Page 22 of Broken Sins (Volkov Bratva 3)

All in all, I don’t look like Milly van der Graaf, nerdy bio major. I look like exactly what Anastasia called me: a queen, a bad bitch, ready to crush men’s hearts with the merest shimmy of my hips.

The elevator dings and the doors open. We come stumbling out, laughing drunkenly. Three hefty glasses of wine and a shot of tequila will do that to a girl, especially one like me, who drinks less often than she gets her period. There’s a fratty-looking guy standing in the hallway on his phone—ripped black jeans, a white button-down shirt, expensive leather boots, immaculately groomed hair. He sees Anastasia and his eyes light up.

“Nastya!” he says, a nickname of hers.

“Kyle!” she chirps. She bounces over to him and hugs him around the waist. Then she turns and ushers me over. “Kyle, this is Milly,” she says. “She’s hot and she’s single and she’s here to have a badass time with us tonight, so be good to her, yeah? She’s my fucking soul sister.”

“Milly,” Kyle repeats. His eyes rake over me from head to toe as he shakes my hand. He nods approvingly. His fingers linger a little too long on mine.

I swallow past the knot in my throat. On a normal day, I wouldn’t give this guy a second look. Campus is swarming with dudes like him—rich, good-looking guys in frats who can get any sorostitute they want with the snap of their fingers.

But right now, I’m no better than the sorostitutes. And it sure seems like they know how to have fun, if the first few hours of the night have been anything to go by. Everything is a little blurrier and hazier than normal, sure, but I’m laughing more than I’ve laughed in ages, I feelhot, and I’m ready to keep the party rolling. Maybe they’ve been onto something this whole time.

“C’mere,” he says to us, turning down the hallway. “We’re in 1402. Right over here.” We follow him into a hotel room.

Inside is chaos. There are four other fratty guys just like Kyle in there. They’re all swigging directly from big handles of vodka, their voices booming over the rap music blaring from the speakers as they throw punches and jokes and taunts back and forth. When they see us, everybody explodes in a greeting and tries to introduce themselves at the same time.

“Hey, I’m—”

“The name is—”

“This is—”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” I blurt, holding up my hands. “I’m way too drunk to keep track of everybody’s names. Let’s start over.” I point to each of them in turn. “You’re Frat Star #1. You’re Frat Star #2. You’re #3, you’re #4.”

They all bust up laughing. “Nastya, you brought a fun friend this time!” Frat Star 3 chortles. “It’s good to meet you, Milly. Shots?”

The party erupts from there. We’re taking shots, playing drinking games, taking long drags from the watermelon-flavored hookah they have set up on the balcony. The music thuds into my soul, but I let it. Fun Milly is out in full force. I even let Frat Stars #4 and #1 take a body shot off my abdomen.

At one point, somebody brings out a baggie of cocaine and starts chopping up lines on the coffee table. That’s a step too far for me though. When Frat Star #2 offers me the straw, I shake my head and decline.

“Not for me,” I say shyly. “Not my style.”

“C’mon!” he implores. He’s blond, tan, flawless, very Malibu Ken-looking. “First time is the best time!”

“Yeah, I’m sure.”

“Leave her alone, man,” says #3. He’s got dark, curly hair and intense eyes, like a more muscular Timothée Chalamet. “This isn’t a fucking D.A.R.E. commercial. If she doesn’t want it, she doesn’t have to have it.” He gives me a wink, and I’m silently grateful for his intervention. There’s Fun Milly and then there’s Felon Milly. I plan on staying on the right side of that line tonight, no matter how drunk I may be.

#2 shrugs and turns his attention back to the drugs lined up on the table. I sag back on the couch and look up to the ceiling. I see patterns swimming and moving in the popcorn studding, though that’s almost certainly just a testament to how much I’ve had to drink tonight. Better to just close my eyes and breathe for a second, try to regain control.

But when I open my eyes and focus back on the room, I’m suddenly aware that Anastasia is gone. She was by my side a second ago; now she’s nowhere to be seen. Kyle is gone, too.

“Hey,” I say, tapping Frat Star #2 on the shoulder. “Where’s my friend?”

He grins slyly. “I think she and Kyle left to go, uh, you know …”

“Fuck each other,” interrupts #1, completing the sentence.

Sure enough, I hear muffled moans and thudding coming from the connected hotel room next door. I blush immediately. Don’t ask me why, but being so open about sex like that still gives me the heebie-jeebies. I’m not a virgin—I have my high school boyfriend to thank for that—but my body count is definitely not anywhere near Anastasia’s.

“What’s the matter, Li’l Milly?” says #4. He’s leering at me with a drunken smile on his face. “Are you a little shy about the ol’ bang-bang?”

“‘The ol’ bang-bang’?” I echo sarcastically. “What’re you, Barney Rubble?”

But the joke falls flat. No one laughs.

And all of a sudden, I feel like I’m too drunk. It’s like someone switched the atmosphere in the room. Two seconds ago, we were all partying together, having fun, everybody being nice and friendly and respectful.

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