I’m going to prison for murder.
That’s all there is to it. Izzy and Lizzy will be disappointed, but once they get to college and find themselves stuck in a group project with two people they hate, they’ll get it.
Jason is a low-level Count and looks the part—dark shirt, ratty jeans, and an arrogant slouch. “I just think that we should use a PowerPoint and not a video.”
“Dude, no one wants to use a PowerPoint,” Mark says, eyes rolling. “Get over it.”
“I told you,” Jason says, leaning back in his seat like we’ve got all the damn time in the world, “teachers love PowerPoints. Graphs are like porn to them.”
“Yeah, but the video—” Mark starts.
“The video is bullshit,” Jason jumps in.
I glance down at my phone for the third time. I’ve been in this stupid group project meeting for two hours. The first hour was spent arguing over what topic to discuss. The second was on the merits of a PowerPoint or a video. If I didn’t already hate Jason because of his affiliation with the Counts, this would put him on my shit list for life. Mark, a mid-level Prince, isn’t much better. But at least he’s right about the goddamn video.
I have no idea how the professor determined groups, but it’s almost like he was trying to stir up shit. A Lord, a Count, and a Prince locked in the same room is a powder keg.
Again, I look down at my phone. It’s almost one and Story should be checking in before going to her afternoon class. She’s very good at checking in now. Almost depressingly so. Her compliance doesn’t give me many opportunities to come up with fun, sexy, ways to correct her behavior anymore. That’s the difference between me and Killer. My corrections are all in good, sexy fun. His punishments are always more about his ego than his dick.
The numbers on my phone cross from 1:59 to 2:00 and I open the tracking app. Her little blue dot hovers over the campus. I enlarge the screen, zeroing in on her location. The GPS scales down, pulling the campus into view. She’s not in the Student Center, nor en route to her classroom. Her dot is just blinking passively in the parking lot. What the hell is she doing out there?
“What do you think, Mercer?”
“I think I don’t give a fuck,” I say, standing up, eyes glued to the phone. “You guys figure it out and email me my part.”
“No way,” Jason says, acting all affronted, although I don’t know why. There’s no way this wasn’t going to happen. I should get a medal for having stayed this long. “We have to turn in the project outline today by five.”
“Then turn it in.” I sling my backpack over my shoulder. The dot hasn’t moved at all. I click on it, pulling up the details.
11:00 Story left the social sciences building
11:02-11:08 Story made a short trip to Forsyth Quad (6 min)
11:17 Story made a short trip to Arthur Grant Drive (5 min)
11:17am -2:01pm Near Arthur Grant Drive (1 hr, 46 min)
I blink. According to the tracker Story has been in the parking lot since 11:17 am. Something isn’t right. I stalk toward the door.
“Where are you going?” Mark asks, his chair sliding on the floor. “We need to finish this up.”
I look back over my shoulder, smirking. “Do what you need to do. If I get an ‘F’, I’ll just have my dad donate a new wing.” I turn and bump straight into Jason, who is now blocking the door, his arms crossed over his chest. “Are you fucking serious right now? Get the hell out of my way.”
Jason’s jaw tics and he glances over my shoulder, like he’s considering if Mark will help him if he starts a fight. “I really didn’t expect much more out of a Lord, seeing as how you’re all lazy, cheating shits. But you’re not sticking us with all the work.”
I step closer, letting my mouth stretch into a grin. “Move, or I’ll make you move.” I know he won’t call my bluff, but I see his eyes move down to my split lip, narrowing. As much as I’d love to bash this fucker’s smug face in, I definitely don’t want to waste the time.
“Let him go,” Mark says, sounding a little too casual about it. “We’re good here.”
Jason unfolds his arms and slowly steps out of my way, extending an arm. “Kumbaya, my Lord.” I don’t like the smarmy grin plastered on his face. They’re probably going to fail me.
Oh well.
I push past him out into the hallway, phone already to my ear. Story’s cell goes straight to voicemail. “Sweet Cherry,” I say, keeping my voice as calm as possible, “you missed your check in. Call me right away.”
Next, I dial Rath, whose phone goes straight to his ‘Do Not Disturb’ response. Fuck! Whenever he goes into a session like this, the room basically gets locked down until he’s finished, which won’t be for another fifteen minutes. No phones. No interruptions.
I stop outside the building and check the tracker again. No change. Something is definitely up. This isn’t like her.
My thoughts go straight to Killian. It may not be very charitable of me, but he hasn’t earned much of my charity these days. If he made an order to her, she’d follow it. Because it doesn’t matter what he thinks—she’s loyal like that.
Something is wrong. Moving on instinct now, I jog down the sidewalk, toward the athletic dorms. I push through the door and skip the elevator, rushing up to the third floor. Killian’s got a suite of his own, paid for personally by my Dear Old Dad. We spent a lot of time up here last year, partying and plotting South Side jobs. It’d be the only place he’d go to.
I knock twice before opening the door, barging inside.
“Killer!” I stop, gaping at the state of the room. It’s an absolute fucking pigsty. Pizza boxes, dirty boxers, sport drink and beer bottles all over the place. There are two game controllers sitting on the laundry-covered couch, while intro music and the glow of the TV screen fill the room.
Killian must be losing it, just like I said. The guy isn’t just infamous for being tidy. It’s like his whole life hinges on some nebulous concept of order and cleanliness. ‘Anal’ isn’t a strong enough word. I’ve seen him throw an absolute conniption just because a few binders fell over on his desk. If this is the state of his room, then I don’t even want to know where his head’s at.
I curse, kicking an empty energy drink bottle out of my way as I exit the suite.
Since it’s between here and the parking lot, I double-time it to the music building, eyes only half fixed on where I’m walking. I keep looking at my phone, but that fucking dot never moves.
As expected, Rath is locked in the studio. Looking through the window, I can see him in there, face tense and annoyed as he ignores whoever’s speaking. He looks wound up, and I know that look on his face—the way he pinches the bridge of nose, feet shifting restlessly, eyes darkening. He’s about to lose his shit. Distantly, I remember him mentioning that he’s having a peer review today. They’ve never gone past noon, though. Rath has his weak points, but music has never been one of them.
“Fuck this,” I mutter, grabbing the knob and yanking it open. Maybe dad can buy him a wing, too. Everyone’s gaze lurches up to me as I enter, including Rath’s.
His surprised expression morphs to displeasure, and then confusion. I don’t know what he sees on my face, but it makes him immediately spring to his feet, rattling off a quick, “Lewis can’t reach the pedals, Willis has shitty timing, and Gregory can suck my big fat balls if he thinks I’m sitting through another twenty-minute Russian piece.” He throws them a peace sign. “I’m out, fuckers.”
Their angry protests nip at his heels, but Rath strides right up to me. “What now?”
Leading him out of the studio, I explain, “Story isn’t checking in.”
The look he gives me could peel paint. “That’s what this is about? Jesus Christ, you had me thinking one of the Petes showed up on our doorstep. You know, something actually fucking important.”
Teeth grinding, I insist, “This is important!”
“I don’t get you,” he says, gait unhurried at my side. “The whole tracking thing, needing to know her every goddamn move. It’s too much work. I don’t know why you bother. If the girl wants to blow off for a few hours, I say—”
Grabbing his arm, I yank him to a stop. “Listen to me, Dimitri.” His mouth presses into a tense line at my use of his name. I only whip that out when shit is serious. “Her tracker has been in the same spot—the wrong spot—for two fucking hours. Killian’s suite in the athletic dorms is trashed, and I can’t find him, either.”
At least that gets some urgency into his expression. He shifts his eyes around, brow knitting together. “You think he did something?”
Shrugging, I admit, “I don’t know, man. But Killer’s been on a short fuse lately.”
“Fuck.” Rath drags in a hard breath, raking his fingers through his hair. The look he gives me is uneasy. “This morning, when I was tracking down everyone who hadn’t checked their texts yet, I found out he’s been interrogating the frat.”
“About what?” I ask, although I instantly realize the answer. “About Story fucking around.”
Rath nods, eyes shifty. “He was smashing phones, too. I think maybe a few of the guys were taking video of what happened last night.”
Eyes widening, I shove his shoulder. “You didn’t take their fucking phones at the door?!”
He swats my hand away, eyes flashing angrily. “How the fuck was I supposed to know he was going to make her suck his cock in front of forty-five pussy-hungry degenerates?”
“Goddamn it.” I press my fingertips into my eyes, trying to ease the ache forming behind them. “God-fucking-damn it, Rath.”
“He destroyed their phones,” he repeats, palms out, hapless. “You know Killian. He’s thorough.”
I snort bitterly. “Yeah, and he’s tearing a warpath through the campus to do it. Meanwhile,” I hold up my phone, showing the unmoving dot on the screen, “our Lady is MIA. This doesn’t fill me with comfort.”
“I’m sure she’s just…” He shrugs at the phone, momentarily at a loss for words. He voices another possibility I don’t want to hear. “Maybe she bolted. I mean, come on. Could you blame her?”
“No,” I admit, looking in the direction of the parking lot “But if she didn’t—if Killian’s fucking with her somehow, then…”
I have a lot of ground to cover when it comes to making shit right with Story. I apologized this morning, and it doesn’t matter that I saw the shocked tears shining in her eyes. It doesn’t matter that she let me put that daisy behind her ear before breakfast. It doesn’t even really matter that, after breakfast, she let me bend down to kiss her lips, or that she kissed me back, slow and sweet.
Words don’t matter here.
The real ground starts with this—keeping a promise. Keeping her safe.
“Rath.” I look into his eyes, willing him to understand. “I told her I wouldn’t let him hurt her again.”
From the set of his shoulders, the way he straightens, I think he gets it. “Okay,” he says, jerking his head in the direction of the parking lot. “Let’s go find our Lady, then.”
