17 - Murder Party
Cordelia
When I come to, my mouth is as dry as the Sahara Desert. And swallowing is nearly impossible with my tongue as leathery as an old boot. I’d hazard a guess that the persistent pounding at my temple is the result of a heavy hangover, but my feet don’t ache like they normally would.
Part of me expects Theo to stroll in and announce flippantly that he’s once again had to save me from the wrath of my parents.
But then everything comes rushing back, and I’m reminded I’m no longer in France.
I swear time has warped. I could have missed out on hours, days even.
My eyelids slowly flutter open to let the light in, and immediately close again.
I try to shield my face with a hand, but my limbs won’t respond. They’re dead weight, useless.
Through heavy-lidded eyes, I scan my surroundings, but it’s mostly a hazy blur. Blinding headlights, my limp, barely conscious body being transported from my car, and the potent stench of chemicals.
“She’s awake,” a male voice calls out, followed by soft footsteps nearby. Something cool rests against my forehead, soothing the deep-set discomfort.
Muddled words are the only response I can manage. When a smooth material nudges my lips, a quiet sob slips free. Disoriented and frightened, I wag my head.
“Drink up, sweetheart. You’re dehydrated.”
Whoever the voice belongs to uses a finger to pry open my jaw, and I’m helpless to stop them. The icy liquid slips down my throat with ease. Once I’ve had a sip, I guzzle greedily, thirsting for more. Needing more.
“She okay?” a second voice enquires.
“Yeah. Pretty groggy. She’ll need a minute before you start interrogating her.”
My eyes pop open, and the smoke shrouding my vision starts to clear. I blink multiple times, eyes widening with recognition. I’m back in the room where I lost my virginity.
I scramble up the bed, only my muscles resist, and everything happens in slow motion. Logan sits on the edge of the bed, his feet hardly meeting the floor, just in case he needs to swoop to my rescue. And Ezio’s standing behind him, arms crossed over his chest like a sentinel.
“Woah. Easy, Cordelia,” Logan coos, reaching out to steady me when the room spirals.
“What’s going on?” I squeak, eyes flitting between the two of them.
His warm fingers bring me a sense of security that has me inclining towards him. I want to snatch my hand from under his, but my body won’t respond to my brain’s signals.
“It’s okay,” he says with a small smile. “You’re safe.”
Then why do I feel anything but? Why do I feel like I’ve been thrown to the lions? Three of them–big, hairy bastards.
The door swings open, and in steps Clarke, holding another glass of water.
“Orphan,” he nods in my direction and passes the glass to Logan, who gently pushes it into my open hand.
My hands shake as I bring it to my dry lips. As I down the contents, a metallic tang hits the back of my throat, bitter and cloying. Clarke drags a chair across the floor, creating more noise to aggravate my sore head. He places it next to the bed.
“How are you feeling?” He asks, running his fingers through his toffee-coloured hair.
All three of the men are wet, hair sticking up at funny angles, clothes damp and clinging to their skin. I, however, am bone dry.
“Like shit,” I grumble, finally able to form a sentence, albeit short. “It has something to do with you, non?”
“Guilty,” he says, showing me his straight white teeth.
I eye them, one by one, before my gaze settles back on Clarke.
“What do you want?” I growl, staring at Logan’s hand still resting on top of mine, willing it to spontaneously combust.
“First things first,” Clarke leans over to grab a small package from Ezio’s outstretched hand. He dangles it in front of me like a peace offering. “Pee on the stick.”
I glare at the plastic wrapper clutched between his fingers, then lift my gaze, almost in slow motion.
“Fuck. You.”
He blinks, jaw tightening, lips curling. “Careful, Orphan. I’m not your boyfriend. Choose your words wisely.”
I huff out a snort. “Oh yeah. What exactly are you going to do about it?”
Clarke leans back in his chair, an eyebrow hiked up in irritation. He uncrosses his legs and drapes one arm over the back, watching me in silent amusement. Clearing his throat, he rises to his feet.
“I’m not going to do anything,” he drawls, tilting his head back, eyes still locked on me. The white packet lands on the covers with a quiet plop. “Because you’re going to go in there like a good girl and take the test. Then, we’ll talk.”
“You can’t make me piss, Winters,” I snap back, a hint of petulance creeping into my voice.
He dips his chin, eyes full of dark promise. “No. But I can take you to a very public screening. Your choice.”
A beat of silence. Neither of us blinks, psyching each other out in a silent standoff.
I break eye contact briefly, gaze landing on Logan.
His lips form a firm, flat line, beholding no trace of his usual mirth.
His chest is rigid, shoulder muscles tight, coiled with tension.
And his fingers grip the feather duvet in a silent rage. He’s on the verge of snapping.
Ezio looks indifferent. His chocolate brown eyes reading the room, a lazy smile across his lips. His usual calm and collected aura are far from the other two who wear their tension like a medal.
“I don’t need the toilet,” I say simply. Which is a load of rubbish. My bladder is about to burst, screaming for relief every second that passes.
“Liar,” Clarke drags out. “You may be an expert at fooling your mother, but not me. Besides, the diuretic took care of that,” he gestures to the empty glass in my hand. “And you’ve been squirming against my sheets like you’ve got ants in your fucking pants, Cordelia.”
My gaze falls to the glass clasped between my hands, eyes widening at the remnants of the chalky liquid left behind. They drugged me—again. He points to the open door across the room in front of us.
“You’re not leaving until you’ve done that test,” Clarke sounds bored now, like he’s checked out. “So, I suggest you get it done. Unless you want to spend your evening swapping bedtime stories with me. FYI, I’m an insomniac; it’ll be a long night.”
I sneer at him, clocking the threatening look Logan throws him, too. Swinging my legs over the edge of the bed, I snatch up the test and storm over to the en-suite bathroom. Only it’s not that dramatic because I’m still woozy from whatever’s in my bloodstream.
I yank my trousers down and shove the stick into the stream.
It’s odd, having three people - guys even, sitting outside listening to me take a piss.
I pull the chain and wash my hands. Staring at the test, I wait with bated breath.
I already know the answer it’s going to give, but somehow, now, with an audience, the intensity is heightened.
I swipe the test off the side and thrust it at Clarke, who’s standing outside the door impatiently. He smirks at it, eyebrows raised.
“Congratulations, buddy,” he says, handing the plastic stick to a bewildered Logan.
His blue eyes bulge. “Fuck,” he breathes. I don’t know why I expected any other response.
“I’m keeping it,” I announce, voice unwavering. “But don’t worry. We won’t need any input from you, or your watchdogs.”
“Cordelia,” Logan whispers finally, eyes brimming with something unspoken. “You can’t shut me out.”
I laugh - the sound short and bitter as it leaves my lips. “Watch me.”
Logan jumps to his feet, marching straight up to me. His hands find my shoulders, with a grip so tight, it will probably leave a bruise.
“This isn’t just about you,” he grinds out. “Whether you like it or not, I’m a part of this. You can’t just walk away.”
“You two need to sort this out between you,” Ezio cuts through the tension, silencing us both with a voice calm as anything.
Our eyes lock on each other, both of us breathing heavily.
“Right,” Clarke agrees. “We’ve got another little problem.”
My eyes dart over to him in retaliation, and I scowl.
“You were born with that problem, Winters. All of you.”
“Enough of the lip, Cordelia,” he sneers, tone low and mocking. “Everyone in this room has seen Logan’s cock and it ain’t little. And neither are ours.”
I snort unattractively, turning my head obstinately.
“We know you were there,” he says, getting straight to the point.
I narrow my eyes. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Clarke’s glare is hostile. With the extra height, he towers over me, and that makes him all the more menacing. I swallow hard.
“Don’t insult my intelligence, Nena.” He fires a look over my shoulder. “Shoes.” He says simply.
I really want to ask him what intelligence, but I figure that’s probably not going to help the situation.
Pivoting on my heel, I watch as Ezio reaches under the bed and pulls out my custom-made red Louboutin’s. Tears flood to the surface. I thought I’d lost them forever. My gaze lands back on Clarke. I part my lips.
“Nice shoes,” I say, eyes dropping to the soft carpeted floor. Clarke’s eyes are freaking intense.
“Abbastanza,” he growls. I don’t know what he says, but it sounds threatening and got my attention straight back. “Wanna try these on for me, Cinderella?”
“Not my type,” I say easily.
“Then why do they have your fucking initials on them?” He points to where Ezio’s dangling my pretty heels off his finger.
“Cordelia,” Logan’s voice comes out hoarse. He sounds exhausted. “Are you seriously making us do this?”
“I’m not making you do anything,” I growl at him, slamming my hands on my hips. “Fine,” I mutter under my breath. “I was there. I walked in on your little murder party. Happy?”
Logan’s face falls. He looks anything but happy. In fact, he looks like he needs to step outside for some air before he keels over on the spot.
“No, Nena. None of us are happy you witnessed us torturing and murdering a student,” Clarke sighs, shaking his head. “But now we need to figure out how to deal with it.”