Wicked Games

by Wood, Vivian

  I have to read three short stories for my writing class and prepare notes on them.

  I have to make flashcards of different lipids and proteins for biochemistry and memorize them.

  My finite mathematics class has a little homework, which is so easy it shouldn’t be a problem.

  But my classics class is another matter. We are supposed to be doing a paper on an assigned person. But I have several questions about blah, who I’m supposed to be writing about. I’m planning to send Professor Napier an email clarifying a few things.

  And while I’m at it, I have a few questions for the Henry David Thoreau scholarship judges too. Like… I can still win if I uncover a crime, can’t I? Not that it would stop me digging around, but I want to be thorough.

  I start composing the email I will send them as I head down the steps. I’m not looking where I’m going though, so of course I run headlong into Dr. Napier as she’s coming up the stone steps. I manage not to fall, but I drop my books everywhere. Dr. Napier is a little more graceful than I am, so she just brushes off her prim gray dress and gives me a baleful look.

  “I’m so sorry!” I rush to apologize. “I’m such a klutz.”

  “It’s not a problem,” she says, although her tone suggests otherwise. My cheeks go pink.

  “Sorry, I was just trying to compose an email in my head.” I try to explain myself as I collect my books and stand up. “I’m trying to figure out if there was a crime committed for a story I’m working on.”

  Her brows rise slightly. “A crime?”

  I fidget a little. “Yes. I’m digging into the death of a Campbell student. Maybe you knew him? His name was Asher Radcliffe.”

  Dr. Napier’s brows knit. “Oh yes. Well, I wouldn’t say I knew him. But I remember his passing. The whole campus mourned.”

  She tucks her neat blonde hair behind her ear, checking her watch. My cheeks stain with color again. I am taking up my professor’s time needlessly.

  Clearing my throat, I smile weakly. “I’m sure you’re busy. I have a couple of questions for you about the assignment—”

  “Can you just email them to me?” Dr. Napier cuts me off, smiling gently. “I’m late for a meeting.”

  “Yes! Of course.”

  “Great. Have a nice day, Emily.”

  She remembers my name. I stand back, letting her pass. I call out, “You too, professor!”

  The door closes on whatever response she might have returned.

  27

  Wolf

  Rose House is a sea of masks.

  Leonardo DiCaprio did everyone a favor by offering to be in the remake of The Great Gatsby, and of course we’ve benefitted from it at Rose House. Who the hell doesn’t want to attend a Gatsby-themed party? The Thistles went wild for the idea, because of course they did, and even I have to admit that the results were worth it.

  Everybody from the Thorns is in a black suit, and the Thistles are in flapper dresses. Jewel tones. That kind of shit. It’s almost a uniform, but all of them are subtly different.

  “You’re staring.”

  Carter comes up next to me, mixed drink in a champagne glass. These are like the ones they had in the movie, Cassandra told me earlier, while she was setting them out on the drink table. Carter doesn’t look anything like Leo DiCaprio, but he takes a swig and raises it anyway, a rakish grin on his face.

  “Drink, Wolf. At least it won’t be as creepy as what you’re doing now.”

  “I’m keeping an eye on things, jackass. Someone has to.”

  “This is why we pay security.” He motions to a bouncer at the back corner of the room. He is correct, in one sense. The Rose has funds for a minimal amount of security. They cover us when we host bigger events, like this one. It’s gotten bigger than just the Thorns and the Thistles by at least forty people, maybe more.

  I grit my teeth, then consciously relax my jaw. We didn’t have security on site the night Asher died. That was a private ceremony. IT would have had the founders rolling over in their graves if we’d invited outsiders.

  And yet, and yet.

  “You were more fun on fall break.”

  “I was at my family’s vacation home on fall break. That’s why you could get so fucking wasted.”

  Carter had enjoyed himself quite thoroughly. So had Ellis, who spent the entire weekend shirtless, alternating between doing a series of crunches and sauntering along the beach. He walked far enough one day to find the girls staying in the house on the other side of the island.

  That was Saturday, and Saturday turned into Sunday morning, and I poured drinks and thought about Emily.

  Who isn’t here yet.

  “I raise a glass to you,” says Carter, then turns and looks over his shoulders. “Ellis, get over here. He’s moping.”

  “Moping over who?” Ellis comes up behind both of us, slinging his arms around us. “If it’s that Emily girl, you’ve got to get over her.”

  “I’m not fucking moping.” I shrug him off. “Where’s your drink, anyway? How can you be all over us?”

  “My date has it.” Ellis winks, and in the center of the crowd I catch a glimpse of a woman in a baby blue flapper dress. She holds up two champagne glasses and runs the tip of her tongue over her bottom lip.

  “Who’s that?” asks Carter.

  “Don’t know yet,” answers Ellis. “I’m planning to find out tonight.”

  “That’s not going to happen if you’re up my ass about partying with this fool,” I tell him. “If that’s your date, don’t let her stand there alone.”

  “You’re such a fucking gentleman,” shouts Ellis, and then he shoves past and dives into the middle of the crowd. In seconds he’s with the woman in the blue dress. He drains the champagne glass and dips her in his arm for a kiss. Guy doesn’t waste any time.

  Carter follows Ellis a few seconds later, and I scan the room one more time. Maybe it is the bouncer’s job to make sure that nothing goes off the rails, but I’m the one at the top of the food chain as far as Rose House is concerned. And my concern is getting through this year without another devastating blow. My palms itch for the feel of a glass. Carter was right about one thing—I should have a drink. My heart beats fast, the way it has at every other event so far this year. I’ll never let them see it, but the other shoe is out there, waiting to drop. Hovering overhead.

  Or maybe even in one of the rooms of Rose House.

  The main room is wall-to-wall flapper dresses and suits, and the closest drink table is all the way on the other side, near where Kevin the bouncer is standing. I’ve spent the last few years at Campbell with women all over me, but in this moment I can’t stand the thought of having to shoulder my way through all those bodies.

  I go the other way instead.

  The hallway is close, with a woman in pink leaning against the wall, her mask somehow the same shade as her dress. From what I can see of it, anyway. She’s mostly obscured by the arm of the brother who’s leaning over her, his lips next to her ear. I have a flash of Emily with her back up against the wall, my own palm pressed against the wood paneling, my own lips brushing against the delicate flesh of her neck. I turn sideways to squeeze by them without touching him. They don’t so much as shift their weight to let me by.

  In the kitchen, the Thistles have turned the lights down low and brought in a small portable spotlight that illuminates a champagne fountain. I thought it would look like shit, but the night is new enough that it doesn’t. They’ve also draped the kitchen island in white and surrounded the fountain with neat rows of champagne glasses. I take one and fill it in the fountain, then hold up the glass to the light and watch the bubbles rise to the top.

  I’ll have one glass, and then I’ll check on the proceedings downstairs. It might be a semi-public event upstairs, but in the rooms below Rose House, there are ceremonies tonight.

  The doorway to the back garden swings open when I have the glass halfway to my lips.

  My heart stops.

  The woman i
n red is a fucking vision. Her dark hair is sleek and straight, framing her face, and her lips are the same red as her dress. It’s like she’s stepped out of the thirties, elegant and cool on Max’s arm. He’s never looked better. His hair is pulled back from his face, and his expression is verging on giddy. I have a strange double vision. Am I looking into the fucking future, and this is his wedding day? That’s how satisfied he looks.

  “—on paper,” he says, and the woman laughs, and that’s when the illusion that this is a beautiful stranger falls to the ground and shatters at my feet.

  Emily.

  Of course it’s Emily. I knew it would be Emily. It’s impossible not to know who the brothers are going to bring to the parties, and I knew Max would bring her. I just didn’t know it would be like this.

  “That’s crazy,” she says. “Are you kidding? Come on. Tell me if you’re kidding.” It’s the kind of back-and-forth I’ve never had with her. Things between Emily and I are always on a lower register, more heated and sultry, and I feel like I’m looking at a complete stranger. How can that fucking be, when I’ve kissed her and tasted salt on her lips, when I’ve seen her on her knees and my entire soul responded?

  “My lips are sealed.” Max raises both hands in the air. “I have to run upstairs for a second. Do you want to come?”

  My breath hitches, chest going tight.

  But Emily shakes her head. “I’ll be okay down here. The music’s loud, isn’t it?” She lifts her shoulders and lets them drop again. Her legs look a mile long underneath her red flapper dress. “Maybe I’ll go dance.”

  “I’ll meet you.”

  “Okay,” she says, and he turns away from the door. Emily goes in the same direction, and that’s when they see me.

  Max’s eyes narrow, but then he puts a smile on. “Wolf. Sneaking away from the party, as usual.”

  I scoff. “I never sneak away from the party. I am the fucking party.”

  “Sure you are,” says Max, and he pats me on the shoulder as he goes by, his hand lingering a beat too long. A warning.

  From Max.

  What is happening in this house?

  I turn back toward Emily, who stands on the other side of the island, her eyes on me.

  “Champagne?”

  “Please.” One word out of her mouth, and I feel it—the tension in the room, sizzling. Crackling. A low-level current that could spike at any time. No, it’s not the same with us as it is between her and Max.

  I saunter slowly around the island until I’m on the same side as she is, then pluck another one of the champagne glasses from the table. A click sounds on the floor as she steps closer, then another. She stands next to me and the light reflecting off the champagne dances off her face.

  “You’re going to love the party,” I tell her, turning to face her. “All the Thistles are already dancing.”

  She shrugs one shoulder, a delicate movement that draws my attention to her collarbone. “I like to have a drink before I dance. Not too much, just...something to loosen up.”

  We’re inches apart, and I set my own glass down on the table and raise hers between us. “It’s good champagne. I wouldn’t have settled for anything less.”

  Emily laughs, low and soft. “I think Cassandra picked the champagne.”

  “She might have chosen it, but I paid for it.”

  She bites her lips. “There’s only one thing that really matters in the end, though.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Whether it’s good or not.” One of the straps on her dress is twisted. They’re spaghetti straps, so thin, but I reach out and run one finger underneath it. Emily presses her lips together and glances down. “Are you...taking this off or leaving it on?”

  “Do you think I’d undress you in a public kitchen? Please, Emily Danes.”

  The strap untwists, lying smooth, but I steal an extra moment to touch her before I drop my hand.

  “Wolf?”

  “Yes?”

  “Are you keeping that champagne for yourself?”

  I’m still holding it, raised between us. The music from the main room thuds in my ears, a throbbing beat that still doesn’t drown out my pounding heart. “Right. The champagne. I think you were saying there was only one way to know if it’s decent or if I’m a liar.”

  Emily nods, her dark eyes huge. “It’s like anything else. You have to taste it to know.”

  “What does a girl like you know about champagne?”

  “Nothing,” she admits. “But I know what I like. At least, I’m learning what I like.”

  “And do you like this?”

  I can’t help myself. I can’t fucking help myself. I raise the champagne glass to her lips.

  Emily doesn’t step back. She doesn’t flinch away, or turn her head. She keeps her eyes on mine as she parts her ruby lips, letting me settle the glass neatly against her bottom lip.

  Do you consent to be sacrificed? The words settle on the tip of my tongue, but I don’t say anything. I can feel them in the air around us and from the expression on her face, Emily can too.

  This was what I missed at initiation. It was blocked from my view by Max, standing between us, and that’s not lost on me in this moment. My muscles tense but I keep my hand steady, so fucking steady, and I don’t take my eyes from her face while she drinks.

  She’s not on her knees, but she might as well be.

  I lower the glass.

  “And?”

  “It’s good,” she whispers.

  “Are you ready to dance?” We both turn our heads toward the door like deer caught in headlights. I overrule the urge to step back and stay where I am.

  “Max,” Emily says. “Yes.” She looks up at me one more time, looking completely torn. “Let’s go dance. I said I would find Cass when I got here, so...” She turns and smiles at him, and I watch her become that girl from before. “Yes. Let’s go.”

  She goes across the kitchen to Max, who offers his arm.

  Emily takes it.

  “You coming, Wolf?” It’s a courtesy with a sharp edge. I’ve never been this at odds with Max.

  I sweep my champagne glass from the table and raise it in a toast. “I’m right behind you.”

  But once they’re gone, I go out to the garden instead.

  It’s a horrible feeling, settled behind my breastbone.

  Jealousy.

  28

  Emily

  Wolf.

  Max.

  Two completely different boys who make me feel two totally different ways.

  Max sparks my imagination. He is so damned interesting, I never quite know what’s going to come out of that sarcastic mouth of his. And he perpetually looks like he’s just coming off of a modeling shoot, his dark chin length hair mussed just so.

  And then there is Wolf. He frustrates me and creates this… this void, this sensation that I am missing something essential anytime I’m not touching him. Plus I know that there are depths to him that have yet to be uncovered… he is more than the wealth and power that he exudes. I’m sure of it.

  Then there is the fact that there is never a sandy blond hair out of place on his head. Or rather, his hair might be askew, but it looks intentional. Coupled with those royal blue eyes that I could get lost in, Wolf is a straight up walking wet dream.

  Women can say that, right?

  I fan myself, unable to get a full breath of air. I swear, both of these boys… these men… are trying to drive me crazy.

  Stifled by the atmosphere in the room as much as by my own emotions, I take advantage of Max’s distraction and slip away.

  I look for someplace quiet to go. People are doing shots on the back patio, so that’s out. Wolf is standing by the front door. Max is still near the staircase leading upstairs. So I have one option left to me.

  The back staircase, the one that leads downstairs. I have no idea where it leads but it’s eerily silent as I steal down the stairs. It’s dark down here, darker with every step I descend. I shiver c
onvulsively although I don’t exactly know why. Intending to just find a place to sit and catch my breath, I come to the bottom step.

  It’s cold down here. So cold I can see the outline of my breath for just a moment, etched in the air. I guess that the October chill has finally really set in. Wrapping my arms around myself, I feel a little guilty as I look around.

  I’m in the heart of the house. I can feel it here in the dark as I step forward, almost as if Rose House moves and breathes around me. Before me, I see a door. I step forward and try the doorknob, finding that it gives way easily.

  I peek inside. Squinting in the darkness, I find an empty room, the cement floor dusty. There is another door but it doesn’t seem any more exciting than what I have seen so far. So I back up, closing the door softly.

  What next? So far my snooping is turning up nothing of value.

  One more minute of looking around and then I will give up. That is a promise I can make and keep with ease.

  There is a hallway leading around the corner, away from the door that I just opened. I sneak around it, turning the corner to come around the stairs.

  Then I stop dead.

  There, just twenty paces from me, is a doorway. The doorway is covered with what looks like a length of velvet, but at the bottom one corner peeks out. And the corner that I can see is an ornately engraved bright, brilliant gold.

  What hell do the Skulls keep in there? And why is the doorway covered?

  Like a moth drawn to a flame, I creep down the hallway, tugged onward by my overwhelming curiosity. It’s still and silent down here, the sound of my heels on the gray stone floor only rivaling the sound of my suddenly-pounding heart.

  As I draw closer to the door, I expect to hear something or see something. But there is nothing, just the faint groans from the ceiling above. The sounds remind me that there is a party going on, despite the darkened hush down here. I reach the door at last.

  Biting my lip, I brush away the material from the golden surface of the door. The gold feels warm under my touch. I lean my head closer, listening.