Bloody Princess by Helen Scott
4
Lyric
The warm bite of tequila is running through my veins and making me feel invincible. Even on my worst day, even at my drunkest, I can probably take most of the boys here out with a couple well-placed punches or a kick here and there. So, even though I hate it when they leer and cat call as Evie and I walk to the party, I won't do anything about it because that would draw attention. A freshman girl, who might or might not be intoxicated, taking out a junior or senior guy? Yeah, that's about the last thing I need.
The Alpha Phi Theta house illuminates the entire block it sits on. I immediately feel sorry for their neighbors because the music is pounding so hard I can hear the bass from the front yard, not to mention the lights that are flashing and changing colors. Everything is bright and loud, and overwhelming.
I'm torn between loving it and loathing it.
My father and Sampson would loathe it. They would say it was gaudy and classless and that the people who attended these types of parties were below our notice. Yet, the heirs to four of the wealthiest families, my own not included, of course, are at this party. Not to mention the countless other wealthy and influential friends. Maybe even influencer friends. Who knows?
Everyone knows that APT is the most expensive frat on campus and that, to join, you have to shell out more than just a couple hundred bucks a semester. Plus, the rumors of their hazing rituals are mythic among the students. Everything from circle jerks to being servants to the active members to the copious amounts of alcohol consumed at their parties. And the best part—or worst, depending on whose perspective you're taking—is that pledges can't buy their way out of hazing. Everyone is stripped down to nothing under the APT banner. Heir to a fortune or heir to a bus ticket, it doesn't matter. You either kneel and obey, or you're cast out.
Needless to say, they are not a frat to be fucked with.
They haven't met me yet, though, and I'm definitely about to fuck with them. Or, at least, four of them. Anyone else who gets in my way is fair game as well, though.
We walk up the front steps, past more games of cornhole than I've ever seen in my life, though that isn't saying much since I’m not usually allowed to go to parties. Don’t want to tarnish the Sterling name, and all that.
Not that it’s clean to begin with, but whatevs.
The heavy wood doors to the house dominate the entryway of the building. White stones surround the door, the bright brick making the wood of the door look even richer. It also contrasts with the red brick of the rest of the lower floor of the house beautifully. My father would probably like the building itself, with its Tudor Revival cream and brown panels on the outside.
The inside of the house is a pulsating mass of people. Lights blast the ceiling with different colors, flashing in time with the music as the scents of alcohol, sweat, sex, and weed fill my nose. The combination is heady and not something I am used to.
I can’t help but watch the people dancing in every inch of space available, outside of a small circle around the front door. The way some of them are moving is mind boggling. I had no idea ass cheeks could do that.
Also, how are these guys not exploding in their jeans every few seconds?
We weave through the crowd toward a room that looks a little lighter and not quite as crowded. It turns out to be a kitchen. The cabinets and counters are set in a u-shape around most of it, and there are hundreds of bottles of booze lining the countertop, with kegs lined up in the opposite corner.
Evie glances over her shoulder at me, and I shrug. It's not like I've ever been to a frat party before, so I have no idea what I'm doing. We head to the tapped keg and grab two cups from the top of an almost head-height stack beside the big silver barrel. Just as we begin to fill them with foaming beer, one of what I assume are the frat brothers walk up.
"You're a little young to be here," he says. His voice is pitched so low it's hard to hear, especially with the slur in his words.
"Atlas invited us. He's friends with my sister. Was friends with my sister," I say, not about to let some drunken asshole deter me from my first college party.
"Honestly, I don't care. I just wanted to get a better look at your tits. You've got a nice rack," he slurs before stumbling toward me, his gaze focused on my cleavage.
"Atlas will deck you if he sees you staring at her like that, bro. Apparently, she's special," another guy's voice says from just behind the first one. As he appears from behind his friend, I recognize the guy from the cookout earlier.
"Fuck him," the first guy says, spinning wildly toward his friend. "Just 'cause he's rich, doesn't mean he controls us."
"You know that's bullshit. They all do. Come on, let's go before he tries to kick our asses for talking to her," the guy from the cookout says, and he pulls on his friend's arm, dragging him away.
The guy being dragged away just stares forlornly at my chest, as though he's a kid being dragged from a candy store.
Once they are both gone, Evie turns to me and says, "Well, that was interesting. I mean, you have great tits, he's right, but I didn't expect people to be so...brash about it."
I glance down at my chest and shrug. "It's not like I did anything special to get them. This is just how they came. Now, if this is how the rest of the party is going to go, I need more than just beer."
I turn to the bottle-lined counter and, after emptying my beer down the sink, I pour a healthy amount of tequila in my cup. The amber liquid could pass as beer at a glance, so I don't feel bad about filling my cup. Besides, there are more people coming into the kitchen and helping themselves to whatever they want, so it's clear that nothing is off limits.
"Come on, let's get some air," I say to Evie as I head to what looks like a back patio.
We pause at the keg so she can refill her cup before we head outside. The sweltering summer air doesn't offer any reprieve from the sticky, hot air inside the house, but at least it doesn't stink of sweat and sex.
There are tables lined up with games of beer pong going. Atlas's blond head of hair isn't hard to spot among the crowd, and I glance at Evie before I start walking toward it. She looks more nervous than I expected, chewing on her lower lip before taking a couple big gulps of beer.
"Atlas?" I call as we approach.
He turns to find who called his name, and when his eyes land on me, I don't miss the up and down he gives me. I know I look good—after all, I've been groomed to be pleasing to the male gaze from an early age. My short shorts practically bare the bottom of my ass to the world, while the black halter top does, in fact, make my boobs look amazing. It might have been something to do with the deep v-neck that almost goes to my belly button and requires me to tape my boobs to the material if I want to avoid flashing anyone.
Evie looks just as good as me with her boho dress and long, tousled blonde hair. The girl looks like she should be stepping out of an advertisement for a beach vacation.
Atlas himself is in expertly ripped jeans and a grungy t-shirt that I am willing to bet cost more than most people's entire closets. He certainly knows how to accentuate his form, though, the t-shirt clinging to his shoulders like a needy lover. It isn't hard to imagine being said lover when he's looking at me like this.
A throat clearing behind him breaks whatever spell has fallen over us. "Are you going to let the rest of us say hi, or what, dickhead?" Keats' voice is a rough growl as he dives around Atlas' form and scoops me up into a hug. "I can't believe you're here, Little L!"
I giggle like a little girl, which pisses me off, plus, I am barely able to save my drink from spilling everywhere. My shriek and subsequent giggle draw the attention of the surrounding party goers, and I slap at Keats' shoulder until he puts me down.
"Warn a girl before you sweep her off her feet, would you?" I tease.
When I can take a step back, I really take him in. He looks older—more so than I expected. The ink probably contributes to that, but there's something in his eyes...something that only comes with experiencing things up close that no one should have to go through. I'm good at hiding my darkness, but standing here in front of Keats and being able to see the dark serpent lying in wait within him makes me feel a little less like I have to hide.
Which is not good.
Hiding is what keeps me safe—what keeps people off balance around me. I push the thoughts away and smile brightly up at him, focusing instead on his reddish-blond hair and aqua colored eyes, ignoring the darkness within them. I trace my eyes down his face, past the scruff that covers his cheeks and chin, and take in the tattoos that climb up his neck and down his arms, which are barely contained by the t-shirt he's wearing. Lightning bolts, angels, and all kinds of other things decorate his skin. Sensing me looking, he displays them proudly.
"Been a while since you last saw me, huh?" he asks with a grin.
"Long enough for you to get a shit load of tattoos, apparently," I reply.
Suddenly, Thayer is there, squeezing between them and wrapping me in a gentle hug of his own. Even in this heat, he's wearing that damn leather jacket of his. I don't think a day has gone by since he got it that he hasn’t worn it. The leather is richly scented from his cologne and what I think is just Thayer himself, and I breathe deeply, lost for a moment in memories of the last time we were all together.
"Hey, Little L. It's good to see you," Thayer whispers into my hair, his lips moving some of the strands as he speaks.
The moment is shattered by Jude as he demands, "What's a freshman doing at our frat party?"
Thayer releases me, and I turn to Jude. "Good to see you, too," I say, adding some extra sugary sweetness to my voice.
"You shouldn't be here," he replies, his voice cold and devoid of any emotion except his anger, which is burning in his gaze as he stares down at me. His stormy eyes are even more turbulent than usual.
His comment is a whip across my tender heart. Where the others are welcoming and seem to want to reconnect, Jude is the opposite. He wants me out of his sight, and I can't help but wonder if that's because I remind him of Alyssa—or of what he's done.
"Atlas invited me," I snap back before taking a long drink from my cup. I use the red plastic to hide the emotions I'm terrified will show on my face, even though I know it's basically a blank slate to anyone who doesn't know me well. The whole time, I can't help but wonder if guilt is gnawing away at his insides. Guilt over the fact that he betrayed one of his closest friends
Jude proceeds to snatch the cup from my hands the second it's free from my lips. "I don't give a flying fuck who invited you. No underage drinking on fraternity property."
"Since when has that been a rule?" Keats scoffs.
"Since this year. We were cited last year by the IFC. Or did you forget?" Jude spins toward his friend, his words lashing out. I can see the confusion on Keats' face. He had forgotten, and now Jude's making him feel like shit for it.
"What does that mean?" I stage whisper to Atlas.
"The Interfraternity Council caught underage students drinking here, and we got in trouble for it. If they catch us again, we could be kicked off campus and have the the fraternity removed. Plus, it could get us in trouble with the alumni," Atlas replies, bending his head closer to mine so he doesn't have to speak as loudly.
I can tell from the way Jude's shoulders bunch up under his collared shirt that he still heard Atlas explaining. I also don't miss Evie stowing her red cup on the edge of the porch, out of sight. When Jude turns to me again, he sneers and says, "What would Melody think of her twin whoring herself out at a frat party? What would Lyssa think of her baby sister dressing like a slut?"
His words are like a bucket of ice being poured over me while someone slaps me across the face. Not only does the asshole use our nickname for her, but he uses her memory against me and calls me a whore? Why, because I’m in shorts and a halter top?
A chorus of "Dude"s and "What the fuck, man"s ring out from Keats, Atlas, and Thayer.
The momentary stun of having him disrespect Alyssa and Melody's memories like that only lasts a few seconds before my rage comes back, blazing hotter than ever. I sneer back at him and say, "If I'm a whore just for being at the party, what does that make you since you're the ones throwing it? A pimp? Or just an asshole?" I take a breath and intend to walk away, but my mouth has other ideas and I spout, "This goes for all of you, I'm not a little girl anymore. I do what I want, when I want, and no one is going to get in the way of that. Not you. Not my dead sisters. No one. And if I want to dress like a slut, according to you—fuck, if I want to wander around naked—I will. You don't mean shit to me, Jude Davenport. So stay the fuck out of my way, and don't ever talk to me like that again, or you'll regret it." I don't let the full extent of my fury show on my face. No need to give them a full preview of what's coming—just a little teaser.
"I'm sure Lyssa would love to hear you talking like that," Jude replies, egging me on.
"Yeah, well, I'm sure she'd love to still be alive, but we don't always get what we want, do we?" I snark at him before storming off and hoping that Evie follows.
As we walk away, I hear the other guys scolding Jude. "You can't talk to her like that, Jude. Her sisters are dead. Her mom is dead. All she has is that asshole of a father," one of them says. Atlas, I think.
My stomach twists at his words because he's right, for the most part. Only, none of them know that Melody is still alive, or that the one person who can stop me from doing what I want or dressing how I want isn't a blood relative, or even one of them—it's Sampson, my father's second-in-command. The man who runs my life with an iron fist and a sharp blade. Where he's concerned, I either obey or pay the price. As I weave through the grinding bodies on the dance floor, I can't help but wonder what price I'll pay if I cause problems between the families that rule Ascendance Bay.
