"Light this Candle" - NYC Midnight Flash Fiction 2021 - 2nd round

Hello, darlings, here's the second challenge/first round of the NYC Midnight Flash Fiction contest for 2021. This challenge is 1000 words, and, like my heatmates, I was assigned the genre Thriller, the setting of a birthday party, and the necessity of featuring a sugar cube. Enjoy!

"Light this Candle"

 Linda Scott

Everyone who matters sparkles for Jane Farraday’s birthday soiree. Everyone who matters, plus Simone and her sister Nicole.

The party’s exclusive: every one of the hundreds of guests is a multimillionaire, magnate, influencer, or the flashiest and most shameless of their hangers-on. It’s taken all the social capital Simone’s ever had to get in. She feels conspicuous now in heels, statement jewelry, and false lashes that seem to weigh more than her skimpy LBD.

“It’s not the end of the world,” the bartender consoles someone whose drink has spilled.

Maybe.

Farraday is a popular, dissolute socialite whose vacation photos are enough to torpedo cultural, financial, and political leaders around the world, but she keeps them close, caste-loyal and security-savvy. The disco-ball glitter of the social whirl continues, and the status quo grinds on.

Not everyone benefits.

Now Simone weaves through the crowd, clutching Nicki’s borrowed fan-pleated Cult Gala bag, and tries not to sweat with the strain of holding it.

If she loses the thumb drive inside it... She tries not to think about it, focusing instead on the sheathed plastic knife digging into her lumbar, disguised among the boning of her dress.  

Where is he? she wonders, and just like that, the crowd between them rearranges, and there he is. Marshall Rafferty, gaming YouTuber of fathomless wealth, in the spray-tanned flesh. He’s surrounded by models and heirs of deep-rooted plutocrats, tiptoe with fascination as he spins his own contagious vulgate.

“…because I have a thing for sugar cubes,” he laughs, casually sipping a glass of milky absinthe. “For instance, I remember this from junior high. If you try to ignite a sugar cube with a match, it won’t burn. It’s easy to light it, though: just put a smudge of ash on it and it acts as a catalyst. Whoosh. Ignition.”

“Whoa,” Milan Tannenbay breathes. Into her third martini and avoiding carbs, she hangs on his every word. Her lips are damasked glitter as she licks them.

Rafferty winks at her. “Funny thing: the ash won’t ignite.”

“Why not?”

He leans forward, leering down her glowing cleavage. “You can’t burn what’s been on fire, m’darlin’.”

Her gilded lips part soundlessly, an O of tipsy wonder. “Why does the sugar burn, then?”

“Same reason we’ll all burn, baby,” he whispers, taking her hand. “Impurity.”

The hair on Simone’s nape rises, but La Milan giggles.

Asher Benson interrupts. “All I remember my tutor mentioning about sugar cubes was that if you squashed out the space between the atoms, all human life could fit into one.”

“Jesus, Benson,” the supermodel protests. “That’s horrible.”

Rafferty chuckles. “Squeezing people.” Roving the room, his eyes lock with Simone’s.

Time stops. Rafferty’s smile freezes. A bead of sweat rolls down the plastic knife to her buttocks.

Damn. Not here.

“’Scuse me,” Rafferty shoves his glass into Benson’s blue-diamond-ringed hand. “I need to dance with somebody.”

Milan pouts, snubbed.

Simone turns. He won’t run after her, will he? She flits back into the terrace crowd and makes for the French doors.

For a sick moment she thinks he’ll actually break into a run, but then he’s interrupted by a chummy greeting from a sheikh. Simone slips inside the mansion.

Good. Tick-tock, you bastard.

Outside, a cheer goes up. Microphone squeal. “Do you want some cake?” the birthday girl’s amplified voice teases. “Let’s light this candle!”

“Isn’t Jane amazing in feathers?” a male voice booms on the mic.

Simone rolls her eyes and seizes the opportunity. She darts through rooms like a nymph through a wood, losing herself in a gleaming conservatory. Once there, she ditches her heels, stashes the bag, and waits.

Her Apollo pursues. He’s managed to escape the sheikh. His vintage Nike Air Mags squeak on the marble.

“You weren’t invited,” Rafferty drawls.

Simone pads through the huge, potted plants, keeping distance between them. “Suddenly consent matters to you?”

He chuckles. “You came here for me?”

“Not really. I came for the data. Like you.”

Outside, the amplified voice booms, “Let’s toast at midnight, folks! Count down with me!”

Rafferty bares his teeth. There’s a gleam between his fingers. “So the sinners and the saints meet in the Garden.”

“Ten!”

“I suppose we do.” Her own fingers are behind her, winkling the knife from its hidden pocket.

“Nine!”

Rafferty’s gasp is delighted. “My God. You mean to fight.”

“Not exactly,” Simone says, backing into the orderly jungle. Just delay you.

“Eight!”

He plunges after. “You won’t win, m’darlin’.”

She doesn’t answer.

“Seven!”

Rafferty triangulates on her voice and launches himself, swinging his hand as if to slap her on the buttock as he emerges from between tall monsteras.

“Six!”

Simone dances out of reach. The disc that lurks like a joy-buzzer in his palm is surely dangerous: he has Batman’s own budget. She slashes at it but fails to connect. “I’m not gonna let you blackmail everyone, Raff.”

“Five!”

“They’re all sinners, Simone. You know that.” Rafferty delivers another lazy, open-palmed swat.

Simone dodges. “I liked you better before you found God.”

“Four!”

Rafferty surges forward suddenly, blocking with his suited left forearm, shoving her backward through capsizing planters. She slams into the wall choking, fighting to get her knife free. The little joy-buzzer bites into her naked arm. “You’ll see Him before I do.”

“You have everything, Raff!”

“Three!”

The room is already spinning. Simone feels hot, sick, roofied. The knife clatters down.

“But I can have it all, babe. You were stupid to leave.” Rafferty mashes his mouth onto hers, brutally, roughly: bitter licorice, sugar, blood.

“Two!”

From the corner of her eye, she sees commotion and laughs against his lips.

La Milan and Asher Benson have followed Rafferty. They stare. Benson raises his phone and starts filming, pushing forward. Beyond them, breathless with panic, is Simone’s sister Nicole.

If she’s here, she’s finished reformatting Jane Farraday’s laptop.

“One! Happy birthdayyyyyyy to youuuuuu—”

Nicole follows Simone’s gaze and slinks, quietly, to retrieve the purse.

Take that, status quo.

Nicole grins.

They’ve won.