Page 78 of Raise Hell

“Five.”

With a curse, I realize I only have on a flimsy tank top. The tattoo that runs down my arm, an intricate design of flowers and vines, is fully on display. There isn’t time to apply any makeup to cover them up. Wearing my leather jacket is out of the question. I dig in a pile of laundry for a sweater.

“Four.”

The room is messy, but nothing mortifying. I kick a pile of clothes under the bed.

“Three.”

Nothing can be done about the generally shitty state of my appearance. I’m out of time.

“Two.”

“Fuck,” I whisper to myself. Trust Drake not to care that he isn’t technically allowed inside our building. I could call campus security, but they wouldn’t get here quickly enough. There isn’t a single doubt in my mind that his threat to break down the door is a real one.

I open the door just as he starts to say one. He is already bent low in preparation of smashing through it with his shoulder.

“Nice impression of a battering ram.”

With a growl, he shoves me backward and slams my bedroom door shut behind him.

“What the hell did you do to my bike?”

That didn’t take long.

My arms cross protectively over my chest, like it’s any kind of protection from him at this point. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Drake holds up his motorcycle keys and swings them in front of my face. “These were in my pocket yesterday, and you’re the only other person who has been in my room since. Care to explain why my bike looks like it went through a gigantic garbage disposal.”

I study him for a bare second, taking in the narrowed eyes and the flared nostrils. He looks like somebody who is only concerned with the destruction of their property.

If he had been the man in the mask with the gun, it’s hard to believe he would bust into my room like this wanting to know what happened to his precious Ducati.

“I may have taken it for a joyride.” I shrug off the admission like it’s no big deal to do hundreds, maybe even thousands, of dollars in damage. “Sorry.”

For a second, Drake looks truly murderous. His hand flies up like he’s about to hit me, but he only grips my chin and forces me to look at him. We stare each other down for a tense moment.

When he finally speaks, his voice is practically mild. “Did a hurricane go through here?”

Despite my limited belongings, my room looks a lot like that garbage scene from the Labyrinth. Pretty much everything I own is on the floor or draped across any available surfaces.

I might be the messiest person on this planet, but I’ve given up on trying to fight it. “I prefer to call it controlled chaos. Do you have someone fold and press your underwear before arranging it neatly in your drawer by color?”

He glares down at me. “I do my own laundry.”

“How progressive of you,” I deadpan. Then I remind myself I’m supposed to be using him for information about Havoc House. I’m only here to find my sister’s attacker.

“You’ve got a lot of attitude for someone who just got caught committing grand theft auto.”

I remind myself for the dozenth time that I’m supposed to be getting on his good side.

Something about Drake Van Koch just brings out the worst parts of me. It’s hard to fight the urge to snark at him.

“I am sorry about your bike,” I murmur, hoping I sound a little contrite, because I actually am. That bike was beautiful, wrecking it is like defacing the Mona Lisa. “My plan really was to bring it back in one piece, but I got in a little accident on that windy road from town.”

Drake’s eye twitches the smallest bit as if he is already imagining the hell that his Ducati went through. But he seems to be making an effort to sound reasonable.

“You planning to pay for the repairs?”

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