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“You look hot,” Megan says from the driver’s seat when she and the guys pick me up, eyeing my black leggings and heeled boots paired with my leather jacket. Raj echoes his approval.
“It’s very ‘cat burglar chic,’ ” Zane corrects from the back seat as I slide into the front.
It’s too late to second-guess my clothing choice. I flipped through my closet for something without grease stains. A little mascara and lip gloss and I looked like a woman at least a few hours removed from the garage. Whatever my mom didn’t pass down to me, I got her curves.
“Any statement from Dekker?” Megan’s attention flicks to the rearview, where Zane is swiping on his phone.
“Nothing public. He’s probably too busy getting drunk and hoping he’ll wake up and find out it was all a bad dream.”
“Or maybe he lawyered up.” Megan cuts me a glance.
“ARI’s still tied for first in the team championship. And Navarro’s having a good season. Does Luca really think a reserve driver will help them?” Raj muses.
“I don’t know.” I think back to the other night at the ARI garage. “Luca seems like someone who only cares about winning.”
When we get to the Ashfords’ mansion, we’re greeted by flashing lights outside the gate.
“Cops?”
Zane follows my gaze. “On Ashford payroll.”
We head up to the house, if you can call it that. The sprawling manor is all columns and stone. I expect to see a gargoyle or two, but there’s nothing when I head in the doors.
Megan said the entire school was invited, and there must be a hundred unfamiliar faces at least. The girls are in short skirts and heels. The guys in dress shirts and shoes that probably cost more than our mortgage payment.
A massive chandelier takes up the foyer, highlighting a double staircase. Like at school, photos line the walls. Unlike the ones on campus, there’s a uniformity to these. It takes me a moment to put my finger on it. They’re all win pictures. At the center of each photo is a trophy, an award, a bottle of champagne mid-spray.
No sweat or blood or sacrifice. Only the prize matters.
“Please tell me you didn’t come to the party to look at twenty-year-old pictures,” Megan chides.
But my eyes find one photo in particular, a group of men and a woman accepting an award. I squint to make out the faces.
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen!”
Theo Ashford’s cocky voice rips my attention away. Our host appears at the top of the stairs, barefoot and grinning. His shirt hangs open, rolled at the sleeves like he’s headlining a rock concert.
“Thank you all for coming. I hear it’s all downhill after twenty-one, so I’m glad we can have this last time together.”
A drunken chorus goes up.
“Before going any further, we have an important tradition.”
That’s when I notice Jameson, a shadow at his brother’s back in a collared shirt and dress pants. If Theo’s a sexy rock star, Jameson’s giving Dracula: prince of darkness, terrible sense of humor, not above sacrificing small animals in service of living his best life.
He scans the crowd and jerks his chin once. Four drivers from school join the Ashfords on the stairs.
“Where?” one asks.
“Harmon Ave.” The road in front of the house.
Theo’s gaze lands on me, warming appreciatively. “You came.” The slow scan down my body makes me feel like maybe I’m not underdressed after all.
The guy who gave me a hard time in class, Knox, follows Theo’s gaze.
“Look. It’s the girl who wanted to get some.” He leers. “I’ll let you ride with me, baby.”
He’s closer to me than Theo is, and when he reaches out to grab my waist, I’m too startled to stop him. His breath smells like liquor, and his grip is surprisingly firm. I try to pull away, but he holds fast.
