Bloody Princess by Helen Scott
13
Lyric
As much as I want to change my clothes before going over to the APT house, I resist the temptation. I know I look good in what I'm wearing, and if Keats' reaction earlier was anything to go by, then he definitely likes my outfit. I could go more casual sexy, but I don't know that I want him to think I changed for him.
The man is a wolf, and not in sheep's clothing, either. He looks exactly like what he is. A gangster.
His father is probably horrified, a thought that makes me want to cackle with glee. If anyone can stick it to their father and get away with it, it's Keats. I, on the other hand, would have to deal with Sampson. I shudder at the thought of what he'd do if I showed up at home with a tattoo.
Walking down the main strip, which used to be a road until the whole area was pedestrianized, I feel free. I push thoughts of Sampson and my family from my mind, along with the knowledge of where I'm going and who I'm meeting with, and just exist. I haven't had many opportunities to be like this in my life, but walking among countless other students as they go about their days, for once I feel almost anonymous.
I can't help but wonder if this is how Mel feels working at the coffee shop. Her words might make her sound annoyed, but I can't help wondering if it's not more of a relief. After all, she's not a Sterling anymore. She gave up that name when she faked her death.
The sun is baking me, even though the autumn wind is chilling the bare skin of my thighs, and I refocus my mind on my surroundings. Most of the people around me are heading deeper into campus, probably to the cafeteria or the library, whereas I'm heading further out toward Greek Row, or rather, rows. Most of the sorority and frat houses are close together, with only a few non-Greek Life houses mixed in.
The APT house looks different in daylight. Though I still see the same dark wood doors I saw the night of the party, and they are still outlined with the same creamy white stones, they have a different impact now. The house looks more stately—more old money—than it did the night of the party. I guess having corn hole games in the front yard will do that.
I knock on the door and wait, but nothing happens. I'd really prefer not to ring the doorbell and announce my presence to anyone who might be nearby. It's not that there's anything wrong with me being here, I just don't want any of Keats' brothers to get the wrong idea.
When no one comes to the door after a few minutes, I try the handle and find it unlocked. Without waiting to second guess my instincts, I slip inside and almost immediately bump into a frat brother on his way out. His eyebrows shoot up, and I don't miss the once over he gives me.
"I knocked, but no one answered," I say by way of explanation.
"Are you, uh, here for a reason?" he asks before glancing over his shoulder, as though he's worried about someone seeing him interact with me.
"Yeah, I'm supposed to be meeting with Keats to work on a class project. Can you point me in his direction?" I reach up and twirl a small lock of my ponytail in my fingers while batting my eyelashes at him.
His brain seems to stall out for a second, and he clears his throat before he says, "Upstairs. Top floor. Third door on the left."
"Thanks!" I say as I step past him and head toward the stairs.
"Next time, you should have him meet you at the door or something," the guy calls from behind me.
I turn to look at him, and I see actual concern on his face, which is weird since he doesn't know me at all. "I will," I reply, giving him a firm nod that makes my pony tail bounce.
He seems to want to say something else, but I'm not in the mood to listen to a lecture on safety, so I turn and continue on my way. I hadn't even noticed the staircase at the party since there were so many people, but it splits off from the main entryway area, and it had been so dark with the flashing party lights that it was no wonder I’d missed it. The thing definitely fit with the majority of the house. It had that Old World feel to it, with a handrail made of carved wood that had been polished to within an inch of its life.
The stairs wound upward, and there was almost a balcony area for the second floor before they went up once more. At the very top, there was another balcony area s opposite the first, and I wasn't surprised to see pieces of string hung between the two areas, with a couple of bras hanging in the middle. Men are pigs.
As I move down the hallway, I see all the old composites with the faces of the members for that year smiling out from them. Some of them are old and only have a few photos’ while the newer ones have at least a hundred members each. I don’t stop to look at any of them closely, but I appreciate how the years of the photos aren’t chronological. It’s more compare and contrast than seeing the fraternity slowly grow over time.
Each composite has the photos of the council members at the top, with the fraternity name—Alpha Phi Theta Omicron—just under that. Apparently, the Omicron part isn't cool enough to be included in their nickname. Under that is the frat's crest, or symbol, or whatever, with the school year on each side. Then, in fancy script, it reads “Welhurst University” and just under that is a photo of the House Mom and the House Mascot. All of the stuff, starting with the frat's name, is framed on each side by pictures of individual members, starting with senior members and ending with the new pledge class at the bottom.
I don't look at the faces I pass—there are just too many of them. One door is slightly ajar, and a surprisingly pleasant scent is coming from inside. It's all masculine and musky. My curiosity is piqued, but I move on, passing another door that's closed, and then I'm at the third door on the left, and I'm pretty sure I only saw one door on the right.
For a moment, I debate about whether to knock or just burst in, but then I realize if I just burst in like that, I might see something I don't want to. So, I knock.
Heavy footsteps sound on what has to be a hardwood floor, which is no surprise in a place like this. When the door swings open, I see a shirtless Keats. His eyebrows shoot to his hairline, and he reaches up and rubs the back of his neck.
"Little L, you're early," he says as he steps to the side and lets the door hang open.
It's not exactly an invitation, but he's not kicking me out, either. I know I should go in, should act like I own the place and be the bad bitch that I am, but I've never seen a guy built like Keats without a shirt on before, and for a moment, it's like my brain has to reboot.
He probably has girls drooling over him all the damn time, but I've never really drooled over a guy before. In high school, I thought guys were cute and all, but most of them had been warned off me. Then, when everything happened with Alyssa, no one had wanted to come within ten feet of me. Not that I could blame them. The one member of my family who was there, who had treated me like a person and not an object to be beaten into submission or put on display, was dead. Anger wasn't even close to what I’d felt. It's only time that has allowed me to put on a mask of calmness, one that doesn't make it seem like I'm in pain all the time.
I step into the room, forcing myself to move and act normal, but I can't stop stealing glances at Keats. From the angel he has tattooed on his neck to the lightning and clouds that cover the skin between his other pieces, the ink stretches down his chest to his abdomen, and each arm is completely covered—all the way down to his knuckles. When he turns and I see his back, I just see more black and gray imagery. Everything from faces, to women, and some things I can't quite make out. Across his shoulders, in large letters, is the word “forsaken”, which tells me everything I need to know about how he sees himself.
If I wasn't worried that he’s the one who killed my sister, I might have asked him about it, but right now, I move over to his desk and claim the chair tucked in there, moving it until I can take a seat. The whole time, I'm reminding myself of the last pages of Alyssa's diary—the ones filled with pain, stress, and grief. Whether he killed her or not, Keats is still partially to blame for my sister's anguish.
"So, have you thought about what you want to do the project on?" I ask, trying to break the silence that has fallen in the room, while he searches for a t-shirt that isn't dirty to wear. Apparently, he's just as uncomfortable being shirtless in front of me as I am with him being that way.
"Uh, no," he replies, though it gets muffled for a second by the fabric slipping over his head.
When I turn and look, I see the last bit of his skin disappearing as the t-shirt flows down over his abs and the waistband of his boxers, or whatever his underwear of preference is. Though I will say, he doesn't strike me as the tighty whitey type.
"Do you even remember what the project is?" I ask as I pull my mini notebook from my purse. I dig for a pen while I wait for him to respond.
"No. I figured you'd tell me," he says with a shrug as he flops down on the edge of the bed.
I've seen plenty of men in this posture before, arms behind them bracing themselves, legs spread wide as though they're inviting you to come and suck their cock. I'd never found it attractive before, though. Not that I should be finding Keats attractive at all.
He hurt Lyssa.
Maybe not physically, but, at the very least, emotionally.
"We're supposed to pick an example of the media influencing crime and law enforcement, and examine what happened."
"So, like a celebrity fucking up or something?"
I nod. The professor had given a couple of examples, one of which was the O.J. Simpson trial. "Also, how celebrities or media can influence things. Call for justice, highlight problems, that kind of thing."
He nods and seems to go deep into thought as he stares at the ground between us.
"Maybe your dad would have a good idea of what we could study," I suggest. I know that Keats' relationship with his father is less than ideal, but if we get a recommendation from Kingsley Law, that might score us some bonus points with the professor. I don’t need them, but Keats probably does. The guy is coasting through college with a C average—not a good look if you're trying to get into law school, and I have no doubt that's where his father wants him to go next.
Keats' sneer is automatic, and I'm fairly sure he's not even aware that he's doing it. "Dad won't help me with shit, so don't get your hopes up on that one."
"Understood. Are you and your dad still butting heads?" I ask, leaning on the fact that I know a little about his family, though in reality, I know a whole lot more than he thinks. Kingsley Law has a few respectable clients that keep their reputation above board, but those clients aren't where they make their money. The whole firm is kept afloat by the less savory clients they have. Mainly Leonardi.
If our families are the kings and queens of Ascendance Bay, the families of the Collective are the emperors. Only, they work from behind the scenes, not out in the open.
Before Keats can reply, a bell rings, echoing up from the ground floor as someone yells, "Dinner's ready!"
Well fuck.I hadn't thought about when the frat boys had dinner. I'd had a bowl of mac and cheese with some grilled chicken in it before I came over, but that was it. The cafeteria doesn’t always have food I’m interested in eating.
A door creaks down the hall, and Keats jumps to his feet and strides to his own door, trying to close it.
"Dude, aren't you coming to dinner?" Jude's voice carries past Keats and sends a spike of anger down my spine.
"No, I'll grab something later," Keats says as he tries to close the door even further.
Apparently, that is unusual behavior for him because Jude isn't having it. "What's going on, man? What are you hiding in there?"
Keats stumbles backward, and suddenly, Jude is standing there. His eyes take in the room and instantly narrow on me. "What the fuck is she doing here? I thought I made myself clear." He points an accusatory finger at me while he stares Keats down. The man knows exactly how to piss me off, it seems, because my blood is starting to boil just being in the same room as him. The longer I'm around him, the more I want to bitch slap him until he begs for his mama. I can't help but wonder if I'm having some kind of instinctual reaction to the person who hurt Lyssa. The person who drugged her and caused her to crash. Maybe Jude is the one responsible for this mess.
