1
AVERY
The sun sets, and shadows give way to darkness as I trek to a frat party at Beta House. Other students bustle around me, bumping off each other like twigs floating in a stream, seemingly unworried. I analyze every sound and scent. Bonfire smoke, bubbling laughter, leaves crunching underfoot. Staying vigilant is crucial, because somewhere in the night, there’s a predator called Casanova.
The last abduction was four weeks ago, and many people have already let their guard down. They say Casanova has probably moved on now that there are more campus police patrols, more lights along the walking paths, and more girls traveling in groups.
I’m not reassured. Four weeks isn’t that long. A lot of serial offenders go weeks or months in between the times they strike. A frown tugs at the corners of my mouth. Too many details about criminal behavior have seeped into my consciousness over the past three years. That’s a hazard of listening to stories from my stepfather’s law practice.
The last missing Granthorpe girl is a sophomore who’s in my Macroeconomics class. We look so alike it’s eerie. Her seat still sits empty.
Apparently, there are no leads. The girls, ones exactly like me, are just gone in the night. I look around, my breath not quite fogging the air. It’s fall and the weather’s mild, warmer than this time of year usually allows in the Northeast.
For a couple of weeks, I’ve felt like someone’s eyes are on me, watching, waiting. Maybe it’s just paranoia from streaming too many true crime shows, but these days, I get tense every time I’m out after sundown.
At the stately white Victorian mansion, I have to push my way inside because there are already too many people. Beta House’s common room is a blur as my eyes adjust to the bright light.
My breath catches as my vision sharpens because it’s filled withhim. My stepbrother Shane. Who despises me.
Turn around and walk back out, a small voice inside me advises. My heartbeat counts off the seconds with a stuttering thump, thump, thump. Do I flee? Or stay?
Shane's hair is the color of champagne on the surface and Angostura bitters beneath. It’s a mirror of his personality, which is golden at first glance but harbors a dark anger lurking below. Today, he has a few days growth of a beard that matches his carelessly wild hair. It’s not long, but it’s longer than he ever wore it while we lived in the same house.
The party rages around me, but I can see him and his friends clearly because they’re standing on the platform with a few of the fraternity’s leaders. There’s nothing unusual about finding Shane at the top of the food chain at GU. When has he ever been anything else? He and his best friend Declan Heyworth were high school royalty when I met them.
Tonight, Declan wears a cobalt shirt, which offsets the black of his hair and his vibrant blue eyes. He has the kind of beauty that stuns people, so profound it creates an ache of lust or envy, depending on the person who witnesses it. Worse is that there is no vulnerability to make him seem human. In addition to his good looks, he’s a stellar athlete from an obscenely rich family.
It’s strange that, in my eyes, Declan doesn’t outshine Shane. Maybe because they’re two sides of the same gold coin. Each a few inches over six feet, each muscular, each sharp-witted. They’re evenly matched in the friendship, with neither as a sidekick. Two alphas who, instead of tearing each other apart, rule synergistically.
Next to the legendary duo of Shane and Declan, there’s the new addition. Erik Sorensen, aka the Berserker, looks like a Viking and dominates like one on the football field. Shane and Declan are tall, but Erik’s a monster. He's six-foot-eight-inches tall, and his golden hair has lightning streaks of white-blond running through it. By contrast, his beard is copper-colored, like a new penny. The team’s on a winning streak, so as a tribute to the football gods he hasn’t shaved. Declan is the quarterback, but apparently ritualistic hair-growing is not among his superstitions, because he’s clean-shaven.
The crush of the crowd is oppressive. I wish I could stand on the platform above the teeming sea of bodies just to get some air, but that position’s reserved for the chosen ones.
Near me, drunk girls stare and gush, “Oh, my God. Erik Sorensen can pillage my village any day!”
“Look at Shane Moran! That lawless vibe makes me want to drop to my knees at his feet til he begs me for a ride.”
“That guy doesn’t beg for anything. He’s the one who makes people beg.”
“Declan’s a god. Willing sacrifice here!”
Among my female peers, apparently all three men are coveted with equal fervor. I admire the trio’s looks because it’s impossible not to. But since I arrived on campus four months ago, I’ve done everything I can to avoid entering Shane’s orbit. It’s not been difficult since he doesn’t want me in it.
I’m keeping a low profile for my own reasons, too. Tonight, against the backdrop of short skirts, plunging necklines and kitten eyeliner, I’m wearing faded jeans, a navy cable knit sweater and almost no makeup under my black-rimmed glasses. Everything about my outfit says I should be walking a dog in the park right now, rather than partying in one of the most powerful Greek houses on campus.
I don’t want to be here tonight, but I was coming undone from cabin fever while in my dorm. I’ve been holed up every night, carefully locked inside after making sure the main doors were closed tight. Tonight, a starter party in the residence hall meant all the doors were propped open. It’s like the other women aren’t even reading the headlines.
Since my dorm-mates are still going to parties, I walked here with them. Safety in numbers, I thought. I didn’t want to be the lone girl left in the building. Unfortunately, I’ve lost track of the other women from my hall.
If I'm left with no one to walk back with, I may call campus security for an escort. They announced that young women are encouraged to call for one if out alone after ten at night. I wouldn’t have thought it necessary with the extra campus police patrols, but somehow no one’s managed to get a glimpse of Casanova. Caution seems appropriate.
Declan passes me on the way to the bar. He does a double take but doesn't smile or acknowledge me before continuing on his way. As per usual, I’m a ghost where he and Shane are concerned. I wonder how much he knows about why Shane hates me. Probably all of it. A burning blush consumes my face. It’s not as if Shane could avoid spilling the details of our family drama to Declan when Shane moved in with him for their high school senior year.
That move caused all sorts of fallout, but Shane does what he wants. Still, I don’t deserve their scorn. I never did. It was just a misunderstanding that escalated farther than it should have.
I glance Shane’s way, and he's leaning forward as a gaggle of girls speak to him. I roll my eyes an instant before his moss green ones lock onto me. My entire body stiffens so hard you could stretch me out between two sawhorses like a board.
I don't smile. I don't wave. Neither of course does he. His gaze is so hard that eventually I look away. As always. Just once, I'd like to win a stare-down with him. I also wish his scowl made him ugly. Instead, the intensity makes him more attractive. Unfair on an epic scale. The handsome face and broad shoulders on the tall, muscular frame…everything about him says, “I'm not trying; I was born looking this way.” I can testify to that. I met him when he was seventeen; he’s gorgeous when he rolls out of bed.
