Chapter 1: A Mouthful She Never Forgot
The door said GENTS.
Noime Hervi read it twice, blinked, and walked in anyway.
Her brain was a radio stuck between stations—half static, half the opening lines of her broadcast script looping on a manic reel. She had eleven minutes. Maybe ten. The auditorium's PA system hummed through the walls like a distant heartbeat, and her own pulse was doing something similar, only faster and less rhythmic.
The washroom smelled like bleach and something older underneath. A single bulb buzzed overhead, casting everything in that sickly fluorescent pallor that made even healthy skin look jaundiced. The mirror above the rusted sink was fogged, ghosted with the remnants of someone's recent shower. Steam still hung in the air, curling in lazy ribbons near the ceiling.
She dropped her bag on the chipped linoleum. The zipper caught. She yanked it, and the sound ripped through the small space like a gunshot.
"Shit," she whispered, then laughed at herself. Whispering. Like anyone could hear over the bass thumping from the auditorium.
Her fingers trembled as she pulled out the dress—the good one, the one she'd spent two weeks' allowance on, the one that made her look taller than four-foot-eight even without the heels. She laid it across the sink, smoothed the fabric once, twice, three times. The ritual calmed her. Barely.
The script was already memorized. Had been for days. She could recite it backward, forward, in her sleep. But knowing the words and delivering them were different animals entirely. One lived in her head. The other had to crawl out of her throat and into the world, and that was the part that made her stomach twist.
She reached for the hem of her shirt.
The door creaked.
Not opened. Creaked. A small sound, almost apologetic, like the hinge itself was embarrassed about what was happening.
Noime froze with her shirt half-lifted, exposing the pale plane of her stomach, the waistband of her plain cotton underwear. Her eyes snapped to the mirror's foggy surface, and through the haze, she saw him.
Trav.
He stood in the doorway like he'd been carved there, one hand still on the frame, his expression caught somewhere between confusion and the sudden, sharp awareness of a mistake. His eyes were dark, steady, and they didn't look away. Didn't blink. Didn't move.
Neither did she.
The moment stretched. Elastic. Impossible.
Her shirt was still bunched under her arms. Her skin prickled with cold and something else—something hot and electric that raced up her spine and settled in her cheeks.
"Wrong room," she said. Her voice came out strange. Flat. Like she was reading stage directions.
Trav didn't respond. His jaw tightened. He should have left. Should have backed out, mumbled an apology, pretended he'd seen nothing. That's what normal people did. That's what anyone with a shred of social grace would have done.
He stayed.
Noime's hands moved before her brain caught up. She pulled the shirt over her head in one quick motion, then stood there in her bra—simple, white, nothing special—and stared at him staring at her.
"You're going to leave now," she said. Not a question.
Trav's throat moved. A swallow. He shifted his weight, and the floor creaked under his sneakers. His gaze dropped, just for a second, to the curve of her collarbone, the swell of her chest above the bra's plain cups. Then back up.
"I didn't mean to—" he started.
"I know." She cut him off. Her heart was hammering so hard she could feel it in her ears, in her fingertips, in the soles of her feet against the cold floor. "But you did. You saw."
He didn't deny it.
The faucet dripped. Once. Twice. A steady, maddening rhythm that filled the silence between them.
Noime's mind raced through possibilities, calculations, consequences. He could tell people. He could laugh about it, post about it, turn her into a punchline before she'd even had a chance to prove herself on that stage. Eighteen years old, and her whole future could hinge on the next thirty seconds.
She took a step toward him.
Trav's eyebrows lifted—just slightly, a flicker of surprise he couldn't quite hide.
"You're not going to say anything," she said. Her voice was steadier now. Low. Deliberate. "About this. About me being here."
"I don't—"
"You don't what?" Another step. She was close enough now to smell him—clean soap, faint cologne, something warm underneath. "You don't care? You don't want anything?"
His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.
She reached past him and twisted the faucet handle. Water burst out in a rush, cold and loud, splashing against the rusted basin. The sound filled the room, swallowed the silence, gave her cover.
"Everyone wants something," she said.
Trav looked at her. Really looked. His eyes were darker up close, flecked with something that might have been amber in better light. He wasn't panicking. Wasn't stammering. Just watching her like she was a puzzle he hadn't decided whether to solve.
"You're bleeding," he said.
Noime glanced down. A thin line of red traced down her forearm—she must have cut herself on the zipper when she'd yanked her bag open. She hadn't even felt it.
"It's nothing."
"It's not nothing."
The water ran. Cold. Relentless. She watched it swirl down the drain, and something shifted in her chest—a decision crystallizing, sharp-edged and irreversible.
She looked up at him.
"You want to keep this quiet?" she asked. "Then let's make a deal."
Trav's expression didn't change. But his breathing did. Slower. Deeper. Like he was bracing for something.
"What kind of deal?"
Noime reached behind her back. Her fingers found the clasp of her bra, and she unhooked it with a single, practiced motion. The straps slid down her shoulders. The fabric loosened. She held it there, palms pressed against the cups, and watched Trav's face.
His eyes widened. A muscle in his jaw jumped.
"You keep your mouth shut," she said, "and I'll give you something worth keeping quiet about."
The water rushed on. Neither of them moved.
Then Trav stepped forward, and the door clicked shut behind him.
---
The faucet was still running.
Noime knelt on the cold linoleum, knees aching against the hard floor, and tried not to think about the fluorescent hum or the smell of bleach or the way her heart was beating so fast she thought it might tear through her ribs. Trav stood above her, his back against the door, one hand braced on the frame like he was holding the whole thing upright.
He hadn't said a word. Not when she'd unzipped his jeans. Not when she'd freed him from his boxers, her eyes widening slightly at what she found. Not when her mouth had closed around him and his head had fallen back against the wood with a soft, helpless thud.
She'd done this before. Twice. Both times drunk, both times forgettable. But this—this was different. This was sharp and clear and terrifying, and she could taste him on her tongue, salt and skin and something that made her stomach clench with a strange, dark thrill.
His hand found her hair. Not pulling. Just resting. His fingers threaded through the strands like he didn't know what else to do with them.
"Shit," he breathed.
She looked up. His eyes were closed, his lip caught between his teeth, and there was something almost vulnerable in the way his breathing hitched, the way his hips shifted just slightly, like he was trying not to move.
She should have felt powerful. In control. Instead, she just felt the seconds ticking by, each one a countdown to the moment she'd have to walk out there and perform.
The PA system crackled overhead. A voice—distorted, distant—announced the next act. Not hers. Not yet. But soon.
She worked faster.
Trav's hand tightened in her hair. His breath came in short, ragged bursts. He was close—she could feel it in the tense of his thighs, the way his whole body had gone rigid against the door.
"Wait," he said. His voice was hoarse. "I'm—"
She didn't stop.
His release hit the back of her throat. Hot. Bitter. She didn't swallow. Didn't pull away. Just held it there, lips sealed, tongue still, as Trav shuddered above her and then went very, very still.
When she finally stood up, her legs were shaky. Her knees were red. She grabbed the paper towel dispenser and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, then with the rough brown paper, then again.
Trav was still against the door. His eyes were open now. Watching her.
"That's it?" he asked.
Noime pulled the dress over her head. It slid into place like armor. She smoothed the fabric, checked her reflection in the fogged mirror—blurred, indistinct, but there.
"That's it," she said. "We're even."
She grabbed her bag. Her hands were steady now. Her heart was still racing, but it felt different somehow—like fuel instead of fear.
She reached for the door handle.
Trav didn't move.
"Move," she said.
He studied her for a long moment. Then he stepped aside.
She pulled the door open, and the distant hum of the auditorium rushed in—muffled applause, the thump of bass, voices layered over each other. The fluorescent light flickered once above her head.
"Hey," Trav said.
She paused. Didn't turn around.
"What's your name?" he asked.
She almost laughed. Almost. Eighteen years in the same school, and he didn't even know her name.
She walked out without answering.
---
The wings of the stage were dark and cramped.
Noime stood with her back to the curtain, listening to the emcee's voice boom through the auditorium speakers. Her lips were pressed together. Her mouth was full. Warm and bitter and impossible to ignore.
She didn't swallow. She wouldn't. Not until this was over. Not until she'd said every line, hit every mark, proved to everyone watching that she belonged up there.
The emcee called her name.
She stepped onto the stage.
The lights hit her like a wave—hot and bright and blinding. She couldn't see the audience. Just silhouettes. Shapes. A sea of faceless listeners waiting for her to speak.
She opened her mouth.
And with his taste still coating her tongue, she began.