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That was followed by a string of nonsensical emojis.

My heart rate spiked. I was still in the middle of the Boston grid and found parking. I had a feeling I was going to Cambridge or wherever the fuck Bianca was.

I grabbed the phone and texted.

Are you drunk?

The bubbles went on for a while and then disappeared. I waited. Five seconds passed. Nothing.

BIANCA! ARE YOU DRUNK?

No need for shitty capitals.

Shouty!

More nonsensical emojis.

Where are you?

Don’t know…

I’m fiiiinee! See you tomorrow. See, I can spell.

I ignored her next notifications and checked her location.

It was at a frat house.

Fuck.Fuck.

She was drunk and some horny frat boy probably had his hands all over her—I shook off that thought as a murderous rage was taking over. I was still in bloodlust, but I’d settle for blistering her reckless ass. I wasn’t a stickler for twenty-onebeing the drinking age. I was more concerned about how she’d be taken advantage of in her inebriated state. And judging from her text, she was way over her limit of good judgment. It took me fifteen minutes to get to her location. I passed the frat house. The party had already rolled into the streets. A car left a parking spot, and I immediately slid the Taurus into it. I was thankful I brought my work vehicle just in case Bianca had to throw up.

I got out of the vehicle and slammed the door. My head was on a swivel, keeping an eye out for Bianca. I checked my phone. I was right on top of her. I entered the frat house, narrowly missing a guy throwing up on the floor. Despite owning a dance club, the pounding music fueled my agitation. I was getting pissier and pissier.

Christ. Beer pong in one corner. Sleazy dancing in another. People making out in the middle of the floor and on the couches. It was useless to call out Bianca’s name. The more I moved through the house, the more crowded it became. Scenes like these made me thankful I didn’t go to college.

Stale beer and cheap wine assailed my nostrils and there might be the smell of puke and piss in there too.

I ignored the coeds trying to rub against me. My singular goal was to find Bianca.

My gaze drifted to the stairs. She’d obviously gotten over her experience with Warren Winslow, but I had not. What if she was in one of those upstairs bedrooms? What if I found a boy fucking her while she was drunk, or worse, passed out? Fury took the form of red mist in my head. I was halfway up the staircase when I turned my head and saw a couple making out on the couch.

The pink checkered short skirt was a dead giveaway. And I recognized the back of her head. She was in a full-blown make-out session with some punk in a varsity jacket and he had a hand up her skirt. I rushed down the steps and leaped down the last three, and then shouldered my way through the crowd.

I may have shoved people aside.

“Hey, man, watch it.”

More than a few guys tried to get in my way.

But a stare from me had them backing off. I just killed a man tonight, and these guys were lucky I gave them latitude for the stupidity of youth.

I got to the boy who had his hand up Bianca’s skirt. I hauled him off her and threw him aside.

Bianca’s mouth gaped. Her lipstick was smeared and her hair. Fuck. She had fuck-me hair.

The stirring in my groin horrified me.

This was fucked up. This was simply adrenaline.