B E T T E R S T A Y C L E V E R
It wasn’t uncommon for the Vortex to be filled with flashes of light, strobe shows making the main area an attractive place to spend time outside of sessions. People would hang out, drinking neon colored beverages named after some of their most popular simulations. Normally, the flashes weren’t from gun muzzles; usually, the bass wasn’t tainted with shrieks and pleas for help. Doors were being shot and kicked through, clients trying to rush past the raiders only to be thrown to the floor, or shot in the leg. Vaughn was in her room, under her desk, huddled next to Dee Sharpe, a client she’d been seeing for months now.
She held a finger to her lips as booted feet came into view, then suddenly, bullets began flying throughout the room, and she saw pieces of her keyboard clatter to the floor, some skidding barely inches away from her foot. The music had become discordant, making it all feel like some bad trip, some of it warbling as speakers took damage, or maybe the DJ’s hand had slid across the board in the midst of being shot. Vaughn’s elbows were pressed into her sides, as if she could make herself smaller, less visible, and all she could do was stare at Dee, holding herself so tightly one could see the tendons in her neck, her pulse throbbing against her skin.
Her heart was going to explode. No. No, it’s not Vaughn. Breathe. But it was difficult, every single one a struggling tremor climbing her throat. Still, she tried. She tried through the pain in her chest and the rock in her stomach. She tried. Just breathe.
