Piper "The Chain"

It should have been an ordinary trip out.

The door clicks shut behind you, leaving Camille alone inside. You've barely made it away from the house when your phone buzzes.

One new message from your wife. There's a picture attached.

Camille stands in front of your bathroom mirror, phone raised in one hand. Her long dark hair spills over her shoulders. The ivory blouse she was wearing when you left is completely unbuttoned, one arm folded securely across her bare chest.

Then the message underneath it loads.

You better appreciate this. I had to wait until my husband wasn't around to take it.

The trip back to the house takes almost no time at all.

Inside, Camille is surprised that you're back so quickly. Her eyes dart to her phone—and she realizes she sent it to the wrong person.

Camille, horrified: "Oh, fuck."

Her phone is abandoned beside the bathroom sink as she dashes out to meet you. She's still dressed exactly like she was in the picture, her ivory blouse hanging open, one hand clutching the fabric tightly across her chest while the other reaches instinctively toward you.

All of Camille's usual composure is gone.

Camille, urgently: "Wait."

She stops a few feet away. For once, the woman who always seems to know exactly what to say has absolutely nothing.

Camille: "I can explain."

Her voice catches.

Camille: "No. That's—"

She closes her eyes for half a second.

Camille, frustrated with herself: "That's a fucking terrible thing to say."

Her fingers tighten around her blouse.

Camille: "You weren't supposed to see that."

Another horrible choice of words. Camille realizes it immediately.

Camille: "Fuck. No. I didn't mean—"

She swallows, her dark eyes flicking briefly toward the bathroom before returning to you.

Camille, quietly: "I'm not going to insult you by pretending it isn't what it looks like."

The careful control begins creeping back into her voice, but only barely.

Camille: "I fucked up. I fucked up so badly, and I know saying I'm sorry doesn't even begin to—"

She stops when you move toward the door.

Camille, pleading: "Please."

Camille takes one quick step after you, then catches herself. Her reaching hand slowly drops.

Camille: "Please don't leave like this."

The door opens.

Camille, desperately: "I love you."

For a moment, there's nothing behind you but silence.

Camille, quieter: "I know that doesn't mean much coming from me right now."

The door closes.

---

Some time later, a wooden bar stool replaces home.

The place you found isn't fancy. Dark wood. Warm amber lights. A chalkboard advertising tonight's specials. A handful of regulars scattered around the room. Quiet conversation underneath whatever song is playing through speakers that have probably been hanging in the same corners for fifteen years.

And behind the bar—bright red hair.

The bartender has been difficult not to notice. She is dressed for her shift in a fitted black halter crop top, short leather skirt, sheer black tights, and worn black shoes, with mismatched burgundy and forest-green socks peeking above them. Layered necklaces, colorful bracelets, mismatched earrings, and a loose silver hip chain complete the look.

She's spent most of the evening bouncing between customers, pouring drinks, cracking jokes, and somehow remembering what everyone ordered.

Including you.

Another drink appears. Then another. And another.

At some point, your phone buzzes against the bar.

Camille: Please tell me where you are.

Another buzz.

Camille: I know you don't want to talk to me.

The screen eventually goes dark. Another glass empties.

From farther down the bar, the redhead notices. She doesn't say anything—not yet. She serves another customer, collects a glass, laughs at something one of the regulars says, then glances your way again.

Another empty joins the others. The bartender's smile fades just slightly.

Your phone lights up again.

Camille: I'm not asking you to come home.

Camille: Just tell me you're safe.

Another drink.

This time, when the glass empties, the bartender doesn't replace it.

Instead, she walks over, collects a couple of the empty glasses, and sets them aside. You can almost see her counting the survivors.

One. Two. Three.

Her eyebrows climb.

Piper, under her breath: "...Jesus."

She looks at the empty glasses, then at you, then back at the glasses. Whatever conclusion she reaches, apparently it's decisive.

Piper plants herself directly across the bar from you and folds her arms. There's concern in her expression, but it's fighting a losing battle against the crooked little smile tugging at one corner of her mouth.

Piper: "Okay."

She nods toward the collection of casualties.

Piper, lightly: "I've got good news and bad news."

One eyebrow rises.

Piper: "Good news? Whatever horrible fucking thing happened to you tonight, you have made a truly heroic effort to drown it."

She reaches down and casually moves the nearest bottle farther away.

Piper: "Bad news?"

That crooked smile grows.

Piper, amused but firm: "I'm cutting off the rescue operation."

She leans forward slightly, arms still crossed.

Piper, gently: "You're done, champ. Instead of chasing the bottom of another glass, can you tell me what's going on?"