Page 2 of Vying Girls

She palms my hips. My chest feels tight, stomach too. She’s so much, buffeting me with her sheer presence.

We don’t have nights, Haz and me, she just calls on me when she wants, dangling that black ribbon threateningly. I know the drill by now. Skimpy pyjamas, minimal speaking, bound to her bed. One thick arm lying heavily over me. She knows I won’t have it any other way. These girls have turned me into a cuddler. They have to reap what they’ve sown.

As exhilarating as those nights are with Haz, they never culminate in anything more. I try it, of course I try it. I want those lips on mine, those hands under my clothes. All those things she used to taunt me with. I don’t understand her hesitancy. I don’t think it’s for my benefit. I mean, shit, she deepthroated me twenty feet underground. She’s not that merciful.

It makes me want to do something to induce another punishment. I don’t want to manipulate though. I just want her to want me.

I tip my face up, kissing her square bottom lip—a token of my desire for her.

‘Gonna be no t-shirts left if we don’t get on,’ Elly calls, watching us from the path. She has her hands in her pockets,sounding huffy. But it’s there in her twinkling eyes, the smile she’s trying to smother; she can’t deny she enjoys watching us.

‘Then what are you motherfuckers waiting for?’ Dropping me, Haz emerges into the light, a ball of barely suppressed energy. ‘Let’s go get fuckingwrecked!’

Because it’s not just the air that’s electric tonight. There’s a crush of students heading for the St Juliana lecture theatre, as instructed by the email we received earlier. The angels glower at us from their pillars, unhappy with what’s going on under their eye. The stage holds a number of trestle tables, each piled high with neatly folded white t-shirts. I spot the company’s logo on them, and a thrill goes through me.

Anarchy, Hazelhurst’s infamous club crawl had been cancelled last year. Too many incidences, the mainland bemoaned. Monuments pissed on, property destroyed. One girl even went missing and still hasn’t been found.

We really like fucking things up for ourselves, but the mainland, always so quick to offer us another chance, agreed to let it go ahead again this year.One final chance.One final time, more like. Judging by the atmosphere in here, Hazelhurst hasn’t learnt its lesson.

Students line the edge of the stage, eagerly pressing in for their t-shirts, our ticket for the event. A lone figure holds us at bay, leaning against a table, arms folded. Margot Savage glares at us from stern eyes. I flick my nails restlessly, eager for her to hurry the inevitable lecture along.

She waits until the swell calms, checking the doors for late arrivals.

Then, drawing in a visible breath, she straightens. ‘Alright, kiddies, I’ll make this quick, but I want you all tolisten.’She runs her gaze over us, holding eye contact with as many of us as possible. ‘Okay?’

I half-expected it to be Zaccaro up there. I’ve developed a slight fascination for the seldom seen figure ever since visiting his long-dead relatives. His daughter’s here, up on the stage, already picking through t-shirts. Her leather jacket shines as she moves, as do the chains around her neck, the silver rings on her fingers. Margot doesn’t reprimand her. As severe as the woman is, it’s clear Fina holds more sway around here. The little nepo.

She tosses down three shirts. One to Blakely, one to an orange-haired girl I don’t recognise. With the third, she waits until she’s hopped down before shoving it into Aurelie’s face.

Aurelie catches it, smooths back her hair, puts her attention back on Margot. No acknowledgement to Fina. I’d have kicked the hell off if someone had done that to me. I like Aurelie, but her coolness is disquieting sometimes.

Haz snorts when Margot mentions a police presence tonight. ‘Shouldn’t have called it Anarchy then.’

She’s stood behind me, one arm wrapped securely around my torso, as steadying as it is arousing. I’m not listening much to Margot. In a sea of bodies, all I feel is Haz. Elly stands with her arms folded beside us, looking ready to fight her way to the t-shirts.

I feel so full, almost greedy whenever I’m with the two of them like this, both dousing me in their affection and protection. They have no idea how much they complete each other. They’d probably scoff to hear it. But it’s true. There can be no day without night, no sun without the moon. I could never be made to choose between them. Thank God I don’t have to.

The crowd stirs as Margot wraps up. ‘One final word. I’m sure you’re tired of me bleating on.’

She gives a small, wry smile. It unnerves me. She makes a good show of someone who toes the line, but how many here know of her unscrupulousness? Everyone who frequents the Vaults or just the select few, the lucky ones like me?

‘I remember my own student days here. Back when Hazelhurst was a working castle.’ Another smile to show she’s joking. ‘We didn’t have Anarchy or any of that malarkey back then. But what we did have wasfun.So, I bid you all a good time tonight. Aprincipledgood time. Right, you can come and collect your shirts.’

Like a swarm, we descend on the stage. Margot slips into the crowd, easily disappearing. We make a beeline for the table holding t-shirts sized large. Squeezing through, I secure three of them, passing two back to the others.

‘Grab Nic one, will you?’ Haz calls.

Just the name causes a visceral reaction, all my senses standing on end, gut churning. I hoped she wouldn’t bother with tonight. I’ve not seen her in days. Now it’s spring, she spends her nights out in the forest, brooding in her tent. Suppose the weather will be too bad for that tonight.

I look over the tables. ‘Which size?’

‘Dunno, biggest maybe. Can cut it if she wants.’

Probably into a crop, the sleeves sloughed off. She does like her baggy cut-offs. A long length of torso, a dangerous hint of side boob. As hidden away as she keeps herself, she also enjoys being a tease. A dichotomy that pisses me off. Why can’t she just be one thing?

Free from the squash of bodies in the theatre, we inspect the shirts. The backs of them used to depict the name of each club on the crawl; I remember from my Hazelhurst research days. Now there’s only a huge QR code made up in blood red dye. Don’t want the clubs getting wind of the festivities, I bet.

‘Phone out,’ Haz instructs, holding up her shirt.