thicker, more deliberate.
“I’m not great at this either,” Enya said, her voice almost lost in the bassline. She nodded toward the dance floor visible beyond the arch. “But the music changed. It’s easier now.”
Ethan followed her gaze, his throat working. “I don’t really dance.”
“Nobody does,” she said, and stood up. The movement was fluid, inevitable. She extended her hand, palm up, in the space between them. It wasn’t a question. “Come on. It’s just moving.”
He stared at her hand as if it were a live wire. His own, when he finally placed it in hers, was damp and surprisingly cool. She pulled him up, feeling the reluctant weight of his body. He towered over her, all clumsy limbs and sharp angles, but he folded in on himself, making his presence smaller.
She led him through the crowd, which parted for them with a different kind of interest now. They reached a less congested patch near the wall where other couples swayed, glued together. Enya turned and stepped into him, closing the gap. Her body fit against his lean frame, her forehead level with his chin.
His whole body went rigid. Her knee, as they began a simple side-to-side sway, brushed casually against the outer seam of his trousers. He jerked at the contact.
“Relax,” she whispered near his collar. She could smell cheap deodorant and the sour tang of his anxiety. “It’s just a dance.”
One of his hands, damp and trembling, held hers in a weak clasp. His other hand settled on her back, its placement painfully correct, right at the waistline of her skirt. It lay there like a dead thing, not moving an inch, its pressure timid and unsure.
Enya rested her cheek against his chest, feeling the frantic rabbit-thump of his heart through his thin shirt. She thought of Leo’s hands, how they had claimed skin without hesitation, how his would already be on her ass, pulling her tighter into the rhythm. This was different. This was work.
But the alcohol was drying up inside her, leaving a crystalline clarity. Leo’s audacity, which had felt like freedom an hour ago, now seemed like its own kind of performance. This boy’s terror was real. His naivety was a blank canvas. It was, in its own pathetic way, better. More usable.
She guided his dead hand on her back an inch lower. His fingers twitched but didn’t resist. “You can hold on,” she said into his shirt.
“Sorry,” he breathed, the word a puff of air against her hair. “I’m just… I didn’t expect… you.”
“What did you expect?”
“Nothing. No one. To just… have the car seen.”
She leaned back just enough to look up at him. The colored lights slid over his inflamed skin, the desperate hope in his eyes. It was the look of someone who had been invisible for so long that any attention, even this calculated, pitying kind, felt like salvation.
The song swelled, a mournful electronic cry. She stretched up, bringing her lips close to his ear. Her breath touched his skin. “The night’s still young. ”
They returned to their table, the velvet runner feeling tacky under Enya’s palms as she sat. The whiskey bottle stood sentinel between them, a cheap prop in a play she was already tired of performing.
Ethan, fueled by the dance and the nearness of her, tried to regain his footing. He knocked back the rest of his drink in one go, the liquid courage making his eyes water. “So, this one time,” he began, forcing a chuckle that sounded like a cough, “I was driving up the coast, right? And this Porsche decides he wants to race.”
He launched into a story, his hands sketching vague shapes in the air. It involved impossible speeds, sharp curves he took like a pro, and a finish line he somehow won. The details shifted as he spoke—the color of the other car, the cliffside road, the reason for the race. He was building it on the go, each sentence a frantic attempt to construct a person she might want.
Enya nodded, sipping the warm dregs of her own glass. She was starting to get bored but tried to hide it behind a small, attentive smile. She looked at him, really looked, as he leaned forward, his acne glowing red under the string lights. He wasn’t really even pretty. The boyish features were buried under inflamed skin and that desperate, searching expression. His lack of confidence was a tangible thing, a scent he was trying to mask with all that fabricated bravado.
A raw, sudden image flashed behind her eyes: Maryshka, right now, somewhere in a back hallway or a locked bathroom. Leo’s hands, those knowing musician’s hands, pushing her against a wall. Maryshka’ throaty laugh turning into a gasp. Envy, sharp and hot, twisted in Enya’s gut. There was nothing about Ethan except his naivety, a hollow vessel for her pact.
But the pact was made. She would see it through.
“That’s wild,” Enya said, cutting into his rambling narrative about gear ratios. She tried to steer the conversation. “Do you ever paint? Or draw? Or just drive?”
He blinked, thrown. “Uh, no. I mean, I had to take an art class in high school. I drew a vase. It was okay.” He fumbled, his story-car crashing into a wall of mundane reality. “Mostly I just game. Or, you know, study.”
The silence that followed was thick. The music in the main room switched again, now a fast, percussive track that made the floorboards vibrate. It was a mercy.
“They’re playing something we can actually move to now,” Enya said, forcing brightness into her voice. “Want to go again? Just burn off that nervous energy.”
He agreed too quickly, too eagerly. This time on the dance floor was worse. The faster tempo exposed him completely. His movements were a series of stiff, disjointed jerks, all elbows and awkwardly bouncing knees. He tried to mimic the other guys around him, but his rhythm was off, a half-beat behind the pulsing synths. He looked like a marionette with tangled strings.
Enya moved around him, a smooth, contained contrast to his flailing. She was ready to give up, to invent a headache, to just walk out into the night alone. The pact felt stupid now, a childish dare that had curdled in the acid light of his incompetence.
Ethan, probably sensing he was losing the moment, the girl, the entire script of his fantasy night, stopped trying to dance. He leaned in, his shout damp with sweat and desperation. “You wanna see that convertible? For real? Maybe… maybe take it for a ride?”
She looked at his pleading face, at the pathetic hope burning there. The pact coiled tight in her chest. “Okay,” she said, the word flat. “Show me.”
The night air outside was a slap of cool relief, washing away the stench of spilled beer and collective breath. The silver BMW Z4 gleamed under a streetlight, a sleek promise. He fumbled with the key fob, unlocking it with a sharp beep that echoed in the empty street.
“You can drive if you want,” he said, holding the door open for her like a chauffeur.
“No,” Enya said, sliding into the passenger seat. The leather was cool and smooth, sighing under her weight. “I want you to drive me.”
He got in, his movements suddenly more focused. The engine turned over with a low, potent growl that didn’t match the boy who owned it. He pulled onto the empty avenue, the city lights streaking past the windshield. His hands on the wheel were different now—sure, competent. He handled the gearshift with a clean, mechanical precision.
When the city limits blurred into a dark country road, he opened it up. The car surged forward, the engine’s roar filling the quiet night, pressing Enya back into her seat. The wind whipped her hair into a dark frenzy. He took curves with a calculated smoothness, his earlier clumsiness completely gone, replaced by an unthinking, innate understanding of weight and momentum.
She watched his profile in the dash lights, the concentration that smoothed his anxious features. For several minutes, she wasn’t bored. She was just a passenger, enjoying the raw, physical thrill of speed, the purr of a well-made machine, the cold air carving through the stifling remains of the evening.
They were coming back, the glow of the city rising ahead, just a few blocks from the club’s pulsing heart. Enya’s eyes scanned the passing streets, the pact reasserting itself, the purpose returning. She saw it—a dark alley between two closed warehouses, a narrow mouth of perfect shadow.
“Here,” she said, her voice cutting through the wind. “Pull in there. Park.”
He did as she asked. He killed the engine and they sat in silence for a minute before he broke it.
"I...I know you're going to walk now," he said, staring straight ahead at the brick wall. His voice was soft, defeat already woven through it. "You don't want people seeing you with me. It's ok. I'm happy I was able to take you for a ride. Hope you've enjoyed some of it. Thank you. I'm really honored to have talked to you."
He was so honest and so eager that it broke something in her.
"Shut up," she said quietly, and kissed him.
It wasn't gentle. It was a silencing, a claiming. His lips were dry and startled, then softened, yielding completely. She kissed him more, and more, her hand cupping the rough heat of his cheek, her tongue finding his. He made a small, desperate sound in his throat, his hands rising to hover uselessly in the air before settling on her shoulders, his touch feather-light.
She leaned back in her seat, the leather creaking. Her eyes held his in the dashboard's spectral green glow as she took his right hand. She guided it under the white fabric of her skirt, past the hem of her black panties. His fingers were cold. She moved the lace aside herself and pressed his fingertips firmly to her clit.
"Just… stay there," she breathed, her voice low. "Move when I tell you."
She was controlling the motion, the speed, the force—everything, as she was sure he would fail it. But it was his fingers that were giving her pleasure. His clumsy, tentative circles, guided by the pressure of her own hand over his, began to find a rhythm.
And, in time, she actually started to feel it.
A low, building thrum began in her core, separate from her directing mind. Her breath hitched. She stopped guiding his hand and let it go, letting him continue on his own. His touch grew more confident, spurred by her sharp inhale.
She started moaning, her breath coming in sharp rags. Her head fell back against the headrest. The sensations were blunt and surprising, cutting through the clinical execution of the pact. This wasn't about Leo’s arrogant skill or the drunk’s violation. This was different. This awkward boy, with his worshipping hands, was accidentally weaving a sensation that felt real.
"Good," she gasped, the word torn from her. "Just like that. Don't stop."
With her other hand, she fumbled in the small purse at her feet. Her fingers closed around the foil square. She pulled the condom from her purse and gave it to him, ordering him to wear it.
He was stumbling with his zipper with both hands now, his left abandoning her, but finally managed to pull them down. He took out his cock, obviously incredibly hard now, and started putting on the condom in the dark.
His movements were frantic, fumbling with the wrapper. She watched, her own need a live wire now, her thighs trembling. He rolled it on, his breathing loud in the silent car.
"Now," Enya said. She didn't wait. She hit the button to recline her seat a few inches, creating a scant angle. Hiking her skirt up around her waist, she moved over him. Her knees settled on the narrow passenger seat, her body caging his in the driver's chair.
She guided him inside her, sinking down slowly. He was big, and the stretch was immediate, a sharp, grounding fullness. He cried out, a ragged, broken sound that echoed off the alley walls.
"Quiet," she whispered, her face inches from his.
She began to move, establishing a deep, rolling rhythm. His hands flew to her hips, gripping the bone there as if he were drowning. His eyes were wide, unblinking, glued to her face as she rode him. Every gasp, every flinch, was utterly transparent on his features.
Every gasp, every flinch, was utterly transparent on his features. She watched them flicker across his face like shadows from passing headlights—awe, desperation, the sheer overwhelming disbelief that this was happening.
His hips began to stutter beneath her, an involuntary, jerking response he couldn’t control.
She put a hand flat on his chest, stilling him. “Not yet,” she said, her voice low but absolute.
Keeping her weight on him, buried deep, she reached for the hem of her black crop top. Her fingers worked with a practiced, efficient motion. She didn’t take it off. She moved the structured cups of her bra to the side like she’d practiced at the mirror, and her breasts sprang free into the cool air, pale and full under Ethan’s shocked gaze.
“Oh, fuck,” he whispered, the words trembling.
She leaned forward, the movement making him sink deeper inside her, and cradled his head. She guided his face firmly between her soft breasts, the skin warm and yielding against his hot, flushed cheeks. She rocked slowly, using his body, her nipples brushing his lips and eyelashes.
Then she shifted his head slightly, her fingers tangling in his sandy hair, until his open, panting mouth found her nipple. “Suck it,” she breathed, not a request.
He wasn’t good at it. Not good at all. His mouth was clumsy, too wet, his tongue flicking uncertainly against the stiff peak. But he was honestly trying, his whole being focused on this one task, and that raw, unfiltered honesty was, against all logic, deeply arousing. A low moan escaped her, genuine this time.
His hands, which had been gripping her hips like lifelines, began to move. They slid over the curve of her ass, tentative at first, then with more pressure. He was gentle and scared, but he was still rubbing and pressing, mapping the shape of her through her skirt. The contrast was electric—the submissive worship of his mouth, the growing boldness of his hands on her rear.
She leaned back, arching her spine, without stopping the steady, deep rolls of her hips. She took one of his wandering hands and placed it squarely on her bare breast. “Squeeze,” she commanded.
His fingers tightened instantly, gripping the soft flesh as hard as he could. It was too much, almost painful, but the sheer, unmodulated force of it, the complete obedience, sent a sharp jolt to her core. She actually liked that.
“Yes,” she hissed. “Just like that.”
Emboldened, he began to move beneath her in counterpoint. He pushed up with a shallow, urgent thrust just as she was sinking down, finding a ragged, syncopated rhythm. The new angle sent sparks through her nerves. Pleasure, sharper and less clinical, began to coil tightly in her belly.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he chanted into her skin, his voice breaking.
His rhythm dissolved into a frantic, helpless pounding. His hands were everywhere now—kneading her breast, clutching her ass, sliding up her back. He was trying to touch all of her at once. She rode the storm of his ineptitude, letting it fuel her own ascent.
He didn’t last long. A choked, guttural cry was torn from him. His eyes, wide and drowning, locked onto hers. He was looking right into her as he came, his body bowing off the seat, his release pulsing into the condom deep inside her. The intimacy of that sustained eye contact, in the midst of the squalid, mechanical act, was disarming. That was really sweet.
She stayed there, impaled on his softening length, feeling his chest heave beneath her palms. She gave him a few minutes to find his breathing, to return from whatever galaxy she’d hurled him into. The alley was silent except for their ragged panting.
Finally, she lifted herself off him, the separation slick and audible. She turned away and efficiently fixed her clothes, pulling the bra cups back into place, smoothing her skirt down. The world rushed back in: the distant bass, the smell of old brick and his clean sweat.
“Thank you,” she said, and she really meant it. For the honesty. For the vehicle. For being a part of the pact she needed to break.
He was still slumped, dazed, rearranging his clothes with clumsy fingers. After a while, in a small, hopeful voice, he said, “Will I see you again?”
She looked at his face, so open and wrecked. “Give me your phone.” He fumbled it out of his pocket. She typed in a fake number, a digit off from her own, and handed it back. “I’ll call you.”
She never planned to.
She opened the car door and stepped out into the alley. The night air was a cold balm. She didn’t look back. She walked toward the mouth of the alley, her heels clicking on the asphalt, her body humming with a strange, hollow victory. The neon glow of the bar beckoned, and with it, the next unknown part of the night.
He jerked the wheel, the tires whispering over gravel as the car nosed into the narrow cleft of darkness. The engine died, leaving a ringing silence broken only by the distant thump of bass from the club, now a muffled ghost of sound. Streetlight from the mouth of the alley didn’t reach them; they were submerged in deep blue shadow, the convertible’s interior a cool, leather-lined pocket.
Enya unclipped her seatbelt. The click was violently loud.
“What are we doing?” Ethan asked, his voice thin. The confidence he’d wielded on the open road had evaporated, leaving the shaky boy from the bar.
She didn’t answer with words.