Page 108 of Lethal in Pink

“Your evidence is a feeling.”

“My evidence is that you’ve been trash all night and then you rolled a perfect spare under pressure like it was nothing.” He grins, and it’s the kind of smile that makes my chest ache. “That’s statistically suspicious, hotshot.”

“Maybe I’m just better than you.”

“At bowling? No.”

“At everything? Yes.”

He laughs again, softer this time, and reaches for his jacket. “Come on. Party’s probably already started.”

The frat house smells like the inside of a beer can that someone left in a hot car for three days, then sprayed with cheap cologne. Bass hits the walls at a frequency that makes my molars vibrate, and the floor sticks to the soles of my boots with each step, a tacky grip that suggests someone spilled something sugary and never bothered to mop it up. Red cups everywhere. Bodies everywhere. The lighting is exclusively provided by string lights that someone has draped over every available surface in what I can only assume was an attempt to make the place look less like a municipal disaster zone.

Jae materializes beside me, a red cup already in his hand, his shoulders loose and his expression carrying that particular ease of someone who has decided that tonight, for once, he is not going to overthink anything. The bass drops, and fifty strangers shout in unison. Someone spills a drink three feet to my left. No one notices.

“This is awful,” I say, raising my voice over the noise.

“It’s authentic,” Jae replies, his accent thickening slightly around the edges. He takes a sip, winces. “The beer is also awful. Very consistent theme.”

“At least they’re committed to the bit.”

A hand clamps down on Jae’s shoulder from behind. I turn to see Marcus, a fellow third-year vet med student with sleep deprivation carved deep into the dark circles under his eyes, looking lit with the aggressive recognition of someone who has had exactly enough cheap alcohol to feel intellectually invincible.

“Kim! Holy shit, man, you’ve gotta settle this. Logan is trying to tell me that a canine gastric dilatation-volvulus can be managed with conservative medical stabilization alone if you decompress fast enough, and I’m about to drown him in this trash-can punch.”

Jae gets dragged into the debate before he can finish his sentence, pulled sideways through the crowd toward a cluster of bodies near the kitchen where Logan is already shaking his head aggressively. Jae shoots me an apologetic glance over his shoulder—a quick tilt of his chin, the universal sign for I’ll be right back—and then he’s swallowed by the press of students arguing loudly about canine anatomy over pounding bass.

I move. Not fast—fast draws eyes. I walk with the measured casualness of someone heading to the bathroom, cutting through the thickest part of the crowd until I hit the makeshift bar setup along the far wall. Two plastic storage tubs filled with ice and beer cans. A handle of bottom-shelf vodka. A bottle of off-brand cranberry juice that’s been sitting out long enough to turn an unnatural shade of maroon. A stack of red Solo cups, slightly dented from previous use.

I pour two drinks. Vodka cranberries, because it’s the only combination that won’t taste like battery acid and regret. The cranberry hits the vodka with a soft fizz, the liquid settling into a deep, opaque red. Foam rises, then subsides. Two identical cups. Same fill level. Same thin ring of pale foam at the rim.

My clutch is already open, my fingers zeroing in on the tissue-wrapped Lullaby roller tucked beside my keys. The pink glass catches the string lights for a split second before I twist the cap, drawing the glass wand out heavy with clear, odorless fluid.

I hold the first cup steady with my left hand. My right brings the wand to the rim. One squeeze. The compound disperses into the cranberry vodka with a silence so complete it feels obscene.

I cap the rollerball. Tuck it back into the tissue. Close my clutch.

The entire operation takes eleven seconds.

I set both cups down on the sticky high-top table, arranging them with careful precision—his on the left, mine on the right, a clear mental map. I reach out to pick them up, but before my fingers can close around the plastic, a guy stumbling past with a fresh six-pack careens hard into my shoulder and clips the edge of the table.

The high-top jolts. The cups slide six inches across the laminate, bumping into each other and spinning.

My stomach executes a slow, sickening freefall as I stare down at them.

They’ve shifted. I have no earthly idea which cup holds the compound and which one is just cheap vodka and cranberry.

Fuck. Fuck-fuckity-fuck-fuck-fuck.

Panic prickles hot and sharp along the back of my neck. I can't stand here. I can't test them. I need to move.

I snatch both cups up before anyone else can slam into the table, my jaw tight. Spotting Jae cutting back through the crowd toward me, I lock down my expression, force the panic back down where it belongs, and step forward to meet him.

“You okay?” he asks, noticing the tight set of my jaw as he reaches me.

“Just overwhelmed by the volume,” I lie smoothly, holding out one of the cups at random.

He takes it without hesitation. I keep the other one in my hand.