“Holy shit,” a voice says and then somebody's climbing on the bed next to me. It's the boy from the gas station, the band's drummer, Copeland Park. “God, are you okay, Lilith?” he asks, and I like how he, too, seems to remember my name. “Fucking Paxton. Jesus, I mean. This is the first time he's ever left a girl tied up like this …” He trails off as he undoes the belt and I drag my wrists to my chest, cradling them and trying to get back some sensation. “Damn it,” Copeland's cursing, but I see him glance over at me and then away sharply.
