one
No one matters to me.Anyone who tries gets slapped hard enough to rattle their soul. Maybe it’ll shock some sense back into their tiny little brains.
The girl currently dissecting me with her judgmental stare, sneering so hard she’s in danger of losing her upper lip, rakes her gaze over my short, sparkly red dress. As casual as a war crime, my high heel catches the corner of their bromidic Aubusson rug in front of the soapstone bar. And—oops—there goes a splash of Cristal down the front of her pale satin dress, the stain blooming like blood.
If only it were…
It’s unflattering on her anyway.
“Bitch!” she screeches, her eyes locked on the cheap fabric as the drink seeps toward her crotch.
My lashes flutter with unapologetic care. “Sorry,” I purr, already gliding past her toward the raucous game room.
Nope. Not here…
No mask, becausewhy bother? Everyone else is busy hiding who they are. Not me. I love myself. Too much to cover up with some pretend niceties.
High-paneled wainscoting and women in blood-red dresses cling to the walls, waiting for the bathroom in a long line of body glitter and Black Opium. Like identical vinyl-sided houses crammed into some sleepy suburb, all trying to outdo one another while looking the same. Vagrant purple feathers float past—remnants from a random masquerade mask—as I stride toward the kitchen.
The guys by the pool tables? Drenched in dark liquor, drowned in clouds of blunt smoke, flailing at keg stands like they’re performing mating rituals at a zoo. As if this isn’tTheta Rho Zeta’sRed Night.
It’s a sex party. Everyone had to consent before setting foot inside.
“Pretty sure she’ll say yes,” I mutter, swatting my hand in the air between some guy spitting weak game at a baby-facedSigmaLambda Psipledge. She looks terrified. Not fit to be aSigma.
But then again…
Neither was I.
I love myself. Which is why when my cousin, Pippi, comes sprinting past, wide-eyed, I duck into a shadowed doorway and let her pass. Face exposed. Posture relaxed. I can’t have her thinking I’mlookingfor someone. That would show my hand too soon.
“Help me! There’s someone chasing me!”
Caliphylla’s sake. She’s so dramatic.
Lucky for me, she slides right by. Hot on her heels? Ryan Cardell in a wolf mask, loping after her like this is a rom-com and not a ritual.
Not in there.
Taking a deep breath, I aim for the reception area, belly filling with a sinking desperation that I redefine asexcitement.
“Another champagne,” I tell the bartender as my eyes scan the crowd like I’mnotlooking for someone.
It’s my first Red Night as a freshman at Northview University. Getting invited was an event in itself. My facestillburns when I think about the moment that crimson envelope landed in my hand.
Total accident that I showed up at the quad café when I did. FellowOmega Nu Epsilonpledge, Athena Griffin, was already in line, pretending not to see me. I gave her a nod. No wave. We’re cellmates, nothing more.
In strolled Henry Cardell and his hype man. Henry clocked Athena, turned pink, and shuffled over like a pigeon in heat. The invite trembled in his grip as he offered it to her, but swiped it on his jeans first, like that would fix his perspiration problem.
The guy standing next to him—shorter, dimpled, and wide-eyed—jabbed an elbow into his ribs. “Dude. She’s standingright there,” he muttered, not quietly enough.
Only then did Henry fish out a second envelope and flick it toward me, like it cost him something. “Bring your friend,” he told Athena, gaze skimming right past mine.
Joke’s on them.
I don’t have friends.
What a waste of energy they are.