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The party was being held in the grey-brick building directly across the park from ours, where third-years had their own house with massive, luxe bedrooms instead of small dorm rooms. And where, I discovered, the Ford family were given the special privilege of living even in first year. It was called Ford House, so I supposed it made sense. Entitled bastards.
“Last chance to back out,” Byron sighed, skulking along the path at my side like a vampire who’d been mourning his lost love for a century. “We can go back to our rooms, no one will ever notice.”
“Someone will,” Honey disagreed. “This is our best chance to make a good first impression. Going home will make us look like snobs.”
“She’s right,” I said begrudgingly. I held out my hand, pinky finger extended. Introverts unite. His face softened and he hooked his pinky with mine, eyeing the three-storey house with less hostility.
It was a lovely building, all mullioned windows, pointed arches, and heavy Gothic architecture. I was surprised there wasn’t a gargoyle crouched on the roof, watching us walk down the path to the stained-glass front door.
Byron yelped, grabbing my arm when lightning shot across the sky in a violent arc, throwing Ford House into stark, merciless light for a split second. It caught on the empty plastic cups left on the doorstep and the topiary bush someone had already fallen into and left in a pitifully crooked state. It looked like the party got started before we arrived. That was good—drunk people paid less attention—and bad—drunk people were drunk and also people and I disliked both.
“There, there.” I stroked his back. “I’ll protect you.”
He grumbled, letting go of me and casting a sullen look at the sky. “Why is it always fucking raining?”
“We’re on an island between Ireland and Scotland,” Honey pointed out, the whiskers painted on her cheeks curving as she smiled.
Her smile dialled up a few degrees when the bone-cream door opened and spat out Alastor Carmichael dressed as the Donne Darko rabbit with his bunny head dangling from a nonchalant hand.
I stopped dead on the path when Alastor sprayed vomit across the lawn and the lopsided bush, clearly already trashed. Poor little topiary. It was a comfort to know something was having a worse day than I was.
“Lovely,” Byron said, wrinkling his nose.
I eyed the panelled hallway through the open door, the music that had been muffled moments earlier now blazing and unapologetic, the thumping bass of the Dua Lipa remix making my blood jump in a matching rhythm. Music I loved, but parties less so. Luckily, alcohol fixed most things and there was guaranteed to be an endless flow of it in a frat party thrown by a guy whose family owned a fucking island.
Walking into the grey brick house and voluntarily entering the miasma of booze, perfume, and vomit was a whole assault on my senses. What the hell was I doing here, dressed in a flowing white dress with a long ivory wig smeared with Honey’s pink hair chalk?1
Byron and I came to an abrupt stop when Honey rushed past us, vanishing into the kitchen at the end of the hall.
“She’s not…?” I murmured, a furrow in my brow.
“Oh, she is,” Byron argued when our eternally sunny friend reappeared with a glass of water and brushed past us back outside.
“She hardly knows the guy,” I huffed. “By, promise me if I ever lose my mind over broad shoulders and a nice smile, shake some sense into me.”
“I promise to shake you back to sanity,” he vowed, laying a hand over his heart as we entered the kitchen and made a beeline for a keg of beer beside an impressive tower of plastic cups.
“Holy shit, Cactus,” a raucous male voice shouted down the hall. “You’ve got tits.”
“Do not call me Cactus.” I gave the dick who’d spoken—Mason Lindgren, the German guy, dressed as a ghostbuster—a fierce scowl, then turned to scout the kitchen for food. It was best not to encourage them with attention. The same techniques used in dog training could be applied to college boys, but no fucking chance was I rewarding anyone for good behaviour with a treat.
Cactus Bengal-Tiger Wallison. It was one hell of a name. And joy, it looked like someone here had access to student records. Not surprising in this uni, with these students.
Break his face so he can never speak your name again, a dark impulse whispered to me, chills shaking over my bare shoulders. Make him swallow his own teeth. Don’t stop until his face turns blue.
I bit back unease and ignored it like I always ignored that voice.
Except for June three years ago. Only three people knew. No one else could ever know.
“Cat,” Byron said with the note of someone repeating something they’d already said.
“Sorry,” I sighed, accepting the cup and taking a long drink. I expected to wince at its cheap taste but damn it was the good stuff.
“Don’t worry,” By soothed, squeezing my shoulder. “They’re not out that much.”
Great, now I was painfully aware of the off-shoulder neckline of the dress, which turned out to be more boobaceous than I initially expected. I didn’t even need to glance down. They were right there, plump and curvy and on full horrific display.
“Because you love me, please tell the truth,” I said, glancing around the kitchen and only recognising a few people.
