Page 10 of Begging for Mercy
Maybe I can dig up some dirt on Zane, too.
My best bet is to get someone in Greek life to talk. I don’t know any of the sorority girls, so that’s an automatic bust. But the thing about Reaper is that he’s not just into chicks—he’s made rounds in the frat houses, too. If he’s lettered, he comes from money or pedigree. If he’s not, they let him in on account of something he can offer them. Drugs. Booze. Sex. Connections. I wrack my brain for any defining features from last night, but other than how muscled he is, I come up empty.
I pull out my phone and send a quick text to Sam—the only frat boy I know—and invite him out for coffee. My treat.
While I wait for his reply, I retreat to my bathroom to put on my makeup for the day. Heavy eyeliner. Dark lip stain. A white lace bow in my hair. I draw a wing on my left eye and stare at the curved line. Without thinking, I draw a straight line down the side of my cheek and stare at the black streak, the gears slowly turning in my head.
Someone had to paint Reaper’s body last night.
Someone talented.
Like an art student.
I close my eyes and take a deep breath, conjuring the faces of every student in my studio classes. As senior-level classes, there aren’t too many students enrolled. I pick through the faces and weed them out one by one, starting with people who I know are in relationships. After that, I go through what little I’ve gleaned from their artwork and narrow the focus even further. By the end of this ten-minute exercise, I’m ready to tear my hair out.
I don’t have a clue who would help him.
Thankfully, my phone chimes just as I’m about to wipe my entire face clean and restart my makeup.
SAM
Sure. Meet me after practice? 8:00?
I quickly send confirmation and erase the random line of eyeliner running down the side of my face. I should tell Sam that I don’t want to see him tosee him, but I’d rather catch up first and then delve into the dirty details about Reaper and Zane.
If anything, Sam will be a welcome distraction for my impending demise.
By the time I walk the few blocks from campus to Sam’s frat house later that evening, he’s already waiting outside for me. Freshly showered after football practice, he grins at me and bounds down the front steps to meet me on the sidewalk. Once he’s within range, he throws his arm over my shoulders and pulls me in for a half-hug.
“Where have you been hiding?” he teases, giving me a once-over. His gaze lingers on my fishnet tights before he shakes his head. “Enjoy your favorite night of the year?”
I roll my eyes, but my heart isn’t into it. “It was a scream.”
“Well, tell me all about it. You hungry? We could go to Papa Joe’s.” He looks at me expectantly.
“I thought we were going for coffee.”
“Coffee doesn’t count as food, Mercy.” He pokes my stomach. “Have you eaten today?”
My stomach growls at the prospect of food. He’s right, I haven’t eaten all day. I’ve been too nervous about the prospect of running into Reaper and Zane again. “Fine,” I concede, the two of us changing course for the local pizza joint. “But you’re paying.”
Sam keeps smiling as he shoves his hands in his front pockets. “I’d never dream of anything else.” The evening air is cooler than yesterday, making jeans the staple of the season. His letterman jacket sports a proud double H patch forHarlin HeightsCollege, but the fact that we evenhaveletterman jackets is the biggest joke of the century. We barely qualify for competitive sports as a Division Three school, and that’s only because the local alumni funnel money into the college’s coffers like their lives depend on it. It’s not like many of us are earning our Bachelor’s degrees here. Most local kids move away to bigger schools with more promising graduation rates, but those who stick around don’t graduate.
It’s as if the student body disappears once senior year arrives.
Sam and I fall into comfortable small talk, our ease of companionship a testament to how long we’ve known each other. After Sam’s mom died when he was a teenager, our dads ended up joining the same grief counseling group and dragged us both to the teen meetings for sons and daughters suffering similar losses. Out of everyone in the group, Sam was the most magnanimous, leading discussions and encouraging others to participate. He even got an outcast like me talking. No one’s a stranger when it comes to Sam.
He has a way of bringing out the brightest versions of people.
As soon as we’ve settled into a booth in the back of Papa Joe’s Pizzeria, he doesn’t waste any time getting to the point. “Tell me what’s on your mind. You don’t randomly ask me out on dates without a reason.” He throws an arm over the back of his seat and stretches his legs, bumping my knee with his.
“This isn’t a date.” I fiddle with the paper strip from my silverware.
“Oh, so it’s business? What could Mercy Morningstar possibly need me for?” After a moment, he snaps his fingers. “You need a male model again, don’t you? You don’t even have to ask. I happily accept.”
I kick his foot under the table. “I don’t need a model.” Our server brings us complimentary water and garlic knots. I take large gulps of ice water to keep from blushing at Sam’s playful grin. The last time he modeled for my sketches, things got heated between us. We didn’t take it further than kissing—despite his flirting, Sam is a gentleman—and we agreed to keep our relationship platonic by the end of the series.But still.I don’t need to open that door again unless I’m ready for whatever waits on the other side. Right now, I need to focus on staying alive rather than hooking up with my closest friend.
“I need to tell you something.” I fold the napkin band into uneven triangles before flattening it out and redoing it more evenly. “I met someone last night.”
