Rue Bennett is just trying to survive the friction of living with Jalicia—better known as Juicy. Between the strobe lights of Club Eden and the quiet, heavy mornings in their shared apartment, Rue is realizing that the hardest thing to kick isn’t a habit; it’s a feeling.
The air in the bathroom is thick enough to swallow. It’s a haze of hairspray and that expensive, cloying perfume Juicy wears like armor. I’m sitting on the edge of the tub, my knees pulled up, watching her. It’s a ritual. I don’t think she knows that I’m memorizing the way her hands don’t shake when she draws those sharp, lethal wings on her eyelids.
She’s wearing leopard print. It’s "Safari Night" at Eden. To anyone else, it’s a costume. To me, it’s a warning. She looks like something you aren't supposed to touch unless you’re prepared to lose a hand.
"Rue," she says, not looking away from the glass. Her voice is a low, honeyed rasp. "You’re staring. You’re doing that thing where you’re thinking so loud I can hear it over the music."
"I’m not thinking," I lie. I’m always thinking. I’m thinking about how the apartment feels like a tomb the second she closes that front door. I’m thinking about the way my chest feels like it’s being tightened by a wrench whenever I realize she’s going to a place where men think they can buy her time.
"Liars go to hell, Rue-Rue," she murmurs, leaning in to press a dark, matte liner to her lips. She turns, checking her reflection in the full-length mirror. The bodysuit is a second skin. She looks perfect. She looks like a riot. "How do I look? Give it to me straight. Do I look like I’m about to make enough money to pay the light bill and buy those shoes I wanted, or do I look like I’m trying too hard?"
"You look like you," I say, and it’s the truest thing I’ve ever told her.
She grins, sharp and sudden, and reaches over to ruffle my hair. I flinch, just a little, because her touch is a live wire. "Don't be a hermit while I’m gone. Eat something that isn't cereal. I'll be back before the sun is."
Then she’s gone. The click of the door is the loudest sound in the world.
Three hours later, the apartment is haunting me.
I’ve walked from the kitchen to the window six times. I tried to watch a movie, but the plot felt like static. Without her energy—without the unhinged, beautiful noise she makes just by existing—the silence is heavy. It’s the kind of silence that makes you start counting your own heartbeats. I’m antsy. My hands are deep in my pockets, and I’m pacing the floorboards like a caged animal.
I miss her. It’s a pathetic, physical ache. I’m twenty-one years old and I don’t know how to be a person in a room if she isn’t in it.
Then, my phone vibrates on the coffee table.
I don't even check the ID. I know it's her. But when I answer, it isn't the playful, "Come pick me up" I’m expecting. It’s silence. Then, a sharp, indrawn breath.
"Rue," she whispers. Her voice is tight. It’s the sound of someone trying very hard not to scream. "I’m in the back hallway. Near the service exit. Some guy... he wouldn't listen. He thought he could just... he wouldn't let go of my arm, Rue."
The world goes white. The antsy, nervous energy in my limbs turns into something cold and crystalline.
"I'm coming," I say. I don't ask if she’s okay. I know she isn't. "Don't move. I’m five minutes away."
I drive like I’m trying to break the car.
When I hit the back alley of Eden, the bass from the club is a dull, rhythmic thud, like a headache you can’t shake. I find her leaning against a stack of crates. Her hair is messed up, and the leopard-print boot on her left leg is scuffed.
A guy is standing three feet from her, looking confused, like he can’t understand why the girl he was just touching is looking at him like he’s a corpse. He’s older, wearing a shirt that costs more than my car, and he has that look of bloated entitlement that makes my stomach turn.
"Look, sweetheart, I was just being friendly—" he starts.
I don’t let him finish. I step between them. I don’t have to be loud. I just stand there, my shoulders set, my gaze fixed on his eyes until he sees whatever dark, jagged thing I’m carrying inside me. I move toward him, one slow step at a time, and the "friendliness" leaves his face real fast. He backs up, stumbling over his own feet, before turning and disappearing back into the club.
I turn to Juicy. She’s shaking. It’s subtle, but I see it.
I don't say anything. I don't ask for details. I just step into her space and wrap my arms around her. She crashes into me, burying her face in the crook of my neck. She smells like the club now—smoke and spilled drinks—but underneath it, she’s still her.
"I hate them," she whispers into my skin. "I hate every single one of them."
"I know," I say, my voice sounding like it’s coming from someone else. "I've got you. Let's go home."
I lead her to the car, my hand never leaving the small of her back.
The next morning, the gray light makes everything look soft.
Juicy is on the couch, wrapped in my favorite charcoal hoodie. She’s staring out the window, a cup of coffee held between both hands. The chaos of last night is gone, replaced by a quiet, heavy stillness.
I’m sitting on the floor at her feet. I reach up, tentatively, and rest my hand on her knee.
She looks down at me. For a second, the mask drops. There’s no "Juicy" persona, no unhinged jokes, no armor. There’s just Jalicia.
"Rue," she says softly. "What would I do if you weren't so damn patient?"
"You'd find someone else to buy your strawberry milk," I say, trying to break the tension.
She lets out a small, genuine laugh—the kind that sounds like music. She leans down, her forehead resting against mine. "No," she whispers. "There isn't anyone else."
I close my eyes. The hum is back, but for once, it’s quiet. It’s steady. And for as long as she’s sitting there, it’s enough.
Ya girl is backkkkkk🤪 let me know what else y'all would like to see from this story🤭🤭🤭
