When Good Girls Go Bad
Delores
There were exactly zero staff members available to drive me from the parking lot to my dorm. I watched the owl shifters in Admissions flutter and adjust their glasses, fluffing up in a way that made it easy to identify their animals as they tried to locate the inconveniently absent concierges. After waiting for over thirty minutes while they made calls, I finally excused myself to go to the restroom.
As I thought, a facilities office was just down the hall from the admin area, and now I’m standing outside, watching five literal weasels yell at a rugby game on TV while the phone rings. Seems like the directive to treat me like scum upon arrival made it as far as the lower tiers of the Apex staff, even if the kindly office ladies didn’t get the memo. I watch them for a few minutes until I notice a rack with numbered golf cart keys just inside the doorway.
Bingo was his name-o.
I snake my fingers through the crack in the door, fishing with my nails until I can grasp one set of keys. Carefully palming it in my hand, I stride down the hall, past the still fussing admin ladies, to the side parking lot. The golf carts have numbers on the back bumper and when I see number eight, I do a little fist pump. I retrieve my Yves St. Leopard luggage set from the back of my car—covered in stickers and band logos that decrease its value to zero—and prepare myself for my foray into grand theft auto.
Okay, Dolly, you can do this.
All I have to do is lug my shit to the cart, start it up, and take off. What are they going to do—expel me? Fucking doubtful. The Council would eat the headmistress alive if she dared to contradict their stupid edict of allowing me to attend and survive on my own. Ironically, their piddly rules made me untouchable in some ways; I could set the place on fire and the administration couldn’t do more than give me detention.
Grinning to myself, I gather my bags, loading myself down like an actual pack mule. Once I find my balance, I grab the handles of the rolling suitcases and trunk and grunt my way over to the cart. I wasn’t very strong when I started at Luc’s shop, but after a summer of carrying heavy fabric rolls, restocking, and moving large boxes, I’m tighter and leaner than I was when I first set foot on this wretched campus.
Oh, and I quit letting people call me DD. That nickname reminds me of people who mocked me behind my back and ditched me the second I couldn’t further their social status.
Who the fuck makes fun of someone’s bra size, anyway?
Luc started calling me Dolly, and for the first time in my life, I felt like someone was actually seeing me. I mean, who wouldn’t like to be called the same thing as the kindest-hearted woman in human music? So I embraced it, even though the edgy Flamingoth said it wasn’t ‘hardcore’ enough. I said I wasn’t ever going to let others influence my behavior, and that includes new friends, too.
Once I load my shit in the back of the cart, I take one more fortifying breath and climb into the driver’s seat. I fire it up and look over my shoulder to back out. It’d be nice if Todd’s or one of the Heathers’ cars were around to ‘accidentally’ back into, but alas, that’s revenge for another day. When I’m clear, I spin the wheel and floor it, careening over the hills in the grassy meadows separating the buildings.
To my left, I see the Erickson Staff Housing Complex. It looks like a chintzy little township that’s trying too hard to look ‘ye olde’ timey. That doesn’t surprise me—the Erickson patriarch is as obsessed with old-fashioned things as he is tech and women way too young for him. He probably insisted on approving every single brick and lamp in the entire place. Meanwhile, the quarters are likely substandard and bare bones because most of the money for the construction went to his idiotic vision on the exterior.
They probably installed listening devices in the rooms, too.
Clotilda helped me do more than de-spyware my phone—the skunk spent hours helping me compile dirt files on every one of my ex-friends, including Todd, his dude-bros, and their Council families. I’m not sure what I plan to do with all of it, but I know it will come in handy someday. I haven’t had the wherewithal to look into my own parents yet. It feels like a can of worms I don’t have the spoons to deal with now.
A wistful thought flutters through my mind as I watch the staff quarters go by—I wonder if my hottie professors live there? They have to, right? No one lives off campus.
The idea of the scary gargoyle bunking down in those tiny cottage style houses is kind of funny. My lips curve as I again think about the psycho tiger and his gift of Todd’s fingers. It’s nice to imagine he was looking out for me all summer, protecting me from the shadows. I wouldn’t mind him or his sexy boyfriend dropping by the dorms for a late-night offer of more… protection.
Ack. Now I’m bouncing up and down over this damn landscape, with my thighs rubbing together and my vagina throbbing. Great job, Dolly. You’re officially a horny teenage idiot with no options outside of your box of toys and late-night visits to PredHub.
I need to play it safe here anyway—and that means keeping to myself.
The facade of the Barrington Dorms finally comes into view, and I sigh in relief, eager to get a locked door between me and the rest of the students. Skidding to an abrupt stop at the front door, I reach into my tote and pull out the welcome packet the owls in Admissions handed me before the concierge debacle. The keycard with the Apex logo glints in the sun, and I turn it over. No sign of what room it opens, which, as someone with people hunting her, I appreciate. I shuffle my paper around until I find a paper with a description of amenities in my dorm building. I peruse the information about a gym, indoor pool, common rooms, and rehearsal rooms in the underground levels until I reach a line that says ‘Gazelle 666’ and I nearly fall out of the cart.
Oh, right . Gazelle is a building and apparently, the room was handpicked for me, since the number is the sign of Satan. Just fucking great. I’ll never have anyone over living in the goddamn demon suite.
I leave the golf cart keys in the ignition because I honestly don’t care if another student takes it on a drunken joyride. Hefting my bags again, I maneuver up the ramp to the furthest building at the end. Not convenient for lifting and carrying large items, but its location makes it pretty defensible. I turn to the area just past the elegant windows and smooth bricks, and see the next closest building is the Leonidas Gym, which makes my stomach flip-flop.
Sexy tiger man Fitz was in the gym that day. Maybe he works there?
Oh, stop it, Dolly.
I’m a fool to think much older, super fucking hot professors are going to come anywhere near my almost virgin ass—even if it is pretty juicy after all that heavy lifting this summer at work.
Get your shit together and get into your room before someone comes along and pushes you into a fountain.
I sigh, using the card to swipe myself in at the main doors to Gazelle. The common area is empty, which suits me fine. As I head towards the elevator, I note all the potential places some asshole could corner me, trying to make a name for themselves with the Council heirs. It sucks that I have to do it, but my safety has been my responsibility for a while now, and my parents won’t care if anyone hurts me while I’m here. When there are no consequences for inappropriate behavior, it encourages the vicious to be as horrible as they can.
The ding of the elevator brings me out of my reverie, and I step on, pushing the number six button. It’s the top floor and I can’t decide whether that’s strategically useful or imminently dangerous. There are stairs at either end, supposedly, and that adds two more escape routes if I need them. I may have to invest in some sort of rope ladder I can toss out the window for emergencies. Chewing my lower lip as I scroll through the options on Amazon, I almost miss the doors opening.
So much for being cautious.
I grumble under my breath as I haul my shit to the room at the end of the hall, swiping my card in the reader, and breathing a sigh when it beeps green. My relief is short-lived. When I open the door, I find the entire room trashed—from furniture to broken glassware—including a scrawled message across the glass balcony in what I suspect is blood.
“Welcome to Apex. Run, rabbit, RUN!”
Dropping everything, I simply gape at the destruction in front of me. I have no idea who to call or how to deal with this, much less what I’ll do about my accommodations for the evening beyond sleeping on the floor. I’ll need a broom, trash bags, replacement linens, cleaning supplies and…
A feeling of hopelessness creeps over me. I lean my head against the doorframe, closing my eyes as I remember what it was like to have a bright future ahead of me, to be so full of blissful ignorance about the world I was living in. Everything was so much simpler, even when I was under the thumb of the malevolent queen Lucille. I didn’t have to worry about the nearest exit or who else is rooming on this floor, or how I’m going to get the smell of rancid urine out of the carpets in my bedroom.
Does this mean someone else has keys to my room?!
How am I going to trust my food in the cafeteria or my clothes going to the laundry service? I’ll have to do everything myself. I’m not lazy, but I have no idea how much schoolwork I’ll get in my classes or how difficult my courses will be. I’ll be the only freshman—no, the only student—who will dart around campus with laundry bags, brown bag lunches, and an umbrella to prevent random aerial attacks.
That might sound paranoid, but they covered my room in piss, so it’s justified.
I sink to the ground with my skirt splayed over my thighs and my combat boots pushed against the opposite door frame. I spent my whole vacation shoring myself up for this day, this moment, but look at me.
Why am I such a fucking failure?
All I had to do was roll up to this place like a badass and kick in the door, but here I am, crumbling like a graham cracker at the first sign of trouble.
The unexpected arrival of my stupid moontime delight last night isn’t helping—the implant Lucille had put in years ago is supposed to control this. Unfortunately, it isn’t and my hormones are all over the place, making me a weird combination of angry, weepy, and horny. Being a girl and a shifter sucks hairy grizzly balls, and I’ll be damned if I let anyone say any differently in my presence.
“Oh, well. It’s not like I was getting laid soon, anyway,” I mutter to myself as I wipe the snot off my face with the sleeve of my hoodie.
It’s just me and my toys, probably sleeping in my car together.
How romantic.