Page 13 of Lost Paradise

“Minging twat,” Byron mutters through gritted teeth. "I never made that call. I didn't even have mobile reception down there!"

“Yeah, you were the one who snitched on everyone,” Astro insists with a smirk.

“Did not!”

“He didn’t,” Zane cuts in. “I was down there with him when they raided the house. There was no cell reception. Someone else did report the party, probably a competitor because, I’m sure, with the way everyone was consuming your candy, this wasn’t their first party. There’s probably another supplier on campus whose feet you stepped on and was pissed.”

“The dean is ready to see you,” the woman suffering fromAgrivated Boomer Syndromcalls us from the doorway.

I’m the first to stand up, ignoring everyone who silently follows me out the door down the hallway to our impending doom.

Chapter 4

We’ve all been providedwith a chair and watch the dean sitting behind his mahogany desk, his expression stern as he puts all of our student files back down on his desk and eyes each one of us. We sit all in one row facing him, as if we’re facing a firing squad.

I become nervous as I realize the gravity of the situation and the potential consequences I face. Yet, last night’s party was a far cry from the kind of scene I’ve attended in the past. I’ve been going totwenty-one plusbars since I was 16 years old in New York, using my fake ID and attending exclusive underground parties no teenager should have privy to. I’ve seen more lines of coke laid out on mirrored surfaces and pill bottles freely circulated than what Astro had arranged at this party last night. But not once at any of those events I attended was I ever tempted or intrigued to seek euphoria as a user. I haven’t yet found the vice that elevates me to a joyful state of pleasure and escape the monotony of everyday life, but I know drugs aren’t it.

So the irony that I might be expelled before I even get to attend this college and be shipped back to New York to meet whichever godforsaken husband my parents found for me is a bitter twist of fate.

All because I was at the wrong place, at the wrong time.

It’s fucking hysterical.

I mean, this is freaking rock bottom, a stroke of unbelievably lousy luck!

Zane, sitting next to me, shifts uncomfortably in his seat under the fierce gaze of the dean, who’s probably silently scrutinizing all of us. He told me last night about the conditions of the scholarship he has here, and I know there’s a lot of weight on his shoulders right now. Even though Emily knows about his sports grant, she doesn’t know anything about its details, and I omitted from telling her andher little crew about Zane’s financial circumstances. I know how girls like them operate when someone from a lesser affluent status enters the kind of circle she’s naturally a member of. I witnessed it back at prep school with all the Upper West Siders who just didn’t fit with the Upper East Side society of my school. Where one lives in Manhattan can indeed affect one's social status.

“Alright, let’s get straight to the point,” the dean begins, his voice carrying authority. “Last night, campus security discovered an abundance of drugs on the institute’s grounds. You four were present at that party—”

The dean suddenly stops and directs his attention to Jack.

“Mr. Bancroft, I don’t seem to have your file,” he remarks, his tone devoid of confusion or hesitation. With a calm assurance, Jack's presence seems unquestionably warranted. The dean promptly buzzes his assistant and instructs her to add Jack to her list.

I'm on the verge of saying something, but it's clear that whatever has brought Jack here, he has a deliberate desire to be present.

“Getting back to business,” the dean says, focusing his attention back to us. “You five were present at that party last night. You were tested for drugs, and the results came back negative. But make no mistake, this is a serious matter. Someone brought those drugs onto this campus, and I want to know who it was.”

I exchange an uneasy glance with Zane and Byron, sitting next to him, twitching nervously as he adjusts his glasses. Jack, next to me, hasn’t moved, and I’m almost sure he hasn’t breathed in the last few minutes.

Is he even fucking alive?

If he were dead, he’d stink. And I have to admit there’s something phenomenally addictive about his scent. I hardly expected him to smell at all, let alone this complex, almost intoxicating undertones of something I can’t quite grasp what it is. As soon as he took a seat next to me, a wave of warmth washed over me, accompanied by an irresistible allure. I think I’m the only one who must smell it. It’s like this forbidden indulgence, tantalizing and bold. Cloves and cinnamon. Maybe vanilla? I don’t know, but it stirs something primal in me.

Leather. He’s wearing a lot of it. But his scent mixed with it captivated me the most. It's smoky, masculine,and ….

Fuck. I’ve only just glanced at him, and he catches me doing it. Those blue-piercing eyes of his just glimpsed at me, sending shivers down my spine.

Well, at least I know the guy is alive. His eyeballs have moved.

He’s creepy as fuck, and I can’t help but lose myself in the depths of his scent, and the magnet pull he has over me because of it.

“Anyone care to enlighten me?” the dean, prompts, his tone unwavering.

My attention is drawn back to the dean’s question and my current dilemma.

Silence hangs heavily in the room for a moment.

“We … we don’t know, Sir,” I say tentatively. “We were just there to have a good time. We didn’t see who brought the drugs.”

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