Page 1 of The Bonventi Secret
LIVIA - 1
Ilean against the wall, watching it all unfold with a sense of giddy satisfaction. My fingers toy with the skull pendant around my neck—my good luck charm. And damn, it has worked. The fellowship is mine. Funding secured. My ticket to diving headfirst into the deliciously macabre world of Victorian literature and finishing my PhD dissertation by the end of the year.
The roar of laughter and the clinking of plastic cups fill the air as I squeeze through the crowd, holding my red Solo cup high to avoid spilling. UCLA's Dodd Hall has been transformed into a makeshift dance floor, with streamers hanging from the ceiling and early 2000s hits blaring from someone's speakers.
"Livia! Congratulations!" Dr. Hawkins, my Victorian lit PhD advisor, shouts over the noise. He is attempting what I can only assume is his version of the robot, his suit jacket askew and a rare smile on his usually stern face.
I grin, the warmth of cheap wine and victory coursing through me. "Thank you! I still can't believe it!"
"You earned it," he says, pausing his dance to adjust his glasses. "Your proposal on the psychological implications of Edgar Allan Poe's use of the uncanny was brilliant."
My mind drifts to my working dissertation title—"Corpses, Consumption, and Carnal Desires: The Erotic Undertones of Victorian Macabre Literature." God, it's going to be glorious. I can already picture the stuffy faces of the dissertation committee as I explain, in exquisite detail, how Stoker, Poe, Shelley, and others had basically written Victorian-era porn.
My eyes scan the room, searching for one face in particular.
Where is he?
I'd hoped to finally make my move tonight, riding high on the confidence of my fellowship win and the liquid courage provided by the boxed wine.
"Looking for someone?"
I turn to find Megan, a fellow English lit grad student, grinning at me knowingly. Her curly hair is even wilder than usual, and her cheeks are flushed from dancing.
"Maybe," I say, trying to sound nonchalant. "Have you seen Jake around?"
Megan's grin widens.
"Oh, you mean that hot psych research assistant you're always talking about? Last I saw, he was by the makeshift bar the philosophy students put together. You know, the one with all the handles of bottom-shelf vodka."
I laugh. "Classy. Thanks, Meg."
"Go get him, tiger," she says with a wink before disappearing back onto the dance floor.
I make my way through the crowd, weaving through clusters of students engaged in animated conversations. A group of philosophy students is huddled in a corner, debating the merits of existentialism versus absurdism while a circle has formed around two engineering students attempting to breakdance.
Boxed wine brings out the best in us, I think to myself and laugh at their moves.
As I approach the bar, I catch sight of him. Jake stands with his back to me, talking to a small group of psych students. Even from behind, he is unmistakable—broad shoulders, wavy brown hair just long enough to run your fingers through, and an ass that could make a girl forget about her PhD dissertation entirely.
I bite my lip, my mind wandering to less academic territory. I imagine those strong hands pinning mine to the wall, Jake's eyes dark with desire as I tease him with whispered passages from "Carmilla." His breath short and quick as I trace the curve of his neck, explaining the erotic subtext of vampire bites.
I shake my head, trying to clear the increasingly vivid fantasy. The wine is clearly hitting me harder than I'd realized.
But as I watch Jake laugh at something one of the students says, I make a decision. This is my night, dammit. I just won a prestigious fellowship, I look hot as hell in my little black dress, and I'm done waiting. I take a deep breath, straighten my shoulders, and walk over to him.
"Hey there, stranger," I say, sliding up next to Jake with what I hope is an inviting smile.
He turns, his face lighting up when he sees me. "Livia! Congrats on the fellowship! That's huge."
"Thanks," I say, letting my hand rest on his arm. "I'm still processing it, to be honest. But tonight, I just want to celebrate."
Jake's eyes flicker down to where my hand touches his bicep, then back up to me.
Was it my imagination, or did his pupils dilate slightly?
"Well," he says, his voice a touch lower than before, "I'd be happy to help you celebrate."
The air between us turns heavy and thick with lust. I am acutely aware of how close we are standing, of the warmth radiating from his body.
