Chapter 1: Bathroom Proof
The bass from the club was a physical thing, a pounding heart that shook the sticky tile under Chloe’s feet. In the bathroom, it was muffled, warring with the low, shuddering hum of a faulty paper towel dispenser. The air was thick with the reek of cheap perfume, sweat, and beneath it all, the sharp, chemical tang of piss and lemon-scented cleaner. It was a smell that clung to the back of your throat.
Chloe leaned against the chipped sink, wiping a smear of lip gloss from her teeth with her thumb. She watched the middle stall through the cracked mirror. The door didn’t quite close; a sliver of shadowed movement, a flash of pale skin against dark ink.
A low, guttural groan cut through the hum. Not pain. Something else.
Chloe smirked, took a sip of her vodka cranberry, the ice long since melted. She’d followed Jane in here, curious. Jane had been vibrating with a weird, pent-up energy all night, her eyes scanning the crowd like a predator, not a girl supposedly missing her boyfriend. She’d zeroed in on the guy with the sleeve tattoo and the knowing smile before their first round of shots even arrived.
From the stall, Jane’s voice, breathy and strained: “Yeah. Just like that.”
Chloe rolled her eyes, but a flicker of amused respect cut through her boredom. Jane was usually all talk.
The stall door trembled on its hinges with a rhythmic, metallic tap-tap-tap against the lock. Chloe could piece the picture together without seeing it. Jane’s expensive faux-leather skirt hitched up. The stranger’s big hands, all rough knuckles and blue ink, gripping her hips hard enough to leave marks. Jane liked marks. She’d complain about them tomorrow, but she’d smile while she did it.
“Fucking tell me,” the guy’s voice grunted, raw and close. “Tell me you want it.”
A sharp gasp. Then Jane, her voice dripping with a performative filth that made Chloe’s eyebrows rise. “I want it. God, just fuck me. Fuck me harder.”
The sound of skin slapping against skin sped up, a wet, brutal rhythm that overpowered the distant bassline. Chloe heard Jane’s sharp intake of breath, a little whimper that sounded almost real. The guy was growling now, a stream of obscenities about what she was, what she felt like, what he was going to do. Each word was crude, meant to degrade, and from the sounds Jane was making, she was drinking it up.
Chloe fished her phone from her clutch. She’d promised. She angled it towards the stall, the flash off. The photo on the screen was dark, grainy, but it caught the blur of motion, the silhouette of Jane’s head thrown back, the man’s shadow engulfing her. It would do. Mark would get a nice little surprise in his DMs tomorrow. Wish you were here, babe! Jane would probably caption it, all innocent emojis. The Polaroid was Jane’s idea—something “physical,” something “authentic” to make the lie of the girls’ trip real. It sat on the edge of the sink, half-curled, a cheap, white-bordered square waiting to capture the aftermath.
The pace in the stall became frantic, pounding. Jane cried out, a short, choked sound that was swallowed by the man’s own harsh climax, a final, shuddering drive accompanied by a crude, satisfied grunt.
Silence fell, heavy and sudden, broken only by ragged breathing and the relentless hum of the dispenser.
Chloe busied herself with her lip gloss, giving them a second. She heard the rustle of clothes, the soft snick of a belt buckle. The stall door creaked open.
Jane emerged first. Her hair was a mess, her eyeliner smudged into raccoon circles that actually kinda worked. Her chest was flushed, a red blotch blooming on her neck. She didn’t look at Chloe, just stumbled to the sink and turned the faucet on, letting the water run cold over her wrists.
The guy followed. He was bigger up close, his tattooed forearms corded. He nodded at Chloe, a quick, impersonal jerk of his chin, like acknowledging a bartender. He didn’t wash his hands. Just adjusted himself in his jeans, shot Jane a look in the mirror that was pure, naked conquest, and pushed out of the bathroom, letting the door swing shut behind him.
The artificial quiet settled back in.
“Well?” Jane finally said, her voice hoarse. She met Chloe’s eyes in the mirror. “You get the shot?”
Chloe gestured to the Polaroid. “It’s sitting right there, Janey. Forgot to actually take it. The audio was probably enough, though.”
A faint, defiant smile touched Jane’s lips. She patted her face dry with a rough paper towel. “He was intense.”
“I heard,” Chloe said, flat. “Sounds like you had a meaningful connection.”
“Oh, fuck off,” Jane said, but she was smiling wider now, the adrenaline still lighting her up from inside. She picked up the Polaroid camera, her fingers leaving smudges on the plastic. “We need the photo. For the story.”
“Right. The story.” Chloe finished her drink, the watered-down syrup taste sticking to her tongue. “The one where we’re at a yoga retreat, finding ourselves, and definitely not getting railed by strangers in a disgusting bathroom.”
Jane lined the camera up, pointing it at her own reflection. She pouted her swollen lips, tilted her head to make the hickey more prominent. “Mark never questions a fucking thing. He’s so boring. He’ll see this and just think… I don’t know. That I got drunk and did something silly. He’ll worry. He’ll call. It’ll be something.” The flash popped, blinding white in the grimy room. The camera whirred, spat out the blank square.
She caught it, waved it in the air, watching the ghostly image begin to swim into focus: her own wrecked, triumphant face, the cracked mirror, the empty stall behind her. A perfect souvenir.
“This,” Jane said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, “is so much better than fucking yoga.”
The developing Polaroid felt warm in Jane’s hand, a tiny piece of chemical proof. She tucked it, still blurry, into her clutch next to a crumpled receipt and a nearly empty gloss. “Come on,” she said, shoving past Chloe. “I need another drink. I’m parched.”
The main room hit them like a wall of heat and sound. Jane felt eyes on her, scanning the smudged makeup, the rumpled clothes. She straightened her spine, a slow, satisfied smile spreading on her face. Let them look. Let them guess.
She slept like the dead that night, the kind of empty, dreamless sleep that follows total physical exertion. When she woke, her body ached in a dozen small, pleasant ways. She stretched, examined the faint bruises on her hips in the hotel mirror, and felt a surge of power. Mark would be calling soon, checking in. She let it go to voicemail.
The next night, the music felt more absorbent, the lights more forgiving. Jane had downed three cheap vodkas in quick succession, the warmth pooling in her stomach, loosening her limbs. She moved onto the dance floor alone, a slow, rolling motion in her hips beginning as soon as the bass found her.
She could feel it—the weight of attention. Glares from other women, bored, assessing. But the male gazes were like physical touches, skating over the exposed strip of her waist, the hem of her skirt. She slid her own hand down her side, tracing the curve, a performance for an audience of strangers. It was so simple. It was always so simple.
A presence materialized behind her. Hands settled on her hips, large and sure, pulling her back against a firm, unfamiliar body. Different from the tattooed guy. This one smelled like cigarettes and too much cologne. His grip was possessive, not asking.
So easy, Jane thought, smirking into the strobing dark. They were all the same. Just point them at the hint of availability and they’d latch on.
His mouth was at her ear, his breath hot and damp. “Fucking move like that, you know what you’re asking for.” His words weren’t a question. One hand slid from her hip, slipping under the elastic waistband of her thong, his fingers rough against her skin. The other hand pushed up her crop top, palming her breast, his thumb circling her nipple through the lace of her bra. He ground his erection against the swell of her ass.
A moan slipped from her lips. She leaned back into him, her head lolling against his shoulder, her arms reaching up to tangle in the short, gritty hair at the back of his head. She rolled her hips, meeting his rhythm. His finger pushed inside her, and her body clenched around the intrusion. Around them, the crowd pulsed, a sea of oblivious motion.
A sharp whistle cut through her haze. Chloe. Jane cracked her eyes open. Chloe was dancing a few feet away with a lanky guy in a baseball cap. She nodded toward Jane, said something with a wicked grin. The lanky guy looked over, his eyes darkening, and he grinned back, giving Chloe’s ass an appreciative, playful squeeze.
The validation was a drug, sharper than the vodka. Jane arched her back, pressing herself harder against the man behind her. He muttered a stream of filth into her ear—what a dirty little slut she was, how wet she was, how he was going to wreck her. His fingers worked her roughly, and the music swallowed every degrading, perfect word.
He was maneuvering them, backing them through the sweaty bodies, his hand still stuffed in her panties, his other still kneading her breast. A red EXIT sign glowed above a door. He shoved it open with his shoulder, and the cold night air was a shock.
They stumbled into a narrow alley. The thumping bass became a muted heartbeat. The reek of garbage from overflowing dumpsters mixed with the cigarette and cologne smell on him. He spun her, pressing her back against the cold, gritty brick wall. The shock of it made her gasp.
“Been begging for it all night,” he grunted, hiking her skirt up around her waist. He hooked his fingers in the sides of her thong and yanked them down. She lifted one foot, then the other, letting him strip them off. He balled the flimsy fabric and stuffed it into his jacket pocket. A trophy. “Such a fucking slut. Open.”
He fumbled with his jeans, freeing himself. He was already hard, flushed and eager in the dim light from a distant security bulb. He hoisted her up, her back scraping brick, her legs instinctively wrapping around his waist. He pushed into her with one brutal, unceremonious thrust.
The air left her lungs in a shared groan. He held her there, pinned, one arm hooked under her thigh to keep her up, the other planted on the wall by her head. Then he started to move. There was no finesse, just a hard, driving rhythm, the slap of skin, his ragged breaths in her ear. “Take it,” he growled. “You love this, don’t you? Love being a free-use cunt in an alley.”
She did. In that moment, she did. Her hand fisted in his hair, the other gripping the tough fabric of his jacket for anchor. The cold air bit her exposed skin, but where they were joined was a slick, pounding heat. Distant yells from the street, the ever-present bassline, his continuous, guttural sounds—it all blurred into a symphony of carelessness. The coil in her gut tightened, a swift, urgent build.
He felt it. “Yeah, come on,” he spat, pounding into her faster, losing rhythm. “Squeeze that cock. Come for me, you little whore.”
The climax tore through her, sharp and convulsing. A second later, he stilled, burying himself deep with a final, shuddering grind and a low groan she felt in her teeth. He stayed there for a long moment, pulsing inside her.
Then it was over. He softened, slipped out of her. He lowered her leg, letting her stand on shaky knees. He turned away, tucking himself back into his jeans, zipping up. He turned back, leaned in, and placed a dry, chaste kiss on her cheek. “Thanks, sweetheart,” he said, his voice casual, almost friendly.
He walked back to the club door, pushed inside, and was swallowed by the noise.
The hollow feeling yawned open, vast and sudden. A cold trickle between her thighs. The ache of scraped skin on her back. Silence, save for distant traffic. She stood alone in the reeking dark, the brick cold against her palms.
No. She pushed the void aside, hard. She smoothed her skirt down. Adjusted her top. She used a clean corner of her clutch to wipe between her legs, then tossed the tissue into the shadows. She squared her shoulders, lifted her chin, and pushed the door open.
The wave of sound and heat was an embrace. She swaggered through the crowd, a new confidence in her hips. She found Sarah at the bar, sipping a martini.
“There you are,” Sarah said, eyeing her. “You look… busy.”
Jane slid onto the stool, crossing her legs. She caught the eye of a man in a button-down shirt two seats down. He looked away, then looked back, a slow smile spreading. Jane held his gaze, her own smile a lazy, inviting curve.
“Just getting started,” Jane said, turning back to Sarah, waiting for the inevitable approach.