Chapter Eighteen
Angelica knows.Of course she does. I would slap myself in the forehead if I weren’t in public. What an absolute rookie mistake—getting a lock open is only half the job. Covering my tracks by re-locking the door is just as important, if not more so.
Now she knows that someone broke into her room—and it sounds like I’m at the top of her suspect list.
I pretend to occupy myself with checking my nails, now listening twice as intently.
“I’m telling you,” Angelica continues, “they need their own housing or something.”
Marissa makes a show of massaging her temples. “Do you even know that they’re scholarship?”
“Trust me, if you saw them, you’d get it. The way they dress, it’s just… eugh.”
I glance down at my outfit—black blouse, black and red plaid skirt, dark leggings. The same as the other girls. Am I somehow wearing the uniform wrong? Maybe she’s talking about the party… my stomach sinks at the prospect. I looked good, didn’t I? Harper thought so. Ryker thought so—but, as little as I care for this girl, her jab still stings. Especially when one of the things I desire most is to simply be normal and fit in.
“You know this is kind of the most awkward place you could have chosen to bring this up, right?” Marissa grumbles. “I’m literally busy right now.”
“I got robbed?—”
“You just told me that they didn’t actually steal anything.”
“It’s about my safety, Mari!” Angelica’s voice escalates to a nearly overwhelming pitch, drawing the attention of more than a couple of other sorority sisters and prospective pledges.
Marissa pays no heed to the girl who, I now realize, must be her younger sister. Instead, she turns her scathing eyes back towards the crowd—towards me.
If she recognizes me, she doesn’t show it. Instead, her consternation ices over into a glossy imitation of friendliness, teeth bared in a grin that feels more predatory than welcoming.
“Hi there! Freshman?”
Angelica, still trying to get her attention, spies me and sours, nose wrinkling like she’s picked up a foul odor. “What are you doinghere?”
Where’s Harper when I need her? Of all the situations that Papa prepared me for, being put on the spot in a social setting was not one of them. “I came for the rush event.” I hope I sound like I at least sort of know what I’m talking about. “The Omega Phi meeting?”
“Meeting.” Angelica rolls her eyes. “No offense”—Full offense, her scowl tells me—“but you aren’t really the kind of thing that the OPs are looking for.”
Especially not, I imagine, since she thinks I’m a thief. Well, I am a thief, technically, but not in the way she believes.
“Don’t be a brat, Angie,” Marissa snaps before turning her alligator grin back towards me. “I’m Marissa Alexander, OP VP. That’s vice president of Omega Phi. You?”
“Lia. Lia Morgan. OP, um, candidate, I guess.”
“Feeling a little nervous?”
“No, not really, I just?—”
“It’s okay, sweetie. You don’t have to pretend. Lying is a bad look, you know.”
Sweet as icing, cold as frost. If all the OPs are this fake-friendly, I don’t know if I’ll be able to tolerate them after all. It’s hard to imagine Harper fitting in with people like this, which breaks my heart a little bit—she wants it so badly, but she doesn’t have a mean bone in her body.
“Saying nothing at all is also a bad look,” Marissa tells me, “but you’re cute. You have potential. We can work on it. So tell me—why Omega Phi?”
Just the question that I didn’t want her to ask. Well, I may not know how to reply, but I do know the first good rule of withstanding interrogation: deflect, deflect, deflect.
“Well, that’s what I’m here to find out.” I shrug. “Why did you choose Omega Phi?”
She folds her arms and lifts her chin, lending an unfortunate emphasis to the several inch height difference between the two of us. “Why the hell wouldn’t I? We’re the cream of the crop. Not just a bunch of stuck-up rich girls like lots of people say. We’re on top because we commit to everything two hundred percent. We host the best parties, set up the most lucrative charities, win the highest academic awards. And that’s to say nothing about post-grad. If you aren’t raking in wealth yourself, you’ll marry into it, guaranteed. Every girl who knows what’s good for her wants to be an Original Princess, sweetcheeks, but almost none of them have the dedication that it takes.”
And they’ve got a knack for monologuing, as well. Duly noted. “Seems like dedication isn’t the easiest thing to prove in such a small timespan. Don’t you ever worry that you misjudge people?”
She purses her lips and evaluates me through narrowed eyes, polished fingernails tapping against her elbows. After several seconds of silence, her sister Angelica opens her mouth—but Marissa, seeming to sense it without taking her eyes off of me, raises a hand. Her meaning is clear: you’re not a part of this. Angelica huffs, shoots me a stinging glare, and stalks off into the crowd.
“Here’s what we’re going to do,” Marissa decides. “You’re gonna come with me.”
“Come with you? Where?”
“Upstairs. Come on—” She snaps her fingers. “Get a move on. I don’t have all day.”
My instincts warn me that this is some sort of test, and I have no idea whether I’m meant to resist her or not—but from what I can tell about this girl, she likes being in control, and I guess I’m here to show her what she likes, right?
The stairs, like the rest of the house, are palatial—polished ivory-hued wood with a beautiful scrolled banister, spiraling towards the rooms above. Marissa stays close behind me as I ascend, and clicks her tongue pointedly when we reach the first landing.
“Second room on the right. Go on; it’s unlocked.”
The door that she indicates is plain enough, but with a small metal plaque set into it at eye level, inscribed with two fine lines of text: MARJORIE S. GRAHAM MEMORIAL MEETING ROOM.
“Who’s…?”
“Good old Marge, one of the founding members back in the day. They say you’re not a real OP until you’ve had a run-in with her ghost. Spooky.”
Her sarcasm is unmistakable. Resolving not to ask any more superficial questions, I let myself into the room, then hold the door open for Marissa, who strolls in without so much as a ‘thank you’ in my direction.
“This is where the real shit happens,” she says. “Bureaucratic type stuff. Voting, organizing. Go on—take a seat.”
The room is narrow but long, with paneled walls bearing an array of framed photographs—former sorority presidents, if I had to hazard a guess; the nearest one depicts a young woman and her elaborate hat in fuzzy black-and-white, while those at the other end are more recent, colorful shots. More of those pink crepe curtains cover the windows on the far side of the room, and a generously polished table runs down the middle, enough to seat fifteen or twenty people at least.
“Don’t gape; sit,” Marissa instructs again, annoyance biting her tone. I hurry to do so, sliding quickly into the nearest white wicker chair.
“Good. Now remind me, what was your name? Lena?”
“Lia. Morgan.”
“Is that like a double first name, or are you being fancy?”
“I’m—being fancy, I guess. I mean—it’s my first and last name.”
“Most people only use their last name if it’s something they’re proud of,” she says, her back to me as she strides towards a set of glass-fronted cabinets built into the wall. Behind their transparent doors, an array of pricey-looking liquor bottles glistens invitingly. “But I don’t recognize yours. Don’t tell me you’re the great-whatever-granddaughter of J.P. Morgan.”
“I… I guess I could be?” A sudden smarting pain clues me into the fact that I’ve started chewing on my lip again, and I force myself to stop.
“No, you couldn’t.” She pulls out one crystal bottle and contemplates it, holding it up to the light to evaluate the clear liquid sloshing inside. “Because you’re here on a scholarship. You’re one of the girls on Angie’s floor, aren’t you? I saw the way she looked at you. I’m observant, you know.”
The last words are fired at me in a tone that’s almost accusatory. I don’t understand why—I never said she wasn’t observant, did I?
“Again with the silence, babe. If you’ve got nothing to say, people will start thinking you’re dumb or something.”
Maybe so, but that’s not my problem. My silence ensures that she keeps talking—and the more people talk, the more they’re guaranteed to reveal.
She pops the bottle’s cork, brings the neck to her mouth, and takes two long swills without stopping for breath. I can smell the bite of liquor from here—that’s some heavy stuff, and she seems entirely unfazed.
She better not try to offer some to me. These past few nights have proven that my alcohol tolerance isn’t great, and I don’t want to mess up this—whatever this is.
“I’m not dumb,” I say, pushing down my mounting discomfort, “just confused. Why did you bring me up here?”
“To make sure you’ve got nowhere to run,” she says pleasantly.
My body goes rigid, and Marissa breaks out into a snorting laugh, waving the bottle in a messy arc.
“Oh, come on, don’t be ridiculous.” She giggles. “No, I just needed a pick-me-up. And to get away from my sister. You were a convenient excuse to get out of there without looking like I was just running off.” She nurses the bottle a bit more, watching me with an expression that makes me want to smack her across the face.
“If you’re just going to make fun of me,” I say, my voice low and steady, “then I won’t waste your time.”
“Now there’s some fighting spirit. We’ll make an OP of you yet… maybe. Still got a lot of narrowing down to do, but I’ll let you in on a little secret, Lia Morgan—the pickings are pretty damn slim this year. I swear, every new class is full of even more sluts and airheads than the last. Certified SUC-ers. Now those are a waste of my time.”
What is she getting at? “As opposed to me, you mean?”
“I hope so. Like I said, you’ve got potential. You’d make a fun project, if nothing else. Though, I have to say—scholarship?” She cringes. “That’s a tough hurdle.”
“I thought you said the OPs aren’t just a bunch of snobby rich girls.”
That seems to surprise her—at least enough for her to be quiet as she re-corks the bottle and tucks it back among its companions in the cabinet.
“Well, no,” she allows at last, “but the extra cash sure is nice to have.” With that, she heads right back to the door, yanks it open, and stands aside. “We’re done here. See you around. Or not.”
Harper, to my exceeding relief, is waiting at the bottom of the stairs when I get there. She watches with wide eyes as Marissa shoulders past us, then grabs my elbow and squeezes tightly.
“I saw you go up with her—that’s the VP!” she stage-whispers.
“Yeah, I know.” I disengage myself from her as gently as possible.
“But that’s crazy! What did she want with you? Not that she shouldn’t want anything with you, but like, huh?”
“Honestly… nothing, as far as I can tell. She just wanted to intimidate me, I guess.”
“Well, I bet that wasn’t hard. Because she’s scary,” she rushes to add, “not because you’re a pushover or anything. Imagine how the actual pledging process would go—actually, no, don’t imagine that.” Her shoulders quake in an exaggerated shudder. “Terrifying.”
“Yeah… yikes. Look, Harper—can we get out of here? I feel…” Weird? Wrong? “Sick, kind of.”
Her expression grows grave. “Freshman flu, I bet. What a nightmare. Are you okay heading back on your own? I want to hang out a bit longer, and… no offense, but I really don’t want to catch whatever you have.”
“Sure, I’m fine. Don’t worry about it.”
After a grateful grin and a quick wave, Harper dips back towards the punch bowl and chocolate fountain with a spring in her step. My own demeanor as I exit the mansion is, without a doubt, less cheerful. The whole interaction has me uneasy. It felt like she was testing me somehow—and I don’t like it when I can’t pin down someone’s motivations.
“Lia.”
The voice lights a fire under my skin. For a moment, I’m back in the darkness-drenched woods, my heart fluttering madly, with Ryker’s sharp scent filling my lungs… and then I’m back in the present, under control, vaguely irritated at myself for being caught off guard.
I keep my expression guarded as I turn towards him, unwilling to betray my surprise—cool, controlled, hard to get; that’s what Harper said, right? He doesn’t look as though he was expecting me, either, judging by the ever-so-slight furrow of his brow. He’s dressed in a black T-shirt and jeans today—technically appropriate for the dress code, I suppose, though he sure doesn’t look all that scholarly. In fact, he looks exhausted—unshaven and a bit pale. Still, he holds himself with the confidence of a man who’s well aware of his status—chin high, arms loosely crossed in a way that effortlessly displays their taut musculature.
“Omega Phi.” His eyes flicker towards the mansion before locking back onto me. They smolder like blue embers, unblinking. “I wouldn’t have thought you were the type.”
“You’re not the first person to say so.” I cross my own arms, mirroring his guarded pose. “But what about you? Shouldn’t you be working the crowds next door?” The GODs house is certainly lively enough to make use of his presence, from what I can see. “You have even less business being here than I do.”
“What do you know about my business?” He takes a step closer, eyes narrowing; I hold my ground, which seems to please him.
“Not as much as I’d like.” My words are far braver than I feel—his proximity triggering that unsteadiness again, the same pulse-pounding vertigo that brought me to my knees in the forest. He has no right to have such an effect on me in broad daylight like this. He also has no right to be so goddam attractive.
“Not as much as you like,” he echoes. Then, with something almost akin to a smile: “I understand that feeling.”
Is this how talking to guys is supposed to go? It feels almost like a duel, tossing words back and forth like gunfire, neither of us willing to give in and compliment the other outright. I may not know how to flirt, but I sure do know how to fight—and maybe they aren’t quite as different from one another as I first thought.
“You know, I owe you an apology, Lia.”
Never mind. I’m lost again.
“An apology?”
“Your leftovers. From last night.” His eyebrows arch. “They’re currently spoiling in my motorcycle’s cargo trunk.”
“Oh.” I haven’t given those leftovers a thought since the moment we stepped out of the restaurant. “It’s fine—I don’t mind.”
“But I do. I promised you something and didn’t deliver—that doesn’t sit right with me. I want to make it up to you.”
“Make it up to me how?” Don’t look at his lips, come on—look anywhere other than his lips.
“Well…” He makes no attempt to disguise the hunger in his gaze as it drifts downwards, probing my body with such deliberate intensity that I can almost feel a physical pressure. “We both know you’re a good dancer. Say I take you to a club in the city.”
“When?”
“Tomorrow, if you aren’t too busy with them.” He nods towards the Omega Phi manor, shooting it a mocking glare—and goes still, the humor sliding from his features, leaving them cold and harsh as granite.
“What—?” I turn around, and the cause of his displeasure is immediately apparent.
Marissa. Standing in the doorway, upper lip curled like an angry cat’s, eyes drilling holes into Ryker and myself.
A calamity of warning bells fills my mind.
“I have to go.” I almost stumble over the words in my attempt to get them out as quickly as possible. “I’ll… I’ll see you later.”
I half-expect him to tell me to wait, but he does no such thing—only watches behind that chilly new expression as I hurry away towards the girls’ towers. I’m sure Marissa stares daggers into me the whole way as well, but there’s no way I’m going to check.
What’s wrong with me? Why should I be afraid of her? I’m not—not exactly, anyway. I’m tougher than I look, leagues tougher than she surely suspects. She can try all the intimidation she likes, but I’m not going to fold.
But all the same…
I think I might be landing myself in deep, deep trouble.