Her set-down is met with female applause. I doubt any of the Lam Delta’s are getting laid tonight.
When we get outside, the dance team splinters off from us, heading toward the front of the house.
Eden turns and calls out, “Erik Sorensen, anytime you need a date for anything, call me.”
“Or me,” says another.
“Me,” a third chimes in.
There’s nothing flirtatious or cheerful in their tones. They’re not talking to Sorensen the football superstar. They’re speaking to Sorensen the flower-crusher. And doesn’t that just make it sweeter?
Sorensen stares after them as their long hair and long skirts stream behind them. They stalk away like fucking Valkyries.
Once we’re at my car, I open the passenger door of the Porsche. Avery hesitates, glancing at me as though she’s not sure whether to make another stand, this time against the patriarchy that deems it chivalrous for a guy to open a car door for a woman. After a halting breath, she climbs in.
When I’m inside and pulling the car out onto the street, she finally speaks. “I want a gun and shooting lessons.”
“No.”
Avery’s the last person I’d hand a gun to right now. She had no control over her emotions tonight.
Besides, guns do not belong in untrained hands, and having one might make her overconfident. Casanova undoubtedly has a way of getting in close before a woman knows to be afraid. Otherwise, someone would have heard a scream.
“Yes.” Avery’s voice is as firm as mine. “A gun. And lessons.” Then she makes me the offer she thinks I won’t be able to resist. “You can name your price.”
16
AVERY
Rather than getting on the highway, Shane turns into a residential neighborhood a few blocks from the Lambda Delta house.
“Where are we going?” I demand.
“I need to make a stop on the way home. It’ll only take a few minutes.” His fingers drum on the head of the gearshift.
My gaze fixes on his knuckles, which are covered in dried blood that’s as brown as steak sauce. I hope all of it is Todd’s.
Digging through the small clutch I left tucked in Shane’s car, I pull out the plastic sheaf of makeup removal wipes.
“I can’t believe they wore Casanova roses.” I jerk a cleansing wipe from the container and grab Shane’s right hand. “They’re such assholes!”
His fingers close into a tight fist as soon I start cleaning his scraped knuckles.
“Todd didn’t even recognize their names. They mean nothing to him.” Because Shane’s silent, my gaze flicks up to his face.
His jaw is set, and he stares straight ahead at the road. Am I hurting him? The cleanser is gentle, but at the moment, I’m not.
I finish quickly and release his hand. “Well?” My fury continues to burst out in waves.
“Whose names? The missing girls?” Shane’s tone is merely curious, which is much too calm to suit me.
“Yes! I know their names, where they’re from, what they planned to major in. They’re as important as Casanova. More so, in fact. There should be as much coverage of the missing women as there is of him.”
“The focus is on Casanova because he still needs to be caught.”
“No. When he’s caught, which he’d better be soon, there will be endless hours spent dissecting his useless life and sharing every detail! To the media, only the man matters.”
Shane grimaces, leaning his head away from me. “Lower your voice. I’m sitting right next to you.”
