Bad Influence

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The first thing I learned about Blackthorne University was that rich people had an unhealthy obsession with making everything look like it belonged in a fucking museum.

The second was that apparently nobody in Massachusetts knew how to drive.

"Are you seriously going to sit there, or are you going to fucking move?" I muttered, leaning forward over my steering wheel as the black Range Rover in front of me stopped for the third time in less than a minute.

The driver seemed to be having a full-blown conversation with someone on the sidewalk, completely oblivious to the line of cars building up behind them.

I pressed my horn.

Once.

Twice.

The driver lifted his hand out the window and flipped me off.

"Oh, that's fucking adorable."

I returned the gesture with considerably more enthusiasm.

My phone vibrated in the cup holder.

Tailia: Girl, where the hell are you?

Tailia: I've been waiting for like 40 minutes.

Tailia: If you died, can I have your clothes?

I snorted, grabbing my phone when traffic finally came to another standstill.

Me: Currently considering vehicular manslaughter.

Me: Save me a parking spot.

Talia: Romantic. Hurry up bitch.

I tossed my phone onto the passenger seat and turned up the music, letting the heavy bass vibrate through the interior of my white Honda Civic.

My car wasn't anything special, especially compared to the luxury vehicles I'd passed since entering Blackthorne's ridiculously expensive neighborhood, but she was mine. Every scratch, every questionable noise the air conditioner made, and every dollar I'd spent keeping her running belonged to me.

The little cherry air freshener hanging from my rearview mirror swung as I finally pulled around the Range Rover.

"Welcome to Blackthorne, Blair," I murmured. "Try not to commit a felony before orientation."

Considering my criminal justice major, that would be a particularly embarrassing way to start the semester.

The apartment building was surprisingly nice.

Not Roman Blackwell probably owns the entire fucking street nice, although I didn't know that asshole existed yet, but it was nice enough that I checked the address twice to make sure I hadn't accidentally driven to the wrong place.

Red brick covered the exterior, with black metal balconies overlooking a narrow courtyard. Flower boxes lined several windows, and someone had hung a faded university flag from the third floor.

I parked beside a silver Toyota, killed the engine, and stared at the building for a moment.

Well, shit. This is really happening.

A year ago, I'd been attending a completely different university, working too many hours, drinking terrible coffee, and making plans with my best friend about everything we were going to do after graduation.

Now I was three hours from the town where we'd grown up, sitting outside an apartment I'd never seen in person, preparing to attend the university where she'd disappeared.

My fingers tightened around the steering wheel.

Evelyn.

I hadn't said her name out loud in almost two weeks.

Not because I'd forgotten her. That would've been impossible.

I just hated the way people looked at me whenever I mentioned her.

Like I was supposed to have accepted what happened.

Like a person could simply vanish from the world, leaving behind an empty dorm room, an abandoned phone number, and a thousand unanswered questions, and everyone else was supposed to move the fuck on.

The police had called it a voluntary disappearance.

Her parents had eventually stopped answering my calls.

And Blackthorne University had released one carefully worded statement expressing its concern before carrying on as though Evelyn Cross had never existed.

I reached into my purse and pulled out the small silver necklace she'd given me for my nineteenth birthday.

A tiny crescent moon hung from the chain.

She'd brought herself a matching sun.

"Because you're the dramatic one," she'd told me, laughing as she fastened mine around my neck. "And I'm obviously the sunshine in this friendship."

"Bitch, you're literally the reason we got banned from that gas station."

"Minor technicality."

I smiled despite the ache spreading through my chest.

I'm here, Evie.

My thumb brushed the little moon.

And I'm not leaving until I know what happened to you.

A sudden knock against my driver's-side window nearly sent my soul into the fucking afterlife.

"JESUS CHRIST!"

A girl stood outside my car, grinning as if she'd just won the lottery.

She had honey-blond hair pulled into a messy ponytail, warm brown eyes, and an oversized pink sweatshirt that hung off one shoulder. A pair of tiny denim shorts barely peeked beneath the hem, and she was holding an iced coffee large enough to qualify as a medical concern.

She waved enthusiastically.

I rolled down the window.

"You trying to give me a heart attack?"

"Depends. Are you Blair?"

"Unfortunately."

"Then yes."

Before I could respond, she threw both arms into the air.

"OH MY GOD, YOU'RE ACTUALLY PRETTY!"

I blinked.

"Was I supposed to be ugly?"

"No! I mean, not that it would've mattered. But your pictures seriously don't do you justice."

She leaned closer, inspecting my hair with absolutely no concept of personal space.

"Holy shit. That color is gorgeous."

I glanced at the dark burgundy waves spilling over my shoulder.

"Thanks. It's expensive as fuck to maintain."

"Worth every penny."

She stepped back and extended her free hand.

"Talia Brookes. Your new favorite person."

I shook it.

"Blair Monroe. Your future biggest headache."

"Oh, we're going to get along beautifully."

By the time we'd carried the last of my boxes upstairs, I'd decided three things about Talia Brooks.

One, she talked more than any human being I'd ever encountered.

Two, she had absolutely no shame.

And three, I liked her.

Which was unfortunate, because I'd made a very specific promise to myself about not getting attached to people at Blackthorne.

The apartment smelled faintly of Vanilla candles and freshly washed laundry. The living room had a cream-colored sectional, a glass coffee table, and a massive television mounted above an electric fireplace.

A fuzzy blanket was draped across one end of the couch, and several framed photographs decorated the shelves.

"Okay, so your bedroom is down the hall on the left," Taila explained, kicking the front door shut with her foot. "Mine's on the right. The bathroom's between them. The kitchen's obviously there unless you're legally blind."

"Thank you, Martha Stewart."

"You're welcome, ungrateful bitch."

I laughed and followed her down the hallway.

My bedroom was bigger than I'd expected.

A queen-sized bed sat against the far wall, dressed in plain white bedding. There was a wooden desk beneath the window, a dresser, and a walk-in closet that immediately earned the apartment several additional points.

"Okay," I admitted. "This is actually pretty fucking nice."

Taila leaned against the doorframe.

"Right? My parents helped with the furniture, but we split rent and utilities. Also, the neighbors are mostly students, so nobody really complains unless somebody's throwing an absolute rager."

"Define absolute rager."

I turned slowly.

"A goat?"

"His name was Gregory."

"Of course it was."

"He ate someone's sociology textbook."

I stared at her.

Tailia stared back.

Then we both burst out laughing.

For the first time in months, the laughter didn't feel forced.

It felt normal.

And that frightened me more than I wanted to admit.

Two hours later, my bedroom looked considerably more like mine.

Black satin pillowcases replaced the plain white ones. My burgundy throw blanket lay folded at the foot of the bed, and I'd arranged my makeup across the dresser beside a collection of perfumes and silver jewelry.

A full-length mirror leaned against the wall near my closet.

My books occupied an entire section of the shelf beside my desk, their dark covers lined up between a little ceramic skull and a black candle I'd bought purely because it smelled like vanilla and bad decisions.

Most of them were dark romances.

Shocking, I know.

Some girls collected expensive handbags. I collected fictional men with criminal records, questionable morals, and enough emotional baggage to keep a therapist employed for the next thirty years.

Speaking of therapists, I should probably find one while I'm here. I'd been considering it for months, especially after everything that happened with Evelyn. My mother had suggested it more times than I could count, but I'd always found some excuse to put it off. Maybe it was time to stop pretending that sarcasm, caffeine, and fictional psychopaths were legitimate coping mechanisms. Although, in my defense, they'd gotten me this far.

I also had an impressive talent for convincing myself that buying another book didn't count as spending money if I used my Kindle.

Speaking of which, I pulled my dark burgundy-red Kindle from my purse and placed it on the nightstand. Its black floral case had a few scratches around the edges from being shoved into bags, dropped onto my bed, and carried practically everywhere I went.

The thing was my most prized possession after my car.

I'd stayed awake until four in the morning more times than I could count because some fictional asshole had decided to do something particularly unhinged three chapters before the ending.

One more chapter, I'd tell myself.

Then suddenly the birds would be singing, my alarm would be going off, and I'd be questioning every decision I'd ever made.

Evelyn used to make fun of me for it.

"Blair, normal people go to therapy. You read about fictional murderers falling in love."

"And yet somehow I'm still the more emotionally stable one in this friendship."

She'd laughed so hard she'd nearly fallen off my bed.

My smile faded.

For a moment, I considered opening the book I'd been reading before the move. Reading had always been the easiest way to escape my own thoughts, especially when those thoughts involved unanswered calls, police reports, and a best friend who'd seemingly vanished into thin air.

Instead, I left the Kindle on the nightstand.

I had too much to do.

I'd always wanted to write a book of my own.

Not that I'd ever admitted that to many people. Reading dark romance was one thing, but actually sitting down and attempting to write one? That was an entirely different level of delusion.

I'd tried, though.

God, had I fucking tried.

My laptop was practically a graveyard of abandoned manuscripts, half-written prologues, character profiles, and book titles that sounded considerably better than the stories attached to them.

Every time I thought I'd finally come up with something good, I'd write three chapters, convince myself it was absolute garbage, and start over.

Maybe I just wasn't meant to be a writer.

Evelyn used to tell me that was bullshit.

"Blair, you read more books in a month than most people read in a year. Just write the damn thing."

"Wow. Inspirational. You should become a motivational speaker."

"I'm serious, bitch. One day you're going to write something amazing, and I'm going to be the first person to read it."

The memory made my chest tighten.

She'd even brought me a black leather journal for my twentieth birthday. On the first page, she'd written:

ℱℴ𝓇 𝒶𝓁𝓁 𝓉𝒽ℯ 𝓈𝓉ℴ𝓇𝒾ℯ𝓈 𝓎ℴ𝓊 𝒽𝒶𝓋ℯ𝓃'𝓉 𝓉ℴ𝓁𝒹 𝓎ℯ𝓉. 𝒮𝓉ℴ𝓅 𝒷ℯ𝒾𝓃ℊ 𝒶 𝒸𝒽𝒾𝒸𝓀ℯ𝓃 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝓌𝓇𝒾𝓉ℯ ℴ𝓃ℯ. ℐ 𝓁ℴ𝓋ℯ 𝓎ℴ𝓊 — 𝒴ℴ𝓊𝓇 𝒷ℯ𝓈𝓉𝒾ℯ

I still had it.

I pulled open the bottom drawer of my desk, where I'd placed the journal while unpacking, and ran my thumb over its worn cover.

Maybe Blackthorne would give me something worth writing about.

Preferably something that didn't involve more emotional trauma.

I returned the journal to the drawer and pushed it shut.

I stood in front of the mirror, pulling my long waves over one shoulder as I examined the outfit I'd changed into.

A fitted black cropped tank hugged my chest, exposing the delicate ornamental tattoo beneath my breasts whenever I stretched. Low-rise charcoal jeans sat against my hips, revealing the upper edge of the black-and-gray floral design that curved along my left hip.

My half sleeve covered much of my right upper arm, its intricate flowers and ornamental shading standing out against my warm olive skin.

I adjusted the silver stud in my nose, checked my navel piercing, and ran a finger beneath the small scar cutting through my left eyebrow.

My hazel-green eyes looked tired.

Nothing concealer can't fix.

I'd spent nearly twenty minutes deciding whether to wear sneakers or my black platform ankle boots, eventually choosing the boots because they made me feel slightly less like a girl who'd spent the last year falling apart.

A knock sounded against my open bedroom door.

"Okay, don't hate me."

I turned.

Taila stood there holding two plastic cups filled with something suspiciously pink.

"That depends entirely on what you're about to say."

"So there's this party tonight."

"No."

"You haven't even heard me out!"

"Party. Tonight. No."

She groaned dramatically.

"Blair, it's literally the first weekend of the semester."

"And?"

"And you're supposed to go out, meet people, make questionable decisions, possibly kiss somebody hot."

"I can make questionable decisions from the comfort of my own bed, thanks."

"That's depressing."

"That's efficient."

Talia took a sip of her drink.

"It's not just any party."

I lifted an eyebrow.

"Is there free food?"

"Probably."

"Open bar?"

"Definitely."

"Then I'm listening."

Her face lit up.

"It's at this insane mansion off campus. Apparently, the guys who own it throw the most exclusive parties at Blackthrone."

I went still.

"A mansion?"

"Yeah. Like, actual millionaire bullshit. Private security, expensive cars, swimming pools, the whole thing."

I tried to keep my expression neutral.

"Who owns it?"

Talia waved a dismissive hand.

"Some guys everybody calls the Saints."

The room seemed to grow quieter.

The Saints.

I'd heard that name before.

Not from Talia.

Not from the university website.

From Evelyn.

I could still remember the last voicemail she'd left me. Her voice had been shaky, barely recognizable beneath the sound of hurried footsteps and muffled music.

Blair, if something happens to me, don't trust the Saints. Especially—

The recording ended there.

I'd listened to it so many times that I could practically hear it in my sleep.

Talia continued talking, oblivious to the sudden tension in my shoulders.

"Roman Blackwell is basically their leader. Rich as fuck, apparently gorgeous, and supposedly a complete asshole. Then there's Jace, Elias, Knox, and Silas. I haven't met any of them personally, but everybody knows who they are."

Roman Blackwell.

I filed the name away.

"Sounds like a charming group."

"Oh, they're allegedly terrible."

"Then why would anybody go to their parties?"

"Because they're hot and rich, Blair. College students are not known for their excellent judgement."

I snorted.

She stepped closer, lowering her voice conspiratorially.

"And apparently they have this secret game."

My stomach tightened.

"What kind of game?"

"Something called Bad Influence. Nobody really talks about the details, but I've heard people win thousands of dollars doing dares."

"Dares?"

"Yeah. Like truth or dare, except apparently these guys have enough money to make people do some seriously embarrassing shit."

I stared at her.

Dares.

The Saints.

An off-campus mansion.

Three pieces of information that shouldn't have meant anything together.

Except they did.

Because Evelyn had attended one of those parties the night she disappeared.

And now I knew exactly where to start looking.

I crossed my arms.

"What time?"

Talia blinked.

"What?"

"The party. What time does it start?"

Her mouth slowly curved into a grin.

"Oh, you sneaky bitch."

"Don't make me change my mind."

"Ten. We're leaving at nine-thirty."

I glanced toward my closet, where a short black dress and a pair of strappy gothic heels hung waiting.

"Fine."

Talia squealed.

"YES! Oh my God, we're going to have so much fun!"

I forced a smile.

Fun.

Right.

That was definitely why I was going.

By nine-fifteen, Talia had transformed our living room into what looked like the aftermath of a small cosmetics explosion.

Makeup brushes littered the coffee table. Two curling irons were plugged into the wall. Somebody's false eyelashes were stuck to the arm of the couch.

"Have you seen my lip gloss?" she shouted from her bedroom.

"Which one?"

"The pink one!"

"You own seventeen pink lip glosses!"

"The shiny one!"

"THAT DOESN'T NARROW IT DOWN!"

I heard her laugh.

I stood in front of the hallway mirror, smoothing my hands over the black dress I'd chosen.

It was short, fitted, and made from a soft material that hugged my waist before curving over my hips. The neckline dipped low enough to reveal a hint of the ornamental tattoo beneath my chest, while the thin straps left my shoulders and floral half-sleeve exposed.

My dark burgundy hair fell in thick waves down my back, the ends brushing just above my waist.

I'd paired the dress with black strappy platform heels featuring delicate silver chains around the ankles.

They were ridiculously impractical.

They were also fucking gorgeous.

I finished applying dark red lip gloss and stepped back.

Not bad, Monroe.

"Holy. Fucking. Shit."

I looked over my shoulder.

Talia stood at the end of the hallway wearing a silver mini dress and matching heels, her mouth hanging open.

"What?"

"Blair."

"What?"

"If I looked like you, I'd be an absolute menace to society."

I laughed.

"You already are."

"Fair point."

She grabbed her purse from the couch.

"Okay, rules for tonight."

"Oh, Jesus."

"One, we don't leave each other alone with creepy men."

"Agreed."

"Two, if either of us wants to leave, we leave."

"Obviously."

"Three, if you find somebody hot, you are legally required to tell me."

"That's not a law."

"It is in this apartment."

I rolled my eyes.

"Fine."

"And four—"

"Talia."

"What?"

"Can we please go before I age out of college?"

She grinned.

"God, I love you already."

The drive to the mansion took twenty minutes.

Talia sat in my passenger seat, singing along to the radio while I followed the directions on her phone.

The farther we drove from campus, the larger the houses became.

Massive stone estates sat behind iron gates, their lawns so perfectly maintained that I wondered whether the grass had signed a fucking contract.

Then we turned onto a long private road lined with towering trees.

At the end stood a mansion that made every other house we'd passed look like a garden shed.

"Holy shit," I whispered.

Black iron gates stretched across the entrance, flanked by stone pillars bearing an unfamiliar crest.

Beyond them, a sprawling rose against the night sky, its dark brick exterior illuminated by warm lights spilling from enormous windows.

Music pulsed faintly through the air.

Luxury cars lined the circular driveway.

A black Mercedes.

A bright blue BMW.

A gray Audi.

And a burgundy Porsche that probably cost more than my entire college education.

My little white Civic suddenly felt extremely out of place.

Talia practically vibrated in her seat.

"Isn't it insane?"

"Insane is one word."

I slowed near the gate, where a security guard approached.