The Deflowering

Black screen. Amy giggles behind his hand. 'Adam, what are you doing?' Robby’s voice answers, low and cocky, 'Almost there, babe. Hang on.' He pulls the blindfold away and the camera jumps to her POV—first real look at his spot. Anniversary treat. Nineteen-year-old geek couple, now up in a rented mansion instead of his parents’ basement. She spins, wide-eyed. Adam brags they can finally fuck whenever they want without Mom and Dad listening through the vents. He’s got a whole day lined up. Amy asks how he swung a place this big. He shrugs it off—new job, life on track, gonna take care of them both. She wants the tour. He grabs her wrist, hustles her past the marble, the open kitchen, straight to his bedroom like the rest doesn’t matter. Door shuts quick. Camera lingers, then drifts down the hall where three hard-looking dudes pack dope into delivery bags. Inside the bedroom the couple starts making out—fast hands, hungry mouths—until the door slams with a fist. One of the guys yells for Adam to get downstairs. Adam slaps his palm over Amy’s mouth, blurts some lame excuse. They call him a bitch and tell him not to make them come get him. He whispers it’s just his roommates messing around, tells her to stay quiet. She waits two seconds, then creeps after him. Living-room view stops her cold: her skinny boyfriend surrounded, counting bricks while the crew rides him. They laugh, shove, threaten to kick him out for the last botched drop. He’s trying to talk smooth, eyes darting, desperate to belong. Then one of them spots Amy in the doorway. Everything goes still.