Page 1 of Into Ruin

1

HARPER

Music thrums through the hockey house. It’s so loud it vibrates in my chest. I grip the strap of my bag tighter and make my way deeper inside, searching for one familiar face.

Theonlyfamiliar face.

There are a million people packed inside, and I squeeze through narrow gaps. No one really looks at me. I’m the perennial wallflower everywhere I go. It hasn’t really mattered before, though. I don’twantpeople looking at me.

Finally, I catch a glimpse of Royal. He’s standing with a group of guys, plus one bottle-blond, model-thin girl. Her hair is curled, and her jean shorts are cropped so much her ass cheeks are hanging out. Paired with glittery cowboy boots and a flannel shirt she has knotted above her navel…

I’m not surprised most of Royal’s friends stare at her instead of focusing on him.

He, however, seems bored. His gaze coasts around, only pausing when it lands on me. His eyes light up, and he waves me over.

I swallow sharply, but as soon as I’m within arm’s reach, he reels me in. His arm drops around my shoulders, locking me to his side.

“Guys, Marcy, this is my baby sister, Harper.” He jostles me a little. “She’s a freshman.”

I incline my chin.

“New meat,” one of the guys says, holding out his fist to be bumped by one of the others. “Nice.”

Royal glares at him. “Abso-fucking-lutely not.”

I shift my weight. Accepting Royal’s invite… not my first choice.

“Thought you had changed your mind,” he says in a low voice. “You seem…?”

“I walked in on my roommate and her boyfriend screwing on her desk.” I shudder. “I need alcohol to get this out of my brain.”

Royal nods sagely. “You’ve come to the right place. I just have one rule.”

I raise my eyebrow. He said nothing aboutrules. He’s a sophomore. He pretends to know better than me, but he’s barely more than a year older. Definitely not wiser.

“No fucking my teammates.” He nudges me and points toward the kitchen. “Drinks in there. My room is first on the left upstairs, you can stash your bag there.”

Right.

I leave the safety of his side and venture into the kitchen. A full bar has been set up on the counters, red cups stacked next to the alcohol. On the porch outside is a big, metal keg. I wrinkle my nose and go toward one of the bottles of clear liquor. I’m not picky… I have no experience.

I pull one out at random and scan the label.

Vodka.

I splash it into a cup and add orange juice, give it a little finger-stir, and exit the kitchen with my index finger in my mouth just as a new wave of people enter. I sip the drink and wince at the burn. But that’s the point, right? Alcohol isn’t supposed to befunto drink.

Someone bumps into me, sending my bag flying off my shoulder. It’s zipped shut, but I dive for it anyway. My face flames. I clutch my bag under my arm, my drink firmly clenched in my other fist, and head toward the staircase.

No one calls out to me. I’m certainly not dressed for a party—my hoodie and jeans aren’t really the aesthetic of most of the girls here—and I’m not going to pretend either. I slip through under the radar and finally get some breathing room on the stairs. I dodge around couples making out and pause at the rope across the top of the stairs.

DO NOT ENTER, the sign hanging from it says.

I step over it.

First door on the right is his, he said? I go to it and push the door open, expecting an empty room. After all, there was a sign.A rope.

But nope.

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