Riffs in Time

Chapter Twenty One

"Thanks," I said uneasily, glancing around. "Hey, are you here with someone?"

She giggled drunkenly, stepping closer. "Nope, but you could take me home if you want," she batted her eyes, leaning in too close.

She reached out, trying to wrap her arms around me for a hug, but before she could, I caught her wrists gently and held them together in front of her. In normal circumstances, I would've given her a quick hug, smiled, signed whatever she wanted—but not like this. Not when she was this young, this drunk, this vulnerable.

"Yeah, no, that's definitely not happening. Give me your phone," I recoiled gently but quickly, keeping my hands carefully away after releasing her wrists.

Her eyes widened. "Are you giving me your number?"

"Yup," I lied easily, scrolling through her contacts. My thumb stopped at "Mom," and I dialed without hesitation.

"Hello?" came a sleepy voice.

"Hi, um, your daughter is drunk. You need to come pick her up," I explained quickly, glancing down at the teenager still fluttering her lashes at me, blissfully unaware that I had called her mother.

The woman snapped awake instantly, firing questions. "Where are you? Is she okay?"

"She's safe, we're at The Viper Room," I said, covering my other ear to hear her better. The woman sighed, exasperated.

"She's been acting out lately, I don't know what I'm going to do," she muttered. "Ever since all this emo shit hit the media—kids painting their nails black and crying in dark corners—she thinks it's glamorous or something. Like heartbreak and eyeliner are gonna solve anything. I swear, it's like the world decided to market depression and now my daughter thinks it's an aesthetic."

Her words hit harder than she probably meant them to. I felt a twinge of guilt somewhere deep in my chest. That was never the intention. It wasn't about glorifying sadness or turning heartbreak into fashion. It was supposed to be a message. A lifeline. A reminder that not everyone was alone. That if you were hurting, someone out there might understand. Somewhere along the line, that got twisted. Packaged. Sold. And now girls like this—barely old enough to be here—were clinging to the image, not the meaning.

"Can you stay with her until I get there? Please?" She said, pulling me out of my thoughts.

I hesitated but ultimately agreed. Who else here would look out for her? This place was crawling with wasted idiots. In the wrong hands, this kid could end up in a really bad situation—and I couldn't shake the feeling that it was my responsibility to see this through. Maybe it was my own quiet apology to her mom. For influencing some parts of her, even unintentionally.

"Yeah, sure. We'll be outside."

As we waited, the girl wouldn't stop flirting with me. She leaned in, her voice syrupy with alcohol. "You're really hot, you know that? Like, stupid hot. "

I raised an eyebrow, deadpan. "Right. That's clearly something that I needed to hear from a kid. How old are you again?"

She giggled, swaying slightly. "Old enough."

That made me shudder. I actually felt a little bit of bile rise in my throat—like my body was physically rejecting the whole situation. It was one of those moments where disgust doesn't even feel like a strong enough word.

"Yeah, no. That's gonna be a hard pass," I said flatly, crossing my arms.

She pouted, stepping closer. "You sure? Could be fun."

"I'm sure," I shot back. "Maybe try someone who doesn't want to bleach their brain after this conversation." I stood rigidly, arms crossed tightly to prevent any accidental contact.