by Mia Faye
Ness grabs my hand, as if sensing my hesitation, and leads me into the heart of the party. She stops every few feet, saying hi to random strangers, stopping to converse briefly with others. Clearly, she is extremely popular, but that’s not news.
I’m dressed in a regretfully short skirt and a floral shirt that’s hidden away behind a warm sweater. Ness had fought valiantly against the sweater, insisting that it covered up my best feature, which to her is my chest. But I had already compromised on the length of the skirt, so she wasn’t going to win that one. My hair is tied up in a loose bun at the top of my head, from where single strands keep sneaking out and falling around my face. Overall, though, I think I look pretty good for someone who didn’t want to be here in the first place.
Ness leads the way to the alcohol almost on autopilot. She pours us both a drink and hands me a glass, lifting hers in the air for a toast. “Here’s to us making some mistakes, and hopefully a lot of memories.”
We clink glasses, and I take a tentative sip of my drink. The whiskey fires straight into my brain, and I close my eyes and cough violently for a few seconds. Ness laughs and claps me on the back. I think I hear her mutter ‘virgin’ under her breath. Once my eyes stop streaming, she pushes the glass back to my lips. I manage to swallow this time; the taste took me by surprise the first time.
“Are you trying to get me drunk?” I ask Ness. I can’t help noticing how keen she is to help me empty my glass.
“Just enough that you stop worrying and have some fun,” she says.
I don’t say it, but I doubt that’s going to happen. The few times Ness has managed to get me liquored up in the past, it led to me passing out and waking up the next day with no recollection of what happened. I’m not good with alcohol. I never have been.
I see the two guys approaching, and I know right away that they’re the Smiths. They’re immaculately dressed and very cool-looking with their identical velvet suits and their steel-toed boots polished to a high sheen. The Smiths are kind of legendary around campus. Their father is none other than the university’s Dean of Students, and their name precedes them. They’re wild and unhinged and showy. I think the first time I met them was at another one of their parties.
The guys themselves are good-looking in the classic, 90’s movie star sense. They’re identical twins, but they have over time distinguished themselves through their clothes and personality. Frank likes his bowties, and he is by far the brasher of the two. His brother Miles is quieter, more reserved, but you can see in his eyes he has a mean streak about him.
They say hi to Ness with exaggerated kisses on both cheeks. I take a step back, not wanting to get dragged into the conversation, wishing I could blend into the nearest wall and stay there until it’s time to leave.
I hear them talk about the party and how it was the perfect opportunity for people to squeeze in the things they never got a chance to do all year. And there is something a bit too mischievous in the way Ness grins at that remark. Holy shit, she was serious about the sandwich.
That conversation does not seem to be dying down any time soon, so I take several more steps back, turn, and head off looking for a bathroom.
The crowd seems to have gotten thicker if that is even possible. I bump into countless shoulders, step on what seems like hundreds of toes. I mumble my apologies, but they get snatched up by the music and the collective hum of shouted conversation. Eventually, I locate a bathroom on the floor I’m on, and I duck in with relief. I stay in there for as long as I can. Only when I start to fear that Ness is looking for me do I get out of the stall I was sitting in, wash my hands, and reluctantly rejoin the party.
In that short time, the mood seems to have changed. The music is slower, more soulful, not as loud as it was. The people I pass are all versions of high or slightly drunk. I figure it is the point in any party when the drugs have finally kicked in for everybody.
Ness isn’t where I left her. I look around to confirm I’m in the right place. As I am about to leave and go looking for her, I notice the slicked-back hair of Miles Smith. His brother is nowhere to be seen. Neither is Ness. I approach him and tap him gently on the shoulder.
He turns and lets his gaze travel over me. His expression is strange; I feel like he’s undressing and judging me all at once.
“Where did Ness go?” I ask him. I have to shout so he can hear me. And stand on toes so I can speak directly into his ear.
He shakes his head, then hands me a glass I recognize as mine. “She went off with Frankie,” he says. “If you know what I mean.”
“I thought she wanted you both?” I ask him, the words spilling out of my mouth before I can stop myself. Filter, Amelia. Filter.
But Miles only grins. “She did, but I wasn’t into it. I like my women more …” His eyes travel over my body once more. I feel the x-ray of his stare all the way through my sweater and top. I am almost tempted to tap his chin and say, ‘My eyes are up here champ.’
“… unconventional,” he finishes, and he grins again like he has just said the funniest thing.
My heart has begun to patter. I take an unconscious gulp of the alcohol to calm my nerves, and then another. It is so typical of Ness to promise not to leave me alone, then do it at the first opportunity, knowing how uncomfortable I get around people I don’t know. And how much I hate parties. I make a mental note to give her a piece of my mind tomorrow. I should really be studying right now. Maybe I still can.
I pull out my phone to look at the time. The digits swim maddeningly in front of me, and for a second, I’m convinced the floor is spinning. I look up and around, wondering what just happened. How strong was that drink? I try to take a step back into something solid I can hold on to like a wall. My foot comes up, but there doesn’t seem to be anywhere to put it back down. It hangs, for an eternity, in the air, and then I’m falling. I don’t know how or why, but the next thing I know, my balance is completely shot. I can’t remember which side is up, down, left or right. The whole room gives an almighty lurch, and the floor rushes up to meet me.
Strong hands grab me before I get to the ground. I think. I can feel fingers burning the exposed skin on my arm, as the stranger steadies me and holds me up. I can’t be that drunk already. It happened too fast. I know I’m a lightweight, but it still feels strange how fast I got here. Unless …
But my mind is a puddle of half-formed thoughts. I can barely string a thought together. I feel suddenly weak and uncoordinated.
“Steady there,” a voice says from somewhere above me. I try to focus on my savior, but my vision is blurry. “You should lie down. Let me help you …”
And then I’m being carried away. I think I feel my feet kicking against someone’s hard torso. I lift my arm to touch his face, inches from my reach. I feel a slight brush of stubble. Lower, my fingers slide against something soft and rich. Velvet. Miles is the one carrying me. I remember his eyes, how they cut into me. I remember the assessment, the observation, the way they lingered ever so slightly over the swell of my chest. And I remember how uncomfortable he made me feel.
Something is wrong. Something bad is happening. I can feel it.
I try to speak, but the words come out in a string of unintelligible noises. I try to lift my hands again, to hit him, maybe, or push him away. But each of my fingers suddenly weighs a ton.
Scream, Amelia. Try and scream.
He can’t hurt you. He is in the middle of a crowd. Everyone can see him carrying you away. But he is Miles Smith. No one will bat an eyelid. To them, this might just look like him carrying a drunk girl away to get some air.
I’m on my own.
Despair floods through my body. I close my eyes and focus on the singular effort it will require for me to scream. My brain seems lethargic, my mouth even more so. When I finally open my mouth, all that comes from it is a meek little whimper.
“Help.”
I doubt anyone hears it. I barely hear it myself.
I hear Miles push open a door, a
nd then he walks into a large room, still carrying me. My world is still swimming. I am floating, suspended in the air, then a plush mattress hits my back, and I lay still.
3
Robert
This was a terrible idea.
I am horribly, laughably out of place. I am at least twice as old as the youngest person here, and it shows.
The music is too loud. There are too many people. It’s too hot. None of which are good signs for me, but they may be promising for why I’m here. Narrowed eyes follow me as I walk through the house. Suspicious. Confused. Amused. Ever so slightly hostile. I feel old and unwelcome. But I’m not about to back down from this just because I’m a little uncomfortable. Still, not exactly the best idea. Or maybe the execution is the problem. Maybe I should have given this a little more time, let the idea sit before diving straight in. It just seemed like the perfect opportunity cropped up out of the blue.
How long had it been since someone called to tell me about a college party? Too long. A lifetime ago. But that’s exactly what happened. I reached out to an old college buddy of mine who still worked at the university and mentioned my situation without going into too much detail. It was an odd request to make I realized as I scrambled for words over the phone. It was good that he knew me personally.
The best place to find some bright young college minds? Probably an educational setting of some sort. A lecture or a symposium or talk. But I wasn’t just looking for some nerdy legal mind. Hints were dropped. Throats were cleared. My friend ooohed in comprehension and finally informed me of the party. The last one there was going to be for a lot of the students, most of whom were graduating in a few weeks. It was the perfect setting.
The practicality of it was another matter entirely.
I pace around the house, my eyes scanning the faces around me. It’s your typical college party fare. Tall skinny stoners, drifting around the house. Young single girls clearly out in search of a good time. Hawk-eyed predators scoping the scene. Nothing stands out; no one hits my eye enough to warrant a second look. I need a drink, a stiff one. But it’s never a good idea to risk the drinks at a party. A college party at that. I let my eyes wander over to the drinks table. Maybe I can manage a beer?
That’s when I see her.
She is standing at the table but leaning away from it like she’s trying to slide away without being noticed. She is clearly uncomfortable; her body language is screaming that she doesn’t want to be there. She keeps throwing furtive glances at a short, shapely brunette who is flanked by two men and clearly unconcerned about her friend’s discomfort.
But all these observations come second to the most glaring one, the one that hits me like a ton of bricks: she is absolutely stunning.
Whether deliberately or not, she has managed to put together a look that says she couldn’t be bothered, but if she had tried, she would have looked incredible. I think she looks incredible anyway. Her hair is just the right amount of loose/in place. It is tied back in a bun, leaving her heart-shaped face open. Hair that is a striking dark red, framing a pale, almost sun-deprived face. Her eyes are large and quick. Her nose is long and narrow. Her lips are full and inviting, painted a lush shade of plum red that almost matches her hair. Her body is half-hidden behind the drinks table, but from what I can see, she is tall and leggy. Her posture is rigid, reserved, almost too cautious. It’s like she’s afraid of spreading out like she wants to remain in her shell and not be bothered by anyone. I feel for her. Clearly, she doesn’t want to be here.
“Hi!” Someone glides into my field of vision, completely out of the blue. Blonde. Blue eyes. Wide, inviting smile.
I have a second to register her, and then she has thrown herself at me, wrapping me in a bold hug. I am too stunned to react, so I stand there stiffly as she pats me on the back. It’s a familiar hug, one that says she knows me, if a little too intimately. Yet I’m sure I’ve never met the girl in my life. I would remember. I never forget a face.
She is beaming when she pulls back.
“I’m sorry, who are you?” I ask her, brushing her hand from my shoulder where it is resting. She looks taken aback, offended even. I try to think about where I could have seen her, but nothing clicks.
“You’re Robert Hardy, right?” she asks. “The Robert Hardy.”
“Yes … but how do you …?”
“I’m sorry. It was presumptuous of me to come up on you like that. I assumed you’d remember me. I’m so sorry.”
I open my mouth and shut it, still confused.
“My name is Veronica Sharpe. My class worked with you on a mentorship program for young law students last year. I’m a student here.”
The memory finally falls into place. Yes, I did do a mentorship initiative for the school a while back in collaboration with the university, working with the college student body president. But that had been a young man, hadn’t it?
“I think I know why you don’t remember me. I wasn’t exactly at the forefront. But I was an assistant student body president, and we interacted on a daily basis for several weeks.”
“I’m so sorry,” I tell her, and I mean it. I have no recollection of her at all.
“That’s okay. You’re a busy man, Mr. Hardy. I would expect nothing less.”
“Well, it’s nice to know I left an impact with someone, even if I don’t remember it.”
“Oh, you definitely left an impact. I’ve been following your cases for a long time, Mr. Hardy. I’m your biggest fan. And if I may be so bold as to say, I think your defense in the State vs Colin case was a stroke of genius.”
This is strange. I don’t think I’ve ever encountered a fan before. But it is also deeply flattering. I am almost reminded of myself in college, eager and desperate to prove myself, to follow in the steps of the lawyers I idolized.
“That’s very kind of you to say, uh, Veronica.”
“It’s such a weird coincidence to see you here!” She looks around as if expecting our surroundings to vanish and be replaced by a courtroom. “Can I ask why you’re here?” She gasps. “Oh my God, are you recruiting?”
The excitement in her voice is palpable. Her eyes are now two large orbs of brilliant blue.
“No,” I say quickly. I mean, I am, but I don’t want to give it away.
“Because I would love to work with you, sir, in whatever capacity,” Veronica goes on. Her gaze is steady. She is staring at me, unflinching, and I have to admire her forwardness, how aggressive she seems to be. These are all great qualities of an assistant.
And why not her? She is certainly attractive. A girl that bold and that hot would definitely be a force to reckon with. Goldman wouldn’t know what hit him. She seems eager, and she has done her research on me. That could actually be a plus for her. If she is already aware of how I work, then there would be no need for the initial training and hand-holding as she tried to figure out what was what.
So, why not?
I look back over at the drinks table. The gorgeous redhead is gone, as is her friend. One of the guys has remained behind, though. Waiting for her? Had he made a move while I was talking to Veronica? I start to look away, but a surreptitious movement of his hand catches my eye, and I turn back to him.
He does it with the practiced nonchalance of someone who has gotten away with it many times before. It’s so quick, too, a casual flick of his wrist over the glass. If I blinked, I would have missed it.
“Mr. Hardy?” Veronica is positively bouncing up and down on the balls of her feet in front of me. My eyes refocus on her.
“Right. Sorry.” What were we talking about? Ah, yes. She wants to work for me. “Listen, Veronica. You’re a very impressive young woman. Of that, I’m sure, even though I’ve only been talking to you for five minutes. You seem brilliant, and you have the perfect attitude for the murky world that is the legal system. Never lose that. It will serve you well. Have you finished law school?”
“Technically, I am. We’re graduating in a couple of weeks.”
Veronica beams and she pulls out a strip of paper from her handbag and scribbles her information on it. I nod at her as I pocket it, and she departs with a cheery wave and a ‘Nice to meet you!’
My eyes fly back to the drinks table. Right on cue, too. Gorgeous redhead is back, and she is conversing with the asshole who just spiked her drink. I take a few steps to my left so I can get a better look at him.
He looks vaguely familiar, even beyond the clear wealth and affluence that mark him out as a spoiled brat. I definitely know his type: rich, arrogant, powerful. Which is probably why he thinks he can get away with anything. Well, he’s about to discover he cannot.
I watch with dread as she teeters, already feeling the influence of whatever he put in her drink. The man reaches over and scoops her up just before she crashes to the ground. Very chivalrous, asshole. I swing into action, making my way through the crowd I had assumed was thinning, but which is still very much a factor. I keep my eyes on them, on his purple coat, his broad shoulders taut as he carries her through the room and around a corner.
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About Mia
Hey, I’m Mia!
I’m a romance addict that loves to entertain you with my wildest fantasies. Since I was a little child, it’s always been my dream to become a writer. I still can’t believe that this dream has now come true!
If you ever want to get in contact, you can reach me here:
[email protected]
I’m excited to hear from you!
With love,
Mia