“Pay up.” Aunt Mala gleefully rubs her fingers together while Da looks like he’s hoping for the sweet release of death versus another hour of this.
Bawbag - Scottish slang for a complete idiot
Mishanter - Scottish slang for a disaster
Chapter One
In which Luna knows this is such a bad idea.
Luna…
“Relax, babes,” Brittany says, bouncing a bit. “This is going to be so much fun!”
“Uh-huh,” I say dubiously, eyeing the enormous mansion squatting in the clearing as the forest looms behind it. The extravagant power cruiser we’re on slips into the little harbor of Morren Island. I can faintly hear music, and lights are blazing from every window in the mansion. “Are you sure these people are expecting us?”
Brittany puts her arms around my shoulders in a hug that’s more like a strangle, but after exploring London with her and her friends for the last four days, I know this is just her way. “I promise, Luna. They’re friends of my brother’s. We hang out all the time.”
“Look,” I hedge, “I’m going to return with the captain here. I’m not feeling this.”
The aforementioned captain ignores me, nimbly jumping onto the dock and securing the giant boat. The sun is setting, and the clean, white lines of the power cruiser are far more reassuring than that monstrous house. Even if the captain here is looking atme like he’d like to put the cigarette dangling from his lips out on my forehead.
Brittany’s focusing on touching up her lipstick. She’s so pretty, with wild blonde hair and big, innocent-looking brown eyes. Innocent until you get to know her, of course. “Relax! I promise it’s going to be fun. If you hate it, you can go hide out in the library and read.”
Marla and Canary start giggling. At the last club they took me to, I spent the evening on the rooftop stargazing. The place was so crowded that just trying to get a drink meant some skeevy perv would attempt to grope me.
I look back at the enormous stone and brick mansion. There are a few outbuildings scattered around it and nothing but the dense forest behind. The dock we’re tied up to is brand new, but there are no other boats.
“How did everyone else get here?” I rub my bare arms; my cute tank top and jeans seemed like a good idea when I was getting dressed back at the hostel, but the night air on this tiny island clings to my skin with damp fingers, and it’s matching nicely with the chill going down my spine.
“Who cares?” Marla lights up a joint, greedily sucking in the smoke.
“I think one of the Armstrong brothers has a helicopter,” Canary joins in, smiling reassuringly. “Come on, Luna! These guys throw the party of the year, it’s a big deal to get invited.”
The captain growls. “I’m taking off. Alone. Get yer arses off my boat.”
Canary grabs one of my arms, and Brittany takes the other, hustling me off the boat in some kind of awkward perp walk like I’m wearing an orange jumpsuit. I can hear the roar of the boatmotor fading as he takes off, no doubt to fish for endangered marine species or dump a body overboard. I never did go down into the cabin. Who knows what he had down there?
“Oh, look. The princess is getting fussy.” Aunt Martha’s voice is loud and clear as if she’s sitting in front of me, chain-smoking her Lucky Strikes. “You’re too special for all that, huh?”
Squaring my shoulders, I head up the walkway.
Oh, this is such a bad idea.
The entryway is two stories high with a magnificent crystal chandelier big enough to crush everyone in the house if it fell. There’s a random pair of panties hanging off one of the crystal loops. The wood paneling glows from countless applications of wax, but it’s tarnished by a long, jagged scratch running along the wainscoting. Every elegant little table is covered with empty drink glasses and overflowing ashtrays. Seeing something so beautiful treated like a dive bar is infuriating.
Brittany jams a bottle of beer into my hand. “C’mon,” she coaxes, “we’re here, let’s have some fun.”
The mansion screams elegance and insane amounts of money, though the vibe is 100% frat house. I didn’t get to go to college, but I had a short-lived job as a house cleaner for one of the fraternities near the University of Iowa. Trying to avoid them, I’d clean when those preppy douchebags were supposed to be in classes, or they’d never let up on harassing me.
I was unceremoniously fired when I hit the fraternity president on the head with a laundry basket. He’d spilled an enormous load of clean sheets and towels on the dirty floor of the basement when he tried to box me into a corner. He was bleeding andscreaming, “What the fuck, man! You broke my nose!” as I walked out.
So, maybe that was me quitting. I like that version better.
That same entitled rich bro energy is saturated into the walls of this beautiful home, along with a hundred clashing scents of high-end cologne, cigarette smoke, weed, and spilled booze.
A guy dressed in full English Butler mode with a gray suit and tie stands at the door with a silver box. “Phones, please,” he intones. Brittany and Canary toss theirs into the box, but Marla and I hesitate.
“Why?” I ask.
