It's her party

Drab apartment buildings and blacktops flit by Elena’s view as the black limo pulls away into the maroon night, blending in with the fleet of cabs and SUVs glutting the city’s storied streets, its headlights blending in to create a line of white light. Her eyes dart back and forth, the sound of blaring horns reverberating in her ears. Her stomach flutters. To think, in just a few minutes she’ll be wining and dining with some of the brightest minds in the country!

The vehicle comes to a standstill behind a line of cars. Elena groans. Typical New York traffic. She glances at the partition separating herself from her driver.

“How long are we going to wait?” She calls out via the intercom.

“Just a few minutes, ma’am.” The mellifluous voice responds.

Elena squirms in her plush leather seat, growing anxious. Knowing the city’s penchant for gridlock traffic, it’ll be at least thirty minutes before they’ll even move an inch, let alone get to where they need to be. She wishes she’d brought a book, or at least a magazine. Something she could distract herself with. It could be a while.

Yet miraculously, the line of cars grows thin and once again the vehicle is snaking down the road, navigating with the grace of a pace car driver on a speedway. The limo slowly makes an abrupt turn away from the flow of traffic down 59th Street, piquing Elena’s interest.

“This isn’t the Upper East side…”

“Excuse me, ma’am?”

“I thought it’d be on the Upper East Side.”

“I wouldn’t know anything about that ma’am.”

“Well then where is it?!?”

It’s so quiet Elena can hear a pin drop.

“All she told me is that it’d be on the LES.” The driver’s voice is pensive.

Elena sighs. Okay, so the party is going to be on the LES. A little unconventional, but it’s just as well… She runs a hand over her skirt, feeling a little self-conscious for not dressing down. They’re obviously going for a bohemian feel. She kicks herself for not wearing jeans and a top rather than stilted formal wear.

She spies a row of cars parked near a squat white building in the distance, men and women dashing in quickly as if to escape a thunderstorm. Gradually, she comes to realize that they are wearing little more than overcoats and high heels. The men are furtive, their bare feet making contact with the cold concrete.

“Don’t they know its ninety degrees out there?”

No response.

The limo comes to a stop aside the building. The clamor of doors opening and closing fills the air as Elena is escorted inside as she tries to figure out what exactly is going on. As various guests doff their jackets and outerwear, she gasps at the sight of women in tight corsets and latex, men in leather thongs and collars, every kinky outfit one could imagine. The blonde driver laughs and tosses her hair as she hands her trench coat to a peppered hair doorman.

“Hey, Mick.”

“Well well. If it isn’t the hell raiser Donna. Come to sample our wares, or is this a professional visit? Who’s your friend?”

The man winks at Elena.

“This is Elena Bancroft.” Donna smiles. “She’ll be representing the company tonight.”

“Oh.”

Elena pulls Donna aside.

“What’s going on here?” She grips her driver’s wrist. “I thought this was a professional engagement.”

“It is.”

“Well none of these people look professional. Why is everyone wearing that…that…stuff?”

“I can explain—“

Katye wanders toward the two of them, the clink of her high heels reverberating off the hardwood floor.

“Elena! For a moment I thought you’d never show up.”

Elena glances at her boss, topless save for fishnets and a latex skirt.

“Ms. Lewis? What are you doing…in that?”

“What’s the matter, Ms. Bancroft? Afraid of breasts?”

“It’s not that, but…”

“When in Rome, do as the Romans do.”

Elena fidgets, rubbing her fingers together vigorously.

“Where’s this mystery author I’m supposed to meet?”

“You mean Alex Wright?” Katye points toward a tall, almond haired man at a buffet table. “He’s here. But first let me get you a drink.”

Katye escorts her toward the makeshift bar. She bats an eye at the brunette manning the helm behind a wet bar, slinking into the high hair, Elena in tow. As the former chats with the barwoman, the latter sips her bottle of red wine, glancing occasionally at the gaggle of publishers-agents-fetishists behind her. The freckled intern grows groggy, her eyes blurring gradually.

At first she mistakes her new mood for inebriation. Yet as she continues to drink, a tingling sensation grows down her arm and chest, traveling downward. Her feet suddenly feel heavier than bricks. She struggles to stand up, only to fall towards the floor.

“Wah the fu—“

Everything goes black.