Corrupt

Baylee

The first thing I saw when I walked into Logan Calloway’s house was a girl doing cocaine off a framed family photograph.

I stopped so abruptly that Tessa nearly walked straight into my back. When she asked what was wrong, I nodded toward the narrow table beside the entrance, where two girls in tiny dresses were bent over a silver picture frame. One held her hair out of the way while the other leaned down and inhaled a neat white line from the glass covering what appeared to be a professional photograph of an attractive family dressed entirely in white.

“Oh my God,” I muttered.

Tessa followed my gaze and gave a small shrug. “It’s a Calloway party.”

I stared at her. “What does that even mean?”

“It means maybe don’t touch anything.”

“That was already the plan.”

She laughed and caught my wrist, tugging me farther into the house before someone behind us complained that we were blocking the doorway. I immediately regretted coming.

The house was enormous. Not college-rich enormous, where someone’s parents had a five-bedroom house and a pool and everybody acted like they lived at the Playboy Mansion. This was actual wealth. Three stories of stone and glass tucked behind iron gates, with ceilings so high the enormous chandeliers didn’t seem ridiculous and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a backyard that disappeared into darkness. A massive pool glowed blue beyond the glass doors, surrounded by fire pits, cabanas, and enough people to fill a nightclub. There had to be two hundred people here, maybe more, and every room we passed seemed to open into another space filled with bodies.

Music pounded through the house hard enough that I felt it beneath my shoes. People danced on furniture that looked too expensive to sit on, let alone stand on. Someone had dragged an enormous ice sculpture into the kitchen and turned it into a liquor luge. A guy in nothing but boxer briefs sprinted through the living room carrying a bottle of champagne while three people chased him, and nobody even looked surprised when he disappeared around the corner.

“This is insane,” I said.

Tessa grinned. “Isn’t it amazing?”

“No.”

“You haven’t even been here five minutes.”

“And I’ve already watched someone snort cocaine off a family portrait.”

“Technically, I think it was ketamine.”

I stopped walking and stared at her until she burst out laughing. She assured me she was kidding, but the fact that I couldn’t immediately tell said everything I needed to know about the party she’d brought me to.

This wasn’t my scene. That didn’t mean I’d never been to a party before. I was twenty-one years old, not twelve. I’d gone to plenty. I’d gotten drunk, stayed out until morning, kissed strangers at bars, and once spent an entire Saturday throwing up after deciding tequila shots were somehow a good idea on an empty stomach. I wasn’t innocent, and I wasn’t interested in pretending I was. But the parties I knew involved warm beer, sticky floors, somebody’s carefully curated Spotify playlist, and at least one stressed-out roommate standing beside the front door begging strangers not to steal anything.

This was something else.

There was an edge beneath the fun that made me uncomfortable. Maybe it was the drugs. Maybe it was the money. Maybe it was the simple realization that most of the people around me seemed to believe nothing truly bad could happen to them. A guy walked past us holding a little plastic bag filled with white powder between two fingers. He didn’t hide it. Nobody looked twice.

I did.

Tessa noticed. Her expression softened as she asked if I was okay and reminded me that we could leave if I wanted to. I knew she meant it, which was exactly why I shook my head. She’d spent three days trying to convince me to come tonight. She’d changed outfits four times in our apartment and redone my hair after declaring my usual straightening job a personal insult to her abilities. More importantly, she had spent the last two months putting up with me while I bounced between classes, work, studying, and going to bed embarrassingly early.

“I’m fine,” I told her. “Go have fun.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

Tessa laughed and hooked her arm through mine, pulling me toward the kitchen. I smiled despite myself because maybe she had a point. I’d been boring lately, although not intentionally. My life had simply become predictable. I woke up at six-thirty, went for a run if I had enough energy, attended classes, worked four evenings a week at a little coffee shop off campus, studied, called my mom every Sunday, and usually spent Friday nights watching movies with Tessa unless she successfully dragged me somewhere.

I liked predictable.

Predictable didn’t call you at three in the morning asking for bail money. Predictable didn’t wreck your GPA or get your picture posted online doing something you’d spend the next five years regretting. Predictable didn’t leave you waking up somewhere you didn’t remember going. I’d spent most of my life watching other people make their lives unnecessarily difficult and quietly deciding I wouldn’t.

That didn’t make me boring.

It made me smart.

At least that was what I told myself.

The kitchen was somehow even larger than the one at my parents’ house, with white marble counters and an enormous island that had been transformed into a bar. There were dozens of bottles lined across it, most of which I didn’t recognize, and a guy wearing sunglasses indoors was pouring drinks without asking anyone what they wanted. He shoved one toward me when we approached.

I looked down at the cloudy liquid. “What is it?”

He smiled lazily. “Does it matter?”

“Yes.”

That seemed to surprise him.

I lifted the cup and smelled it. Vodka, definitely. Something fruity beneath it and something else I couldn’t identify. That was enough for me. I handed it back and told him I’d get my own, earning a snort from Tessa while the guy merely shrugged and drank it himself.

I found an unopened can of hard seltzer in a cooler beneath the island and cracked it open. Tessa stared pointedly at my drink before looking at the collection of expensive liquor spread across the counter.

“You came to a mansion with a full bar and got a White Claw.”

“I know what’s in it.”

“You’re eighty.”

“I plan on waking up with both kidneys.”

“You think Logan Calloway is harvesting organs?”

“I’ve never met Logan Calloway.”

“But you’ve heard about him.”

That was true.

Everyone had.

Logan Calloway was the kind of person you knew without actually knowing him. His family had money. Serious money. Calloway Development owned luxury buildings downtown, hotels, restaurants, clubs, and apparently this absurd house a few miles outside campus that Logan used whenever his parents weren’t in town, which, according to Tessa, was almost always.

Logan himself had a reputation that made his family’s wealth seem like the least interesting thing about him. He’d been arrested twice. Maybe three times. Nobody seemed certain. There was a story about him putting someone in the hospital after a fight outside a nightclub last year and another about him totaling a hundred-thousand-dollar car before showing up to class two days later driving a different one. He’d supposedly been suspended from the university once, though no one knew why, and there were enough rumors involving drugs, women, fights, police, and destroyed hotel rooms that separating fact from fiction was impossible.

Tessa had called him dangerous.

Then she’d spent twenty minutes deciding what dress to wear to his party.

People were complicated.

I took another sip. “Where is he?”

Her eyes brightened immediately. “Who?”

“The terrifying criminal whose house we’re standing in.”

“You want to see Logan?”

“No. I’m curious.”

“That’s how it starts.”

“Nothing is starting.”

She laughed, but before I could ask what exactly she thought was going to start, someone shouted from outside. The crowd shifted toward the windows. A few people started running toward the glass doors, and Tessa grabbed my hand.

“What now?” I asked.

“I don’t know.”

That should’ve been enough reason to stay where we were. Instead, she dragged me along with everyone else.

We spilled through the glass doors and onto an enormous stone terrace overlooking the pool. The night air hit my skin, cool against the heat trapped inside the house, and I breathed easier almost immediately. People were gathering along the far side of the pool, shouting and lifting their phones, and it took me a few seconds to see what had attracted them.

Two cars sat at opposite ends of the long driveway beyond the terrace.

Not normal cars.

The kind of cars people stopped to photograph.

One was matte black, low enough to nearly scrape the pavement. The other was bright red. People crowded along both sides of the driveway, some of them standing dangerously close to the pavement.

“What are they doing?” I asked.

Tessa stood on her toes. “I think they’re racing.”

I stared at her. “Here?”

The driveway curved through the property before disappearing between the trees toward the main road. It wasn’t a racetrack. It wasn’t even particularly wide.

“That can’t possibly be safe.”

“Probably not.”

Someone shouted again.

Then the crowd erupted.

The black car’s engine screamed before it shot forward so violently that I flinched. The red car followed less than a second later, both vehicles disappearing around the curve so quickly that all I could see were taillights before the trees swallowed them.

Everyone around us cheered.

I didn’t.

“They’re drunk.”

Tessa laughed. “Probably.”

“They’re driving.”

“I can see that.”

“Those two things shouldn’t happen together.”

“You’re doing your mom voice.”

“I don’t have a mom voice.”

“You absolutely do.”

I folded my arms and stared toward the trees, suddenly far less amused by the entire party than I had been five minutes ago. Less than a minute later, headlights appeared between the branches.

The cars came back fast.

Too fast.

The red one took the curve first and fishtailed hard enough that people screamed and stumbled backward. Tires shrieked against pavement as the rear of the car swung sideways. For one awful second, I thought it was going straight into the crowd. The driver corrected at the last moment and flew past us.

My heart slammed against my ribs.

The black car followed.

It didn’t slow until the last possible second.

The driver hit the brakes.

The car slid sideways.

People scattered.

I grabbed Tessa’s arm and yanked her backward as the black car spun across the pavement and stopped less than twenty feet from the crowd.

For one stunned second, everything went silent.

Then people exploded into cheers.

I stared at the car, my pulse pounding so hard I could feel it in my throat. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

The driver’s door opened.

A man climbed out.

And somehow, immediately, I knew.

Logan Calloway.

He didn’t look remotely shaken.

That was the first thing I noticed.

He looked thrilled.

His dark hair was a mess, his black shirt hanging open at the throat, and there was a cigarette tucked behind one ear. A silver chain flashed against his chest when he slammed the car door. Someone shoved a bottle into his hand and Logan lifted it above his head while the crowd shouted his name.

He was laughing.

Not smiling.

Laughing.

Like nearly wrapping a car around a tree or plowing into a crowd of people was the funniest thing that had happened all night.

The guy who’d driven the red car climbed out and came straight toward him. I couldn’t hear what he said over the crowd, but whatever it was wiped some of the amusement from Logan’s face. The other guy shoved him hard enough to send Logan back a step.

People started shouting.

Then Logan shoved him back.

The other guy swung.

The punch caught Logan across the jaw.

His head snapped sideways.

A collective sound went through the crowd, somewhere between shock and excitement, but Logan didn’t stumble far. He straightened slowly and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. When he saw the blood smeared across his skin, something changed in his expression.

Then he grinned.

A cold sensation moved down my spine.

He hit the guy.

There was nothing playful about the punch. His fist connected hard enough that I heard the impact from where I stood. The other man staggered backward, but Logan followed immediately, landing another blow before the guy had properly regained his balance.

“Shouldn’t someone stop them?”

Nobody did.

They were cheering.

Logan grabbed the front of the guy’s shirt and slammed him against the side of the red car. The crowd surged closer instead of backing away. People raised their phones. Someone shouted Logan’s name like this was entertainment.

I stepped backward.

This wasn’t some stupid drunk wrestling match between friends.

Logan looked furious now.

The laughter was completely gone.

Whatever switch existed inside him had flipped so quickly that it made my stomach tighten. The other guy said something I couldn’t hear, and Logan hit him again. Blood ran from the man’s nose.

“Okay,” I said quietly. “That’s enough.”

Tessa caught my wrist. “Baylee.”

“He’s going to seriously hurt him.”

“Someone will stop it.”

“Who?”

The answer came seconds later when two men pushed through the crowd and grabbed Logan from behind.

He fought them.

Actually fought them.

One wrapped both arms around his chest while another shoved him backward, and Logan was still trying to get around them, shouting something at the guy leaning against the car. The other driver spat blood onto the pavement, which only made Logan lunge again.

“Jesus,” I whispered.

One of Logan’s friends finally grabbed the side of his face and said something directly into his ear.

Logan stopped.

Not gradually.

One second he was fighting against two grown men to get back to the guy, and the next he went completely still.

His chest heaved beneath his open shirt. Blood marked the corner of his mouth. He stared at the other driver for several long seconds before wiping his split lip with his thumb.

Then he looked at the blood.

And smiled.

A minute later, someone handed him the bottle again.

He drank.

Just like that.

I watched him throw an arm around one of his friends and head toward the house while the crowd followed, laughing and talking as though nothing particularly unusual had happened.

Something about that disturbed me more than the fight itself.

“Still curious?” Tessa asked.

“No.”

She laughed.

“I mean it.”

“He’s intense.”

“He’s insane.”

“A little.”

“A lot.”

Tessa bumped my shoulder. “You have to admit he’s hot.”

I looked toward the house.

Logan had stopped near the doors. Someone handed him a cigarette, and he tucked it between his lips while another guy leaned forward to light it. There was blood across his knuckles and a bruise already beginning to darken along his jaw.

A blonde appeared beside him.

Logan hooked an arm around her waist and pulled her against him without taking the cigarette from his mouth. She leaned into him and kissed the side of his neck as though the blood on his hands wasn’t worth noticing.

Unfortunately, Tessa wasn’t wrong.

Logan Calloway was gorgeous.

Not clean-cut gorgeous. There was nothing polished about him despite the money. His face was too sharp, his hair too messy, his expression too restless. He looked like someone had dressed trouble in expensive clothes and then gotten bored before buttoning his shirt.

His eyes moved across the crowd.

They found mine.

I froze.

It was probably coincidence. There were dozens of people between us, enough movement that he couldn’t possibly have noticed me specifically.

Then his gaze stayed.

The blonde was still pressed against him.

Logan wasn’t looking at her.

He was looking at me.

I looked away first.

“Don’t,” Tessa said beside me.

I took another sip of my drink. “Don’t what?”

“Whatever you’re thinking.”

“I’m thinking I’d like to go back inside.”

“Sure.”

I ignored her tone.

We followed the crowd toward the house, and I deliberately kept my attention anywhere except Logan. It worked for approximately thirty seconds.

I was halfway through the doors when someone stepped into my path.

I stopped.

Black shirt.

Gold chain.

Bloodied knuckles.

I slowly looked up.

Logan Calloway was taller than I’d expected. Up close, the damage from the fight was more obvious. His lower lip was split, there was a red mark across his cheekbone, and a small smear of blood streaked his jaw.

His pupils looked slightly too large.

I noticed that too.

His gaze moved over my face slowly before settling on my eyes.

“You were staring at me.”

His voice was low and rough.

No hello.

No introduction.

I blinked. “You almost drove into a crowd of people.”

His mouth curved. “So you were staring.”

I stared at him.

He smelled like smoke, alcohol, expensive cologne, and something faintly chemical that I couldn’t identify. Standing this close to him made the rumors suddenly feel much less like campus gossip.

“You could’ve killed somebody.”

Logan looked over his shoulder toward the driveway as though checking whether he’d somehow missed a body. When he turned back to me, there was genuine amusement in his eyes.

“Didn’t.”

“That isn’t the point.”

“What is the point?”

“That you’re an idiot.”

Tessa made a tiny sound beside me.

I ignored her.

Logan didn’t.

His eyes flicked toward her before returning to me.

Then he smiled.

Not offended.

Interested.

“What’s your name?”

“No.”

His eyebrows lifted. “No?”

“You don’t need my name.”

“Maybe I want it.”

I stepped around him.

Or tried to.

Logan moved with me, not enough to trap me or touch me, just enough to make it clear he wasn’t finished.

“Come on.”

I looked up at him. “Do women usually give you whatever you want because you say come on?”

“Usually I don’t have to ask twice.”

“That sounds convenient.”

“It is.”

“Congratulations.”

Something flickered across his face, and I couldn’t tell whether he was annoyed or amused. Probably both.

I studied him for a moment. Maybe it was the adrenaline still humming through me from watching the race. Maybe it was the half a drink I’d finished. Maybe Logan simply had one of those faces that made self-preservation briefly less persuasive.

Whatever it was, I answered honestly.

“I think you probably enjoy it.”

His smile faded slightly. “Enjoy what?”

“Being Logan Calloway.”

His eyes held mine.

“Wouldn’t you?”

“No.”

That seemed to genuinely surprise him.

I gestured toward his face. “You were almost in a car accident five minutes ago, got punched in the mouth, beat the hell out of somebody, and now you’re drinking again.”

“So?”

“So that sounds exhausting.”

He stared at me.

I stared back.

For a moment neither of us said anything. The party moved around us, people squeezing through the doors while music pounded from somewhere deeper inside the house. Someone shouted Logan’s name from across the terrace.

He ignored them.

His gaze dropped briefly to my mouth.

Something uncomfortable tightened low in my stomach.

I hated that.

He was exactly the kind of man I knew better than to find attractive.

Unfortunately, knowing better had never prevented attraction from existing.

Logan stepped slightly closer. “You have a boyfriend?”

“No.”

“Then give me your number.”

I laughed before I could stop myself.

His eyebrows drew together. “What?”

“You’re serious.”

“Yeah.”

“You just met me.”

“That’s usually when people exchange numbers.”

“Not us.”

His jaw shifted.

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t want yours.”

“I didn’t offer you mine.”

“That makes this much easier.”

Tessa coughed to hide a laugh.

Logan glanced toward her.

When he looked back at me, something sharper had entered his expression.

He wasn’t used to this.

That much was obvious.

Maybe that should have made me stop.

Instead, it made me want to push a little harder.

“You’re not my type.”

“What is your type?”

“Not you.”

His mouth twitched.

A couple of guys had stopped behind him now. The same friends who’d pulled him out of the fight. One of them looked between us before a slow grin spread across his face.

“You striking out, Calloway?”

Logan’s expression changed.

It wasn’t dramatic.

Just a tightening around his mouth and a cooling in his eyes.

There was pride there.

A lot of it.

I suddenly understood that I’d become an audience event.

Wonderful.

His friend smiled at me. “Don’t take it personally. He’s rusty. Most girls don’t make him work this hard.”

“I haven’t made him work at all.”

The guy laughed.

Logan didn’t.

I looked at him, and for the first time since he’d approached me, I saw something beneath the reckless charm that made all those stories about him easier to believe.

He didn’t like being embarrassed.

Not even a little.

I should have walked away.

Instead, Logan looked at me and asked, “You really don’t want my number?”

“No.”

“You don’t want to come upstairs?”

“No.”

“You don’t even know what you’re saying no to.”

I let my eyes move deliberately to the blood drying across his knuckles, then to the split in his lip, then to the faint white residue near the cuff of his black shirt that I sincerely hoped was something innocent.

Finally, I met his eyes again.

“I think I have a pretty good idea.”

His friends went quiet.

Logan stared at me.

The temperature between us seemed to change. For one second, I wondered if I’d pushed too far.

Then his mouth curved slowly.

Not the charming smile from before.

Something darker.

“What’s your name?”

I should’ve refused again.

Instead, maybe because I wanted to prove I wasn’t intimidated by him, I answered.

“Baylee.”

He repeated it quietly. “Baylee.”

I didn’t like the way my name sounded in his mouth.

Or maybe I liked it too much.

Either option was irritating.

“Good night, Logan.”

I stepped around him.

This time he let me.

Tessa hurried after me as I moved through the house, catching up near the kitchen. She stared at me like I had just committed some kind of social crime rather than rejected a man who was very obviously accustomed to hearing yes.

“What the fuck was that?”

“Nothing.”

“You rejected him in front of his friends.”

“I wasn’t aware I needed to protect his self-esteem.”

Tessa stared at me for another second before slowly shaking her head.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re being weird.”

“You have no idea what you just did.”

I grabbed another seltzer from the cooler and cracked the can open. “I said no to a guy.”

Tessa’s attention shifted over my shoulder.

Her expression changed.

I followed her gaze.

Logan was still standing near the doors.

His friends were talking around him, one of them laughing about something while another handed Logan a fresh drink.

He wasn’t listening.

He was watching me.

There was no smile this time.

No casual flirtation.

Nothing about his expression suggested that our conversation had already disappeared beneath the alcohol and chaos surrounding him.

I held his gaze for a few seconds before deliberately turning away.

“He’ll get over it,” I said.

Tessa didn’t answer.

I drank my seltzer and tried to ignore the strange energy still crawling beneath my skin. Logan Calloway was reckless, arrogant, spoiled, violent, and very possibly high. I’d watched him risk his life for entertainment and beat another man bloody less than ten minutes later. He was exactly the kind of person I’d spent my entire life making sure I didn’t become.

There was absolutely nothing about Logan Calloway that belonged anywhere near my life.

That should have made the entire interaction easy to forget.

For the rest of the night, it wasn’t.

Every time I moved into another room, I found myself checking whether he was there. I noticed him outside smoking with his friends. I noticed him pouring liquor into someone’s mouth in the kitchen. I noticed a girl sitting on his lap near the pool, her fingers tangled in his hair while he talked to someone beside him as though she barely existed.

I noticed when he disappeared upstairs.

I noticed when he came back down nearly an hour later looking even more wrecked than before.

And I noticed the way people responded to him.

They didn’t simply like Logan.

They orbited him.

Whatever he suggested, somebody did. Whatever reckless idea crossed his mind, somebody encouraged it. He could’ve announced that everyone should jump from the roof into the pool and I suspected half the party would’ve started climbing the stairs before he finished speaking.

It was strange watching someone live without brakes.

I couldn’t imagine it.

My entire life was brakes.

Think first.

Plan ahead.

Don’t make things harder than they need to be.

Don’t take unnecessary risks.

Don’t trust people who give you reasons not to.

Logan Calloway looked like he’d built his entire existence around doing the opposite.

Maybe that was why I kept looking.

Not because I wanted him.

Definitely not because I wanted to be like him.

I simply couldn’t understand him.

By the time Tessa finally admitted she was ready to leave, it was almost two in the morning. She was drunk enough that I had to take her phone away after catching her composing a message to her ex and sober enough to complain about it for the next ten minutes. I ordered our ride while she leaned against me near the front entrance, grumbling that I was controlling.

“You tried to send Nathan a picture of your cleavage.”

“He likes my cleavage.”

“Nathan has a girlfriend.”

“I don’t like her.”

“I don’t think that’s relevant.”

“I think it’s extremely relevant.”

I laughed and shoved her phone deeper into my purse. “You’re getting this back tomorrow.”

She muttered something rude under her breath.

I was pulling on my coat when movement near the staircase caught my attention.

Logan.

He stood near the bottom with one hand in his pocket and a glass hanging loosely from the other. His black shirt was even more undone than before, revealing more of the chain resting against his chest. The bruise along his jaw had darkened. His hair was a mess. There was something different about his eyes now too, heavier and less focused than earlier.

He looked completely wrecked.

He was still beautiful.

That seemed unfair.

Someone spoke to him from behind.

Logan didn’t respond.

Because he was looking at me.

Again.

I stopped with one arm halfway into my coat.

We were separated by most of the foyer, but his attention felt strangely intimate. He didn’t smile. Didn’t lift his glass. Didn’t try to come over.

He simply watched.

There was something unsettling about being looked at that way by someone who’d spent the entire night surrounded by people desperate for his attention.

I finished pulling on my coat.

Tessa hooked her arm through mine, and we headed outside.

The cold air hit my face hard enough to clear some of the alcohol from my head. Cars lined the circular driveway, everything from ordinary sedans to vehicles that looked like they belonged behind velvet ropes at an auto show. A couple argued beside a Range Rover. Someone was throwing up near a hedge while his friend held his jacket. Two girls hurried past us barefoot, carrying their heels and laughing so hard one nearly fell.

Apparently money didn’t make drunk people any more graceful.

Our ride was four minutes away.

Tessa leaned against my shoulder.

I stared toward the gates.

The front doors opened behind us, spilling music and warm light across the stone steps. I glanced back instinctively.

Logan hadn’t followed.

I wasn’t disappointed.

Obviously.

I barely knew him.

More importantly, I didn’t want to know him.

Logan Calloway was exactly the kind of man women convinced themselves they could handle right before discovering they couldn’t. He was beautiful, wealthy, charming, reckless, and just unstable enough to make danger look exciting from a safe distance.

There was an entire campus filled with stories proving that getting involved with him was a terrible idea.

I had no intention of becoming another one.

Our Uber turned through the gates a few minutes later.

I helped Tessa into the back seat and climbed in beside her. Within minutes, the Calloway house disappeared behind us, the trees along the private road blurring into streaks of darkness and white lights beyond the window.

I rested my head against the cool glass.

Tomorrow morning I’d go back to my normal life.

I’d work my shift at the coffee shop. I’d study for the exam I had next week. I’d probably make Tessa pancakes while she complained that her head was going to explode. Then I’d call my mom like I did every Sunday and conveniently leave out the part about attending a party where I’d watched people do cocaine and race cars through a residential property.

Everything would go back to normal.

Exactly the way I liked it.

Logan Calloway could go back to doing whatever Logan Calloway did when he wasn’t bleeding on expensive furniture, getting high, driving like he had a death wish, and trying to get strangers into his bed.

Our lives had no reason to cross again.

And that was perfectly fine with me.