Page 49 of You Were Never Not Mine

“Warn me about what?” I ask warily.

“Tim said I would be fine but supposedly there’s some sort of contest at Alpha Squared during this weekend where every guy tries to get with a virgin. Something to do with a sacrifice and it keeps the house in good order? Those were his exact words.”

I hate what she just said. Worse, I hate how it made me feel. “That sounds fake.”

“I hope it is.”

Me too.

Chapter Twenty-Three

AUGUST

“This party is bullshit,” I whisper-shout in Cyrus’s ear. It’s the only way he’ll hear me because the music is ear-splitting loud and there are so many people in our fucking house, I’m worried we’re going to get trampled to death before the night is through.

“You’re telling me.” Cyrus is grinning, bopping his head to the music, and I know my best friend is eating this shit up. He loves a good party. Loves the idea of getting blackout drunk and finding some hot girl that he can titty fuck for the night. And I only know this because he confessed all to me during our sophomore year after a night of debauchery on this very weekend where he titty fucked a few girls. It’s his secret kink.

I personally don’t find it that exciting but to each their own.

“You love it.” I sound disgusted. I am disgusted. I’d rather go up to my room and lock the door so I can hide away for the rest of the evening, but I’m the president of this fucking frat and have to put in an appearance.

I check my watch, noting that it’s not even ten o’clock. Fuck, it’s going to be a long night.

“I do.” Cyrus is still grinning, his dark hair flopping acrosshis forehead as he continues nodding his head to the beat of the music. “Look at her.”

He indicates a beautiful blonde currently gyrating on the makeshift dance floor, clad in dangerously short denim cutoffs and a white tube top that threatens to fall with every bounce. Her tits are huge. Meaning she is Cyrus’s dream girl.

“She looks like your type.”

“Great set on her.” He nods.

“Is that all you care about? Tits?” I’m genuinely curious.

“Tits and ass and a sweet-smelling pussy.”

“There is no such thing as a sweet-smelling pussy.” Not quite true. I think of Sin’s. It was pretty sweet and shiny and juicy as fuck. Minus the pubic hair. I wonder if she got waxed. I wonder if that pretty little kitty is bare and smooth and delicious…

“I’m gonna go dance.” Cyrus is gone before I can stop him and I watch him walk right up to the blonde, his head angled toward hers as he whispers something in her ear. She nods and smiles and they start to dance. Both of them awkward and goofy-looking because I can only assume the two of them are drunk off their asses.

I wish I was drunk. I’ve been taking it easy since I’m running this entire party, but fuck it. I need something strong to drink.

Right now.

I move through the crowd, baring my teeth in what’s supposed to be a smile and nodding at everyone because all these fuckers are calling out my name, though not a single one of them is familiar. They fucking wish we were friends. Being close to me brings people a certain cache that most will never attain. I have way too much money and power compared to anyone else on this campus. This is what happens when you’re a Lancaster. And I’m not just any Lancaster. I’m the firstborn son oftheWhittaker Lancaster. Everyone knows what afucking prick my father is.

A powerful, wealthy prick that they all wished they knew, but a prick nonetheless.

The sitting room in the back of the house is blessedly empty. They even set up velvet ropes to keep the entryways blocked off, just for me. I step over one and head straight for the bar, pouring myself a whiskey and slamming it back in one swallow. It burns going down, setting my lungs on fire, and I exhale raggedly, fully expecting to see flames shooting out of my mouth. I pour myself another. And another. Until my head starts spinning and my vision gets a little blurry. Surefire signs that I’m on my way to getting fucked up.

I go over to where the DJ is set up and move behind his table, watching him pretend to work the turntable, but he’s really just bringing up music on his laptop. He has a bird’s-eye view of everything happening and I scan the crowd, searching for a distraction. Anyone would do.

Yet none of them measure up. They’re either too made up or not made up enough. Too blonde. Too dark-haired. The outfits, the hairstyles, their fucking faces—they’re all wrong. None of them appeal. Meaning something is really fucking wrong with me when I can’t pluck a random woman out of a crowd and want to fuck her for the night. At the very least, get a blow job. A hand job?

My upper lip curls at the thought, and not in a good way.

“Have any requests?” the DJ screams at me, a big smile on his face.

I shake my head. “You’re the expert. Play what you want.”

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