1
VIOLET
I’m going to kill him. And not just metaphorically. I mean it in a very literal sense. Like with a knife or a pillow when he’s drunk off his ass or… Okay, that’s a lie. I do mean it in a very metaphorical sense, but only because I’d never survive prison. I might be scrappy and used to dealing with shit, but I’m pretty sure my hypothetical cellmate could still snap me like a twig. I digress. This time? This time, my dad crossed the line.
Squaring my shoulders, I march up the steps to Harden Estate, trying to squash my interest as I take in the massive property in all its opulent glory. Why? Because, despite knowing what a rare occasion it is to be invited here, now isnotthe time.
Yeah, the Harden brothers are known for throwing pretty epic parties, but not here. Never here. Or at least, rarely. Usually, they host parties on the beach or in an abandoned warehouse in The Drift or, well, anywhere really. But here?
I wipe my sweaty palms against my thighs and tilt my chin an inch higher in hopes of looking like I belong on the premises, though I doubt I’m successful. It probably would’ve helped if I’d changed out of my threadbare T-shirt and jeans before I left, but I was too pissed to care. Then again, even if I had thrown on the most expensive dress I’ve found while thrifting, it’s not like itwould help. Nope. I swear the rich can smell poverty like a shark can smell blood in water. The knot in my stomach tightens.
A man with arms the size of tree trunks stands at the twelve-foot tall door. Tattoos swirl along his biceps, making him look even more intimidating thanbeforeI noticed the skull and crossbones etched into his dark skin. Speaking of being able to snap me like a twig.
Keep moving, I silently remind myself.
I hang near a group of sorority girls and follow the flock inside, nearly running into a bombshell brunette when she stops at the last second.
“Benji?” She grabs the doorman’s forearm and flips her hair over her shoulder. “You don’t usually play security guard.”
“Paulson had to step away for a minute,” he returns. “Gotta keep an eye on things.”
Grateful for the distraction, I don’t bother sticking around to hear the brunette’s response as I step into the huge house. It’s packed and looks straight out of a magazine. I almost expected the place to feel sterile, but this? Warm hardwood. Custom casing along the walls. Gold and brushed brass fixtures. Large custom artwork expertly placed throughout. I’m pretty sure my entire home could fit in the entryway, and there would still be room for the unlit fireplace tucked further inside. It is beautiful. Dark and moody and provocative. Just like the owners. The interior designer must’ve made a fortune on this place.
Not the time, Violet, I silently remind myself.
I slip around a couple making out at the base of the stairs. Weed, alcohol, sweat, and perfume mingle in the air like a fog. A thick, dizzying fog. My nose wrinkles. I’m late. If I wasn’t, my dad would still be here, paying off his debt after making yet another bad wager on the evening’s festivities.
Asshole.
At least the party hasn’t ended yet. The question is, where do I go from here? It’s not like I have a plan. I have a bone to pick, sure. But a plan? An actual, tangible plan with an A, B, and C beside it? Nope. Nada. I bite the inside of my bottom lip and search the huge area for one of the Harden brothers or, at the very least, their right-hand man, Roman. I really don’t know who I’d prefer to approach less. None of them is what I’d call a safe option.
Actually, none of them are safe, in general, if the rumors hold even an ounce of truth. I shove the flood of examples aside, well aware it’ll only make me want to hightail it out of here even more. In another life, maybe I would. Maybe I’d be able to go home and watch a show with some popcorn, my worries long behind me. But I don’t have any other options. Not if I want to get the hell out of The Drift instead of being swallowed by it like my mom was.
I force another round of oxygen into my lungs, praying it calms my nerves, when my body jerks forward. Looking over my shoulder, I find a strange guy with dark hair—AKA the culprit who ran into me.
“Shit, sorry,” he apologizes.
“It’s—” I clench my fists, so amped up I’m afraid I might actually yell at the guy for an honest mistake. Letting out a slow breath, I soften my voice. “It’s fine.”
“You sure?” His brows dip. “You look like you’re gonna be sick.”
He’s not far off, but my nausea doesn’t have anything to do with him. I blame the smothering ambiance and the pit of despair churning in my gut. If tonight doesn’t go how I desperately need it to, I’ll lose my shit.
Digging my fingernails into my palms, I try to focus on the man in front of me. “Do you…do you know who I need to talk toif I want to place a bet? I know it’s one of the Harden brothers, but?—”
He grabs my arm and tugs me to the side of the room. “Jesus, New Girl. Ever heard of keeping your voice down?”
Keep my voice down? Is this guy serious? I mean, I get it. Or at least, I would if we were walking around campus or something. It’s not like what the Harden brothers are doing isn’t shady at best, but under their own roof? Who’s going to overhear me? The boogeyman?
I try to smooth out my features, attempting to hide my annoyance at Conspiracy Man’s sharpness. “Sorry. I, uh, I’ve never done this before, and I heard…”
“Ford. He’s the guy who can help you out.”
“Ford?”
The stranger shifts his gaze to his left, and I follow it, finding a Harden brother in the flesh across the giant family room.
Ford. Got it. Light brown hair, a wide smile with straight, white teeth, and light green eyes. Yup. He’s definitely a Harden, and from what I’ve heard, he’s also the nicest of the bunch. Or at least the most charismatic.
