Page 24 of Let Us Prey

Fitz doesn’t have a class during this block, and I know he’s here somewhere. Professor Sarabhai had to kick him out of the room when we lined up at the barre to stretch, and even though he snarled, the cobra didn’t back down. She may not like me very much, but she’s a tough old bitch, and didn’t want someone creeping on her class, regardless of who it was.

I have the feeling few people stand up to my erstwhile stalker and live to tell the tale.

Pushing the door to the locker room open, I step inside and head for the benches. I would never be stupid enough to leave my belongings in a space I can’t control, but I do need privacy to strip off my sweaty clothes and freshen up. After a quick sweep around the banks of lockers to make sure I don’t see anyone lurking, I set my bag down and begin.

Keeping my hair in the ponytail so it doesn’t get wet, I peel off my sports bra and booty shorts and head to the showers to rinse off quickly. It might make me late, but since Professor Chess seems to be absent every time I’m in the Shird, I might get lucky and still get to my costuming class with him before he does.

When I return to the lockers, my mouth drops open.

For the love of Dionysus’ wine breath!

My bag is on the bench, but every piece of clothing is missing—my uniform, heels, and knee socks, even my stinky dance clothes, are completely gone. Panicking, I zip around the room, nose twitching as I look for clues. All I can smell is a... civet and a bearcat.

Motherfucker! Those bitches were in my dance class.

How did they hide in here and why, in Hades’ name, would they take my clothes? Neither of them even glanced in my direction during the class. Hell, no one did save the Professor. What am I going to do? I can’t stalk across campus in the buff, and I definitely won’t make it back to my room without clothes, either.

Taking a slow, deep breath, I work to calm my racing heart as the bunny flickers over my skin again. Instead of tears, rage wells up in my gut. Thishasto be a half-baked Pink plan. Shelovesold 80s and 90s bully girl movies, and she’s always trying to pull outrageous stunts to get people’s attention. I swear, if her daddy looked at her as anything but a meal ticket, she might like herself enough to let people see who she really is. Strike that—the real herisa conniving, scheming, attention-grabber with serious self-image issues. No one wants to be friends with someone who so clearly hates themselves as much as she does.

Which brings me back to my current problem: a buck-naked run across campus to my room for new clothes or a calculated play so I don’t burn a bridge with the hottie cheetah I’ve been waiting to see all week by being late to his class.

Duh, Dolly. Plan B for the fucking win.

I pull my phone out of the hidden compartment at the bottom of my gym bag, my fingers trailing over the ‘Fuck ‘Em Up, Sis’ list I stashed there with it. I was paranoid enough to hide the two things I can't live without from anyone who wanted to make trouble. I wish I’d thought to hide my damn clothes somewhere as well, but lesson learned. Fishing around in my bag, I locate a pen and unfold the piece of paper, storing the sins I’m owed penance for.

Fuck ‘Em Up, Sis List

Lucille (existing, shaming me, throwing goddamned glasses)

Bruno (everything, including threatening to send me to Bloodstone, fists, plus Bruiser)

Todd (lying, cheating, hunting me, shitty sex)

Gold (nicknaming me DD, “run rabbit”, being a twat, dosing me)

Pink (videos, sleazy dad,ordering my execution)

Purple (liar, behavior on stripper bus, hypocrite)

Silver (follower, didn’t help me)

Chaz, Chad, Brett (not knowing my name, hunting me, stripper bus)

With a level of rage that’s almost frightening, I add a few more to my list:

The dingoes who hunted me at the cafeteria (find out exactly who they were)

The civet and the bearcat from dance class who stole my clothes (names to follow)

The fuckers who pissed in my dorm room (all the above are suspect)

Anyone else who gets in my damn way.

I frown down at my list. I haven’t crossed any names off yet—in fact, I’ve only added more. You can’t make an omelet without breaking eggs, though, and I’m bound to run across more people who deserve my wrath as I navigate this nightmare. I take a picture of the paper, just in case it ever gets discovered and destroyed, and fold it carefully before slipping it back into the secret compartment.

Now, it’s time to execute Plan B.

Tapping the first contact on my favorites list, I wait for the call to connect. Fitz answers in less than two rings, and I chew my lip as he goes through his usual flirty banter before I interject. “Um, Fitz? I have a problem.” My lips curve as he suggests a solution that willnothelp me get dressed—the opposite, in fact. “See, that’s the thing. I’m already naked and—NO! I don’t needthat,what I need is clothes. Some bitchesswiped mine while I showered and I can’t be late for Professor Chess’ class…”

---