Page 31 of Twisted Proposal

The constant flashing lights and the disgusting smell of cheap beer, vomit, and skunk weed was giving me a headache, each pulse of light like a needle in my brain.

Raising my gun, all the students around me ducked, some throwing themselves to the floor as I shot out the strobe lights, plunging the room into darkness, the acrid smell of gunpowder adding to the nauseating cocktail of scents.

A girl somewhere screamed, the sound high and piercing, and someone turned on the actual lights. That was better.

Now I had everyone's attention, and I could see their bloodshot or glazed eyes staring at me. Some trembled, others were frozen in place, as if stillness might render them invisible.

"Oh my god, call the cops," a girl shrieked, breaking the silence, then like a dam breaking everyone started talking at once.

A mix of "Hey man, who do you need help finding?" and "Wait until I tell my father about this," came from men and women, some cowering, others attempting defiance. A couple of them were positioning themselves like prostitutes in the red-light district, batting eyelashes and pushing out chests despite the terror etched on their faces.

I shot another round, this time into the wall over a door.

The sound reverberated through the room, followed by screams and whimpers.

I needed to make a point, not the front page of the paper for shooting some drunk college kid losing his virginity upstairs.

With an impossibly tight grip on my rage, my knuckles white around the gun handle, I pointed my weapon at the bastard who thought his father could do a damn thing. His face went paper-white, a sheen of sweat breaking out on his forehead.

"Viktoria, where is she?" Each word was ice, dripping with menace.

"Of course he is after the Russian hooker," some guy said, and a few of the others broke out into fits of nervous giggles.

One deadly look their way, my eyes promising violence that would haunt their nightmares, and they shut their mouths and stared at the floor, shoulders hunched as if trying to disappear.

A girl who looked vaguely familiar cleared her throat, her hands shaking as she raised one to get my attention.

Blonde hair, pink top, drunk but not sloppy. I had seen her picture before.

My security provided it along with a dossier on her and her family, because she was Viktoria's friend.

Her name was Samantha, Sarah, something like that. Her family was in politics, but clean-ish. They had taken a few bribes, but not for anything noteworthy.

In fact, I only allowed Viktoria to stay in the dorms because she was going to be with this girl.

"Where?"

She pointed down the hall, her finger visibly trembling.

I signaled for my men to stay here while I went to find her. The crowd parted for me like the Red Sea, pressing themselves against walls to avoid touching me.

The second I saw her, clinging to the wall and batting a guy hovering around her away, the tension in my shoulders faded marginally.

My heart, which I hadn't realized was racing, slowed to a more normal pace.

Fuck, was I afraid for her? No, that couldn't have been it. It had to be stress.

The thought of feeling anything more for her than obligation was unacceptable.

She was conscious, so I doubted someone slipped her something.

She was just very drunk. And in a lot of trouble. My palm itched to teach her a lesson she would never forget, to feel the sting of flesh against flesh.

I took a deep breath, instantly regretting it. The smell had gotten worse the further I got in the house, with the addition of cheap cologne that clung to the back of my throat.

"Viktoria," I said, getting her attention, her name a command on my lips.

She looked at me, her eyebrows knitted in confusion, those wide, stormy eyes trying to focus on my face. "You can't be here. Only drunk little boys living on their daddies’ money can be here. No real men allowed."