Chapter 2: The Bitch in the Dress
The silence in the room was a physical thing, thick and cloying. It was broken by the distant, laughing shriek of someone winning a beer pong game downstairs. The sound was like a key turning in a lock, snapping Zane back into the room, into his own body.
He looked away from Teal, scrubbing a hand over his mouth. “Get your shit together,” he said, his voice low and hoarse. He nodded toward the torn dress strap, the general wreckage of Teal’s costume. It wasn’t a suggestion.
Teal’s hands fluttered uselessly. He tried to fix the strap, but the thin elastic was snapped. He settled for pulling the fabric of the dress back over his shoulder, the movement exposing a livid red mark on his collarbone from the wall. He felt raw, inside and out. The numbness was receding, replaced by a buzzing, sickly awareness. He could still taste Zane. He could still feel the hard press of the floor on his knees.
Zane watched him fumble for a second, then let out a short, impatient breath. He crossed to his closet, rummaged, and pulled out a wrinkled black hoodie. He tossed it at Teal. It hit him in the chest and fell to the floor.
“Put that on. You can’t walk out of here looking like… that.” Zane turned and grabbed his own leather jacket from the back of his desk chair, shrugging it on with sharp, forceful movements.
Teal bent slowly, picked up the hoodie. It smelled like fabric softener and Zane—that same cologne, but deeper, ingrained in the cotton. He pulled it on over the ruined dress. It was huge on his slender frame, the sleeves swallowing his hands, the hem hanging past the short skirt of the witch costume. He felt like a child playing dress-up in his father’s clothes. The warmth was immediate, a shameful comfort.
“Come on,” Zane said, not looking at him. He opened the door. The roar of the party rushed back in, a wave of sound that made Teal flinch. Zane stepped out into the hallway, expecting to be followed.
Teal hesitated, standing in the center of the room that now felt like a crime scene. His eyes caught the two empty vodka soda cans on the desk. His pointed hat was on the floor near the bed, crushed. He took a shaky breath, then walked out, pulling the door closed behind him. He didn’t look back.
The hallway was brighter, populated by a couple making out against a wall. They didn’t even glance up. Zane was already heading down the stairs, his broad shoulders cutting a path. Teal hurried after, his borrowed heels clicking unsteadily on the steps. The hoodie’s warmth was at odds with the chill of exposure climbing his spine.
Downstairs, the party had reached its peak chaos. The living room was a sweating, shouting mass of bodies. Zane didn’t head for the front door. Instead, he turned toward a darker, narrower hallway that led away from the main crush. A handwritten sign taped to the wall read “BASEMENT” with an arrow.
Zane shoved open a heavy wooden door. A gust of cooler, damp air hit them, carrying the sharp scent of stale beer, concrete dust, and weed. The bass was louder here, thumping up through the floorboards. He started down the unfinished wooden stairs.
Teal paused at the top. “Where…”
“Just come on,” Zane called back, his voice echoing slightly. He didn’t stop.
Swallowing hard, Teal followed. The stairs groaned under his weight. The basement was a vast, low-ceilinged space, lit only by a few strings of malfunctioning orange Halloween lights and the blue glow of a massive, silent television mounted on the wall, playing a muted football highlight reel. It was a graveyard of leisure: two pool tables, their green felt stained; a dented beer pong table; sagging couches draped with old blankets; and everywhere, the detritus of a hundred parties—crushed cans, plastic cups, a single forgotten high-heeled shoe in a corner.
It was quieter, though. The people down here were in smaller groups, smoking, talking in low tones, playing a desultory game of pool. A few glanced over as Zane hit the concrete floor. Their gazes slid past him to Teal, who hovered on the last step.
Zane walked to a small, cluttered bar set up on a folding table near the far wall. He grabbed two beers from a tub of icy water, popped the tops on the edge of the table, and held one out, waiting.
Teal made his way across the room. The concrete was freezing through the thin soles of his shoes. He took the beer. His hands were still trembling. He took a long drink. It was bitter and cold.
Zane took a swig of his, his eyes scanning the room. He leaned back against the pool table, the picture of casual ownership. But his jaw was tight. “So,” he said, finally looking at Teal. “Teal.”
Just his name. It felt like an accusation.
“Yeah.”
“You’re a student here.”
“Yes.”
“What? Like, a theater major or some shit?” The question was loaded, a sneer in the making.
Teal shook his head, staring at the label on his beer bottle. “Computer science.”
Zane snorted, a short, humorless sound. “Of course you are.” He took another drink. “So this… the dress. That was, what, an experiment?”
Teal didn’t know how to answer. Was it? It had started as a desperate, stupid bid for invisibility-through-costume. It had ended here, in a frat basement, wearing a stranger’s hoodie and answering questions he didn’t understand. “I just wanted to go to a party,” he whispered.
“And you picked this party.” Zane pushed off the table and took a step closer. The space between them crackled. The people at the other pool table laughed at something, the sound jarring. “You picked me.”
It wasn’t a question. Teal said nothing. He took another gulp of beer, wishing it would dissolve him.
Zane’s gaze was relentless. He was putting pieces together, his green eyes sharp in the dim light. “You knew what would happen. When I brought you upstairs. You had to know.”
“I didn’t…” Teal started, but the lie died. He had known, on some level. The drinks, the touching, the leading upstairs. He’d known, and he’d gone. The shame burned hotter.
“You fucking knew,” Zane repeated, his voice dropping. He leaned in, close enough for Teal to see the faint shadow of stubble on his jaw, to smell the beer on his breath. “You’re a little liar. A cute, quiet little liar in a dress.”
Before Teal could react, Zane’s hand shot out. It wasn’t a slap. It was a grasp. His fingers curled around the back of Teal’s neck, under the hood, palm hot against his skin. He pulled him forward, off-balance, and turned, walking them both backward several steps until Teal’s shoulder blades hit a cold, damp concrete wall near a shadowy recess beside the furnace.
The air left Teal’s lungs in a soft oof. The beer bottle almost slipped from his fingers.
Zane crowded into him, his body a wall of heat and tension. He brought his other hand up, his fingers hooking into the neckline of the hoodie and the dress beneath. He yanked them down, hard, exposing Teal’s shoulder and the top of his chest. The fabric strained, threatening to tear further.
Teal gasped, a sound of pure shock. The basement air was cold on his exposed skin. He could see the fuzzy blue light of the television reflecting in Zane’s intent eyes.
Zane didn’t kiss him. He dropped his head, and his mouth went to the junction of Teal’s neck and shoulder. It wasn’t tender. It was deliberate, possessive. His lips sealed against the skin, and he sucked, hard. The sensation was a sharp, pulling burn that edged into pain. Teal cried out, a short, stifled sound. His fingers scrabbled against the gritty wall behind him.
Zane held there for a long, aching moment before pulling back. He examined his work: a dark, blossoming mark already visible against Teal’s pale skin in the low light. A bruise in the making. A brand.
“There,” Zane murmured, his breath hot against the wet skin. His eyes lifted to Teal’s, holding a challenge. “Now you look the part.”
Before Teal could process the words, Zane spun him around, face-first against the wall. The concrete was rough and cold, smelling of mildew and old paint. Zane’s palm pressed flat against the center of Teal’s lower back, right over the hoodie’s fabric, pinning him. With his other hand, he rucked up the hoodie and the short dress, the chill hitting Teal’s thighs, his ass.
Teal tensed, expecting the same brutal, careless taking as before. He braced for it, squeezing his eyes shut. He heard the rasp of a zipper.
This time was different. Zane was no longer shocked or furious. He was methodical. He used spit, his movements efficient, and then he was pushing in. The pain was there, a sharp, familiar burn, but it was tempered by the lingering… openness from before. It was easier, a brutal slide that made Teal gasp into the concrete.
Zane set a relentless, deep rhythm. The hand on Teal’s back kept him anchored, immobile. Each thrust jolted him forward, the rough wall scraping his cheek. Teal’s mind, still fogged with alcohol and a spiraling confusion, began to fragment. The pain bled into a dull, throbbing sensation. The initial fear melted into a strange, hyper-awareness of the mechanics of it: the sound of their breathing, the slap of skin, the distant, cheery commentary of the muted sportscaster on the TV.
He was disappearing again. Becoming just a body against a wall, being used in a dark basement while a party thrummed above them. It was simpler than thinking. It was an answer to the screaming chaos in his head.
A sob welled up in his throat, unexpected and violent. It tore out of him, a raw, broken sound. “Z-Zane…” he choked, the name a plea for something he couldn’t name—for it to stop, for it to never stop, for an anchor in the senselessness.
At the sound of his name, Zane froze. For a second, the only movement was the shudder of Teal’s breath against the wall.
Then Zane pulled out, abruptly. He spun Teal around again, his grip bruising on Teal’s arms. Teal’s vision was blurred, his face wet. He thought he saw a flicker of something—anger, annoyance, maybe even a shred of concern—cross Zane’s face before it was gone, replaced by a darker, more complex intensity.
Zane kissed him.
It wasn’t like the first, exploratory kiss upstairs. This was deep, claiming, filthy. He licked into Teal’s mouth, his tongue aggressive. Teal could taste the bitter hop of beer, the salt of his own tears, and underneath it, the faint, metallic tang of himself—of Zane—on Zane’s tongue. The reality of it, the visceral circle of it, was dizzying. Teal went limp, his body surrendering to the kiss, his hands coming up to clutch weakly at the leather of Zane’s jacket.
Zane broke the kiss, his lips hovering a breath from Teal’s. His eyes were black in the shadows. “You’re my bitch now,” he whispered, the words hot and direct against Teal’s mouth. It wasn’t a question. It was a declaration, a settling of accounts.
Then his hands were on Teal’s hips, guiding him down, not back to the wall, but to the floor. The concrete was unyielding and gritty, biting through the fishnets. Zane followed him down, covering him, his weight a heavy, solid reality.
He didn’t hurry. He positioned Teal’s legs, pushed the hoodie and dress fabric out of the way, and entered him again, looking directly into his eyes. This time was slower, deeper, more deliberate. It was less about release and more about… establishment. Each slow, grinding thrust felt like it was etching Zane’s words into Teal’s bones. You’re my bitch now.
Teal stared up, past Zane’s shoulder, at the exposed plumbing and cobwebs on the ceiling. His mind was quiet, finally, utterly still. The pain, the pleasure, the shame, the shocking sense of belonging—they all fused into a single, overwhelming point of sensation. He wrapped his legs around Zane’s waist, not to pull him closer, but to hold on as the world narrowed to this: the cold floor, the heavy breath, the claiming.
A burst of loud laughter erupted from the pool table area. Someone shouted, “Your shot, man!”
Zane’s rhythm faltered. He snapped his head toward the sound, his body tensing. In that instant, the spell was broken. The reality of where they were—on the floor of a semi-public basement—crashed back in.
He looked down at Teal, at his wrecked makeup, his parted lips, the dark bruise on his shoulder visible even in the bad light. A complex mask of disgust, possession, and something like triumph settled on his features.
With a final, rough thrust, he finished, collapsing his weight onto Teal for just a second before pushing himself up. He stood, turning away to fix his clothes, his back a rigid line.
Teal lay on the concrete, the cold seeping into his bones. He slowly pulled the hoodie down, covering himself. He felt emptied out. Hollowed.
Zane turned back. He looked down at Teal for a long moment. Then he bent, picked up Teal’s forgotten beer bottle from where it had rolled nearby, and took a long swig. He held it out.
“Get up,” he said, his voice flat. “Party’s almost over.”