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I wonder if there’s a story to tell, and if I’m lucky, I can unravel the mystery surrounding Killian Kade. Not like I could report illegal activities that I aided and abetted in the Strickland Gazette, the school newspaper I write for once a week. Because I’m the social chair for Kappa Delta, my boss at the paper decided to put me in charge of the social activities on campus. It’s literally my job to know what everyone on campus is doing, which isn’t all that interesting.
But Killian taking my car from the parking garage right off Broad Street… well, that could be front-page news. And not just in the Strickland Gazette. The Philadelphia Inquirer would be all over this, too. There has to be a reason why he wants my car. Why would someone do such a thing? It doesn’t make any sense.
In heels that are already killing my feet, I stagger over to the driver’s side of the car, ready to tug on the handle and demand he get out of my car. But I don’t get the chance. The second I move out from the front of the car and inch toward the driver’s side door, he revs the engine, the tires screeching from the sheer force of power. Burnt rubber fills my nostrils, wafting through the air around me.
“That’s my car,” I scream as he passes by me without another thought. “Asshole,” I mutter under my breath, jaw clenched in anger, my hands balled into fists at my sides.
He’s so fucking dead when I find him.
If I call my dad, he’ll want me to call the police, but I have a better idea. Killian lives in the on-campus house with a handful of his hockey teammates, one block over from Greek Row where I live with my sorority sisters. It’s not that hard to find him. But that’s the least of my worries right now. I’m supposed to be on my way to the club. I should have driven with my sisters, but I was too busy working on a paper and lost track of time.
I remove my cell phone from my purse and open the Uber app, knowing my friends have already left for The Sixth Floor. All of the sororities on campus are entered into the dance competition the club is holding tonight. Kappa Delta wins every year, and because of that, the president of my sorority will flip shit if I’m late therefore disqualifying them.
After I schedule my ride, I exit the garage, my heart still pounding in my chest. My nerves are shot. How will I explain why I’m late without telling on Killian? He has to pay for what he’s done, but I have to be smart. How do you get to a guy like him? The athletes on campus are mostly untouchable. No matter what they do, nothing ever sticks. And because the parking garage has no cameras that I can see, I have no proof Killian was behind the wheel of my car.
Thirty minutes later, I stroll into The Sixth Floor, the two-story club located on the Philadelphia waterfront. Colored lights shoot through the white cloud of smoke filling the club. The air is thick, so heavy and dense that it’s hard to breathe. I inform the bouncer I’m part of the competition, and he leads me through the crowded club. It’s an old warehouse converted into a large, open room with bars on each side and stairs which lead to the VIP area.
We navigate a narrow hallway, moving to the right to allow girls with trays of drinks to pass. The bouncer stops in front of a red door and pushes it open to reveal the dressing room. Girls in short skirts and tank tops flock to the mirrored dressing tables. They take turns applying makeup and fixing their hair.
Some girls walk around in their panties and no bra with nothing more than pasties covering their nipples. It reminds me of a scene from a movie that takes place in a strip club. The bouncer stares at the naked girls, holding out his hand for me to enter the room, his eyes not leaving the girls. Already irritated, I blow past him and slam the door in his face while smiling at the thought of what he must be thinking.
I’m so pissed off at men right now. Wait until I see Killian Kade on campus. He’ll wish he never met me by the time I’m through with him.
Jemma Walcott, a new Kappa Delta pledge and the younger sister of our vice president, Jordan, raises her hand to catch my attention. I wave in response, weaving through the crowd to get to her.
“We’re about to go on,” she informs me. “My sister was looking for you.”
Like Jemma, her older sister, Jordan, is what they call a legacy, meaning they were shoe-ins at Kappa Delta because their mother is part of the sisterhood from when she attended college. They both have the same auburn hair except Jemma’s falls over her shoulders and Jordan keeps hers cropped beneath her chin.
