TWO HOURS AND three drinks later, I’m pretty fucking drunk. Sarah’s damn near gone. We’re laughing and dancing to “Mad Hatter” by Melanie Martinez.
I get this spine-chilling feeling and stop dancing. I quickly look around, but I can’t focus on anything. My hair slaps me in the face, and I shove it back behind my ear the best I can. Only for it to fall back in my way.
“What?” She notices and stops dancing. “You going to get sick?”
“No. I …” My eyes stop on the table at the front of the ballroom. It sits high up on a platform, giving the ones seated there a clear view of the crowd. Two of them are now standing behind it, facing one another. Their hand movements let me know they’re deep in conversation. The one on the very end is typing away on a phone, making me wonder why we had to give ours up. The one in the middle. It’s a man. I can tell by the way he’s sitting. He’s laid back in his seat with his right hand up, resting on the side of his mask. It causes the sleeve of his cloak to slide down, and I can see the black and silver watch on his wrist. The flashing lights hit it, almost blinding me.
The one sitting next to him leans in and must say something because the guy’s mask moves up and down as if he’s agreeing.
Those feelings return, making my breathing pick up while I stare at him. Bringing the drink to my lips, I go to take a sip, but I’m hit from behind, knocked forward, making me spill it down my face and shirt. “What the fuck?” I spin around.
“Sorry … Blakely?”
I blink up at another guy dressed in a black cloak and mask. “How do you know …?”
He rips his mask off, and I stare up at a set of wide blue eyes. They instantly narrow on me as I blink. “Blakely?” he growls. “What are you … What are you doing here?”
I can’t speak. Instead, my eyes go to the bleach blonde he’s still holding.
She clings to him like the typical drunk girl who can’t stand on her own.
“What in the fuck is this?” Sarah demands, stepping forward. “Who the fuck is this bitch?” She’s always been an angry drunk. Senior year of high school, she got trashed and punched her ex-boyfriend in the face for not having any gum. The cops were called, parents showed up. It was a nightmare.
“Hey,” the girl whines and then laughs. “I’m his girlfriend.”
“No!” Sarah snaps, yanking my arm, and pulls me forward. More alcohol rolls over the rim of my cup and onto my clothes. “This is his fucking girlfriend.”
She frowns and looks up at him. “Huh? Baby, what’s she …” Hiccup. “Talking about?”
“Nothing,” Matt tells her.
Sarah laughs, but it holds no humor.
His words snap me out of my trance. We started dating my freshman year when I moved here to Pennsylvania from Texas for college. We knew each other in high school, grew up in the same city, but I wasn’t allowed to date then. Not until you’re in college, Blakely. That’s when you’re old enough to understand a relationship, my mother had said.
I’ve remained a virgin for him. I’ve begged him to fuck me, and every damn time, he’s turned me down. Here I am, twenty years old, and the only thing I’ve fucked is a dildo that I’m not even sure how to use and a vibrator that I keep plugged into the wall when I feel like screaming for a release. He fucked Gabby Simmons his sophomore year in high school. His number kept climbing after that. And it looks like it hasn’t stopped.
He steps forward. “Blakely …”
I grab Sarah’s drink out of her hand and toss it into his face. Thankfully, it had more than mine. He gasps, and his girlfriend cups her mouth, softening her laugh.
“Fuck,” he growls, running his hand down it, wiping off the excess alcohol before shoving his damn mask over it like I have more to throw at him.
“This is over,” I tell him. “Blakely—”
“Enjoy,” I tell her, interrupting him with a big fuck-you smile and walking off.
Making my way to the kitchen, I stop at the island. Placing both of my hands on the edge, I bow my head. My sweaty, tangled hair falls to cover
my face, and I sniff, trying to calm my breathing. I will not cry here. This will not be the last time I see him. I’m stuck here until he graduates at the end of this year.
“Here.” Sarah pushes my hair back with her free hand, and I see she has a new drink for me in the other. Smells like vodka this time. I take it and throw it back, not caring how much gets on my already wet shirt. “He’s shit anyway, girl. Fuck him. Well, not literally. But you know …”
What will my parents say when I come home for the holidays, and they ask why he’s not with me? How will I explain this? It’s practically an arranged marriage without the ring and signed contract. Maybe that’s why he’s cheating. Because he knows no matter what, I have to end up with him. Two families forming one. “Do you think this is why he never let me come here?” I ask her. “Because he’s been with her the whole time?”
She looks away and sighs, thinking the same thing I am.
Is this why he has been questioning me about Ryat? They say the one accusing you of cheating is usually the bastard stepping out. How long has he been with her? Weeks, months, years? It could be any of those answers.
She didn’t look familiar. But Barrington is massive. She might not even go there. He’s made her his girlfriend? He didn’t even acknowledge me when Sarah corrected her that I was his girlfriend. Have I never even been?
“Fuck him!” I hiss.
“Yeah!” She gives me a drunken smile. “Let’s go back out there and dance some more. Okay? Show that piece of shit what he’ll miss.”
“Okay.” I throw back some more of my drink and then set it down, not wanting to wear anymore of it.
RYAT
I SIT BACK, watching Blakely through the two holes in my mask as she makes her way back to the dance floor. The chair vibrates my ass from the speakers being right behind us while “Numb” by 8 Graves plays. My right knee bounces with anticipation.
I choose you!
I’m guessing that since she threw a drink in her piece-of-shit boyfriend’s face while another girl was hanging all over him means he’s no longer in my way.
Makes things a little easier for me. Not like I’d let that motherfucker stop what I plan on doing. His fuckup is my gain. She’ll willingly allow me to take her as mine. Never underestimate a woman hell-bent on revenge. She’ll do anything to make an ex regret what he didn’t appreciate.
I didn’t think she’d show, but it couldn’t have gone better if I’d planned it. She’s here while Matt’s with Ashley. He never would let Blakely come to our house. Didn’t want her seeing what goes on. How the Lords operate. Kept her as far away from the members as possible. He knew that she wasn’t his guarantee. Not until after graduation anyway. He’ll marry her because that’s what his father told him to do, and she’ll hate him because he’s shit.
A solid foundation for a marriage, if you ask me.
Blakely throws her hands up and sways her hips to the music, causing her wet shirt to rise. My eyes drop to her pierced belly button and run down her exposed skin to where her jeans sit low on her hips. I run my tongue along my teeth, wishing they were her body.
“Three hundred and twenty-five so far,” Lance speaks into my ear.
I nod but say nothing. It’s amazing what boring rich kids will do for a little excitement. As the seniors at Barrington this year, we’re upholding a century-old tradition by throwing this party to kick off the school year.
The ritual is a game the Lords made up to pass the fucking time.
Imagine having more money than you could ever spend. More than your grandkids could ever spend. More than your great-grandkids … well, you get the point.
Somewhere, something has to give. After graduation, you begin your new role in the world as a Lord and settle down with some bitch who’ll fuck the pool boy any chance she gets. She’ll have the nannies raise your ungrateful children while you’re flying around the world working, fucking a one-night stand in your penthouse suite that you met in a bar and won’t bother to remember her name.
Yeah, I’m cynical. Love doesn’t exist. Convenience does. Most of us are already set to marry that certain person who will make our lives a living hell. There’s a reason the rich stay rich—arrangements are set in place before we even come along. Empires are combined to remain indestructible. Contracts signed, promises spoken, and alliances made to ensure our futures remain on top.
My eyes find her again just as she turns around and walks out of the ballroom. “Watch the floor,” I say, getting to my feet.
“Got it.” Chance waves me off.
I step down off the platform and make my way through the crowd. Finding her in the hallway, I watch her push open a door and stumble inside. She exits immediately. My girl is drunk off her ass. I’ve been watching her ever since I saw her step onto the dance floor. At one point, I knew she felt my stare. I wonder what she would think if she knew what I plan on doing to her.
She opens another door and quickly looks away, mumbling, “Sorry,” to whoever she just witnessed fucking inside by the way her cheeks redden.
I smile.
Stumbling, she places her hand on the wall to keep herself from falling into it. Looking into the next room, she steps inside, and I do the same. What are the odds? It’s my room.
Closing the door behind me, I flip on the light.
