It was Friday evening. The stresses of the week had passed, and the stresses of the next week had yet to make their presence felt. Students were descending on Grounder's to rupture the newfound calm with chaos of their own design. The bar had an exorcism for everyone's pent-up tension: some people released it through pounding drink, some danced till their muscles burned, and, of course, some lucky individuals chose to exorcise their tensions together. These individuals may have come to Grounder's solely to prowl, nostrils flared in the doorway to sniff through the pheromone cloud and locate their ideal, temporary mate. Others may have arrived with other intentions before finding themselves magnetized to a specter of perfection that catches their eye and refuses to let go.
It was strange for Drew to be back here. If someone had told him that it had only been a week since his most recent trip to Grounder's, he wouldn't have believed them. A whole lifetime must have come and gone since he last stood on the outskirts of the dance floor, observing the manic celebration at the funeral of stress. He used to view these dancers as carnally obsessed, driven by a feral lust that overpowered their humanity, but now he felt himself on the other side of the zoo enclosure. His lust had pushed him to new depths that none of these people around him could even fathom. If anyone was helpless to control their animalistic desires, it was him.
Drew's mind began to wander, the way it always seemed to do these days. He wondered what had drawn Abby to him that night, what made him the specter of perfection that she chose to pursue. How did she know that she could get what she wanted from him? How could she tell that he was a submissive at heart when even he didn't know? He pictured her watching him from the bar, licking her lips at the thought of him cowering in her shadow. She had sensed something beneath his initial arrogance, some truth that no one up to that point had been able to unearth. She knew his mind and his body from the moment her hand seized his to lead him into her world. Somehow, Abby knew him.
Could anyone else tell? Drew scanned the crowd, hoping to catch a predator's narrow glare honing in on his throat. He longed for one of these strangers to drop a hint, to call him forward and whisper in his ear that they know the truth as well. They would pull him in close and sway their hips side to side, brushing up against him, making him sweat and squirm in their arms.
"You're coming home with me tonight, cutie," they would tell him. "I know how badly you wanna be my slave. You're gonna serve me well, aren't you?"
The collar would tighten around his neck, and a flame of malice would erupt from their eyes as they twirled the leash around their fist and yanked him to his knees. He'd crawl out after them, choking out whimpers against his strained windpipe, unable to halt the advance toward the stranger's den. Soon, he'd be tossed onto a bed, lost somewhere in the void, and this predator would make the true horror of their intentions known. Drew's fingers dug into his plastic cup of whiskey ginger when the horror unfurled before his very eyes.
"You good, dude?"
Drew whipped around to the voice at his side, and he realized he had done this before. He had been here before, and everything was happening just as it had and now it would happen again. She would always find him. She would always take him home and he would always give in to her and he would spend the rest of his life serving her. This was destiny: cyclic and inescapable.
"Margot," he said, surprised at her presence and the sound of his own voice.
"You can recognize faces, at least," she replied. "You look a little out of it, my guy. How many of those have you had?"
She gestured to the cup in his hand, somewhat compacted from his tension.
"I uhhh... not nearly enough," he told her.
"Ain't that the fucking truth."
She jerked her head back toward the bar, and Drew's feet pursued her. As they pushed through the sweating, pulsing mass of flesh, he knocked back the dregs in his cup and discarded the remains in the trash can. Margot's below average height and attractive, yet generic brown waves on the back of her head made it easy to lose track of her in such a bustling crowd. Drew reached out to take hold of her hand. Without stopping to glance back, she gave him a comforting squeeze and pushed on into the thickening jungle of humanity.
Margot's determination eventually got them up to the bar, where they placed their orders and watched the bartender's hands flit with refined purpose to fix their drinks. In a slightly intoxicated state, the pair was captivated by the display of impeccable skill until the cocktails were in their hands and the money was out of their wallets. Margot took the lead once more, guiding Drew by the hand to his original spot at the edge of the dance floor.
"We wouldn't want you to get lost like you did last week," she joked, her smile catching the dim light of the bar.
"I wasn't lost," he clarified.
She rebutted, "only 'cause someone found you, allegedly."
It was the first time Margot Nellen and Drew Lawson had spoken in person since his disappearance at the last Grounder's happy hour. His multiple absences piqued her curiosity, same as it had for Drew's roommates and same as it did for Margot's roommates, Beth McGowan and Fatima Nadiya. Drew told Nathan and Terry a partial rendition of the story on Sunday morning; two days later, during a group text discussion of the past weekend's events, Terry had failed to resist the temptation of alluding to it. The women pressed him, and as was his usual reaction lately, Drew relented to the pressure and informed them in fuzzy details of his new acquaintance.
Not even Fatima, the sorority sister and social butterfly, had heard of her before. This made the mystery of Abby Heyman a topic of discussion that most everyone was eager to pursue with their good friend Drew. Although he had remained tight lipped around his roommates, Margot was confident she could eek out some semblance of genuine answer from him. People - especially the drunk ones - tended to trust her with sensitive information. She already had some of Drew's secrets in her possession, and since she had so far honored his request to never mention Henry's name to anyone, she figured that this would be an easy admission for him.
Of course the truth hung on the tip of Drew's tongue. It was a weight in his chest that roared to be puked out. He had told Carly the day before, when he had sunk back into the part of the plaything, but she was a blank slate to him. Margot and the rest of his friends already had a decent version of him in their heads: all-around normal guy, a lad's lad, somewhat subdued in his behavior. He was rarely the one to bring home the weird news, so how would their perception of him change when they learned that he was the weird news? It wasn't as though sadomasochism ever came up in casual conversation; it was anyone's guess how they'd react to this newfound identity of his. Every guess that Drew made was poisoned with doubt and anxiety.
"Is she here tonight?" Margot began.
"I haven't seen her, and she hasn't mentioned anything to me, so..."
Drew shrugged his shoulders and closed his sentence with a deep sip.
"Well, did you tell her you were here? Maybe she'd appreciate an invitation," she suggested.
"I was planning on hanging with the gang tonight. Let them know I haven't abandoned them or whatever," he responded.
"You can't have us both? You know everyone wants to meet this Abby of yours, Drew."
He reflected on the last time she and he had interacted with normal people. Lady Sparrow only knew how she might torment him in front of a crowd of his closest friends.
"I think it's a little soon," he excused.
Margot scoffed, "we're not your parents, dude. Friends can be friends with friends."
Friends and friends maybe, but friends and Dommes? Drew wasn't so sure.
"Are you worried about looking too serious with her?" she pressed. "Like, I get that, but I don't think it's the biggest deal for your friends to know the people you sleep with. We've all brought a partner or several around before. Hell, my first date with Adrian was at the Fiscal New Year party, y'all met him the same time I did."
Drew pushed his nervousness down long enough to tease, "what a romantic first date."
"Nothing brings a couple together like three straight victories at beer pong. Shit, I'd suggest a two-on-two for an icebreaker, but I wouldn't want to embarrass you in front of her."
Drew imagined beer pong with Lady Sparrow: she sinks every shot perfectly, he fumbles and overshoots then undershoots, which leads to him panicking and flinging the ball in an implausible direction. She mocks him at first, taunting him in whispers before his turn, and then after every miss she chastises him for being such a worthless tag team partner. He'd be better used kneeling under the table to pleasure her between rounds. Then again, it might amuse her to see him embarrassed by two women whose skills far exceed his own. Maybe they would bond well laughing over his pitiful attempts to display anything above total incompetence at the sport.
"I don't know how I'd feel about that," he decided.
"I suppose that's on you to figure out then. All I'm saying is that I think it would be nice to meet her. Do with that opinion what you will."
The DJ threw on a nostalgic Outkast tune, and a cheer from the dance floor called Margot forward. She raised her eyebrows to Drew, imploring silently, but he waved her off. He had thinking to do, and this wasn't his favorite Outkast song anyway. Margot shrugged and the crowd swallowed her up, leaving Drew to scan the faces until his drink was finished. Then, he stepped out of the bar to a private section of the sidewalk to make a phone call.
After a few rings, Abby answered, "hello, pet."
"Hi, Lady Sparrow," he greeted, smiling at the sound of her voice.
He heard another voice in the background, someone male.
"Is someone there with you? I can call back later," he said tentatively.
"No one's with me, it's My Chemical Romance. Jesus, don't you know good music?" she snapped.
"I'm sorry Lady Sparrow, I couldn't tell over the phone," he apologized.
"Excuses, excuses," she huffed. "How are you, darling?"
"I'm drunk. I mean, I'm fine. And drinking. I have drunk. Or drank."
"Oh, a booty call! Don't I feel special," she said dryly.
"No no, I'm not umm... booty calling. I'm at Grounder's again, and I wanted to invite you to meet my friends because you uhh... would appreciate it."
For a few moments, Gerard Way was the only one who spoke.
