Chapter 1 Weston
Weston
It’s two weeks later when I finally break.
The evening smells like fresh rain on pavement as I approach the Zenith house door.
Petrichor, my brother used to call it, every time rain changed the air like this and suddenly made everything feel alive.
The patter of raindrops hitting my coat finally stops short as I walk under the awning of the front porch. I’m in front of the glossy, black front door again.
And this time I’m desperate enough to go inside.
This is how often Zenith meets, apparently. Every fourteen days, they come together to engage in senseless depravity that could get every single person in this room expelled from Crimson College.
I haven’t jerked off in four days.
On purpose.
I’m pent up. I’m finding Sev Berlant tonight and I don’t give a damn if it’s a bad decision. Then I’ll never need to step foot in this sick place again.
I say the stupid passphrase again at the door, “to be unchained,” and this time I force myself to walk inside.
Rain pounds harder now over the awning at the doorstep.
How will I respond, if a man tries to fight me?
If he tries to fuck me, instead?
I don’t let myself think about it too hard this time, otherwise I’ll walk off shaking again like I’m a scared kid running from a haunted house.
“Gather in the entry,” a man says, and the lights dim around the long bar at the edge of the room.
There are maybe forty or fifty people in this grand entryway. Curved staircases are on each end of the giant, circular room, and the low light from the chandeliers up high on the ceiling filters down onto us.
Everyone is masked. Many are in robes, some are in suits.
I’m wearing a Crimson College fleece hoodie beneath my suit jacket, and I will be keeping my hood up all night. I don’t care if I look like a freak with a mask on and a fleecy hood surrounding it, because there’s not a shot in hell I’m letting anyone recognize me here.
Especially Sev.
I’d already be on the ground if he knew I was here. I used to be confused about why Sevan Berlant hates me, but I think I get it now.
The simplest reason is that he thinks I fucked him over for an internship opportunity last year.
I didn’t. I knew the CEO of the company thanks to my dear old soulless father, and I protected Sev or anyone else from working for a company that was so corrupt it was almost predatory.
Sev also thinks I denied him from entering an Onyx party early this year, when in reality I wasn’t letting anyone inside after a girl blacked out drunk was taken to the hospital.
Yes, I have a bad attitude with Sev.
Yes, I’ve broken up at least three fights he’s started at my parties, and I’ve thrown him out every single time he gets even a little bit violent.
Sev doesn’t bother calling me “Frat Dad” and instead calls me the Sheriff of Crimson College, and even though he doesn’t mean it as a compliment, I still feel like I take my responsibilities seriously.
I like to do things properly.
Keep my shit in order.
And yes, being me is exhausting, too. Managing my own life, my schoolwork, and keeping the boys in the frat in line. In my house I don’t have to accept the type of petty violence that Sev craves like a drug.
I scan the room for Sev now but I can’t place him. No one’s sleeves are rolled up yet, and without seeing his tattoos it’s difficult to tell which one might be him.
I take a spot along the wall and I try not to look over at the man next to me. I can already tell he’s a fighter, judging by the scars and a mottled old bruise on the back of his hand.
Who the fuck am I surrounded by?
Only a minute passes before the man at the center speaks again.
Another guy with shaggy blond hair is standing at his side, now, too, wearing a long, velvety red robe.
“Welcome back to Zenith. Or, for the new attendees we have tonight, welcome home.”
He’s facing in my direction as he says it. I can’t tell if he’s looking at me, but I’m certain he knows I’m a newbie. My mask is more basic than the others here. It’s simple and shiny gold.
“For those newcomers, we only ask one thing: leave your other world at the door.”
The redheaded guy nods, looking right at me.
“We are primal, here,” he says in a low, slightly raspy voice. “That is one of our only rules. We remain unchained. For the next four hours, you exist in a different world. Our other rule is easy: no masks come off. There will be consequences if that rule is broken.”
My heart’s still pounding like it’s trying to launch itself through my upper ribcage, but I’m ignoring it.
No reason anyone has to know I don’t belong.
I wasn’t even ready to let that truth out until the past year.
The part of me that looks at men differently. Noticing men, every place I go. Fucking fixating on men in ways that make me feel like an animal, when it’s wildly inconvenient and my cock responds to things in ways I’m utterly unable to control.
Another urge I need to put to rest tonight.
Then I can go back to my real life.
The man at the center seems to be done talking. And the moment his speech is over, he suddenly takes one leg and brings it around the back of the other man’s knees.
He drops to the floor and they start wailing punches on each other already, and every instinct inside me is begging to go break up the fight.
Not what I’m here for.
I take off across the room, my eyes darting around as I try to avoid any contact. Being here is like willingly putting my body on display for whoever wants it, but there’s only one man here that I’m trying to find.
I search below the sleeves of people’s suits, trying to find his raven tattoo.
A glass breaks across the room and a woman shouts, then breaks out into low laughter.
I turn and see a man hovering above her, pouring liquor from a half broken glass down the front of her body, down past a strappy black corset with gauzy material above it.
Two patterned snake tattoos flank her breasts, which are bare and on prominent display above the cinched corset.
Another woman comes over and starts undoing the buttons on the front of her pants, one by one.
“Fuck,” I mutter under my breath.
I spot a few men leaving through the back doors toward the vast back lawn. The rain has lessened to a drizzle and people here don’t seem to care, heading right out into the wet grass.
Where the fuck are you, Sevan Berlant?
I should not be here, and the only reason I am is for you.
The crickets out back are deafening. The air is cool but humid after the downpour, and I walk out into the drizzly mist, past a stately marble fountain rushing with water.
Two men are grappling at the edge of the fountain, alternately laughing or grunting depending on how hard they’re hit.
Another group of people are already stripping bare next to a hot tub, pawing at each other like animals.
“You’re lost,” I hear a man’s voice say from behind me.
A strong hand grips around my wrist in an instant, and I yank my arm backward, trying to pull away.
“Get the fuck off me,” I tell him in a low tone. “I’m not here to fight.”
He pulls my arm harder and I spin around, glaring at him from behind my mask.
“Wrong. Everyone is here to fight.”
I have no idea who this guy is. I watch his cold, calculating brown eyes as he pulls something out of his jacket pocket, and he gives me a quick shove back toward the house. I walk back in, hoping someone will see and get him off of me.
But his grip tightens around my wrist as we walk past one of the grand staircases inside.
“The fuck are you doing?” I protest. “I said let me go.”
He shoves me down onto the staircase.
My ass hits the hard step and my back slams against one of the wooden banisters, right along my spine.
I’m strong, but this man is a lot bigger than me, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he was dosing himself with some kind of steroids with the way the veins look in his neck.
Cold metal hits my wrist and as I glance down, a little click fills the air.
He’s handcuffed one of my wrists to the banister.
Panic surges through my veins.
“Been waiting for new meat,” he says.
“Unlock that cuff. Get it off,” I shout, my voice wavering.
“Pretty skin,” he says. “No scars yet.”
More cold metal hits my throat. I try to move to one side, thinking he’s putting some sort of neck cuff onto me, but when it pushes against my skin I realize I’m wrong.
He’s holding a knife to my throat.
The sharp end pushes against the side of my neck just a little, enough to draw a tiny drop of blood from me.
He pulls it back and looks at it, frowning at the blood on the tip.
“Jesus, fuck,” I whisper.
“Don’t worry. It’s sterilized,” he says, bringing out a packet and ripping it open. He takes out an alcohol wipe and the astringent smell fills my nostrils as he wipes the tip clean. “Would rather keep it that way, wouldn’t you?”
Cold fear slips down my spine and I realize I’m no longer just out of place. I’m petrified, like I took one wrong turn and ended up behind the walls of a prison.
My eyes dart down the staircase, but everyone has moved further into the house, past the bar.
Even for a club like this, there have to be some lines that people don’t cross. Right?
I don’t think people get killed in Zenith.
But could it be possible? If someone was determined enough? What kind of people are attracted to a place like this? Who the fuck is this stranger, and does he even go to Crimson College?
“Hey! Somebody fucking get over here,” I call out, hoping someone will listen downstairs. But everyone is off in groups, and over the thrum of the music, no one seems to respond.
Shouts like mine might be commonplace here.
“Anybody upstairs?” I shout. “Get me the fuck out of here—”
I’m cut off as the stranger’s hand comes down hard at the front of my mask. He punches me right on the mouth, the hard plastic of the mask absorbing the brunt of the blow as his fist makes my lips smash against my teeth.
“Shut. Up,” he says.
Adrenaline surges through me.
Bad.
Very bad.