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CHAPTER FOUR

  Girls, girls, girls

  Chase

  I hated the first day of classes. We'd been doing this for four freaking years, and it was always the same. Scan the perimeter to make sure students are where they're supposed to be. Check in with Nixon at all times and make sure Phoenix and Tex keep their pants on.

  Right.

  Check, check, and double-check.

  Grumbling, I made my way around the freshman dorms. The hairs on the back of my arms stood on end.

  "Hey, Chase!" A few girls waved in my direction and giggled.

  Ugh. Part of my cover? Being a whore. Right, it wasn't that much of a stretch for someone of my appetite, but it was getting old. I may have needed to make sure Tex and Phoenix didn't go roaming into restricted territory, but that didn't mean I didn't take advantage of the position I'd been given.

  The girls were all the same. Damn, they even smelled the same. Nothing new, nothing exciting. I offered a lame wave back and winked as I rounded the corner of the dorms just in time to see Mo and Trace come barreling out the front door, grabbing at their skirts fluttering in the wind.

  Wow, how pathetic was I? The most entertaining thing I'd seen all day, and it was the New Girl picking up her underwear off the concrete. Maybe I did need to get laid.

  Rather than walk away and flip them off in the process, I hid behind a damn tree and watched.

  Nixon was going to kill Mo; whatever the hell she was wearing, it sure wasn't a skirt. She'd been getting braver and braver, trying to catch Tex's attention and all that.

  If she tried any harder, poor Tex was going to spontaneously combust. It was hard enough for him to keep his eyes inside his head whenever she walked by. Add heels and a short skirt to the mix, and the poor guy was ready to get high just to get rid of the constant state of arousal.

  Trace ran in front of her suitcase and grabbed at another shirt, her face alight with life… something I hadn't seen in a while. A girl whose smile was actually real. A girl who smiled like she meant it, like she actually had something to smile about.

  I sucked in a breath and held it. I held it while she stuffed her clothes back into the suitcase and looked in my direction.

  I held her gaze, knowing she probably didn't see me, but not caring that I was drinking my fill of her. Dark brown hair swirled around her shoulders, her eyes were dark, but rather than them making her look plain, they made her look warm. Damn. I needed warm in my life.

  She was like chocolate.

  Sweet, innocent, full.

  Speaking of walking around in a constant state of arousal. I shook my head and started walking in the other direction.

  Warm girls? The ones with real smiles? They weren't exactly for me. They weren't for any of us. Because the thing about warmth? It reminded me of blood. When something was warm, it meant it was healthy, ripe for the picking. And, being who I was, I knew it wasn't only a matter of time before I sliced open the forbidden fruit and took my fill.

  Leaving a corpse in my wake.

  After making the rounds again, I ran back to my room and changed clothes. It was time for the welcome party.

  One of these days I was going to take down that damn banner and replace it with one that said Welcome to Elite 666 or something just as appropriate, because that's what it was: hell.

  The people here were possessed. Seriously. Imagine taking every single rich kid with a daddy-god complex and placing them — no, scratch that — locking them in a fifty mile radius. Oh, and giving them as much money as they want without a curfew. Right, it was like Sodom and Gomorrah up in here, and I hated every freaking minute of it.

  Four years, and we still weren't any closer to figuring out what the De Langes were up to. We'd gone down every trail. Every single piece of information had been received and studied.

  And still. Nothing.

  It was wearing on Nixon.

  It was wearing on all of us.

  "Hey man," I called, when Nixon walked in looking like hell.

  "I hate today." Nixon swore and grabbed the fifth off the counter and took a giant swig. "God created the earth in seven days, right? Rested on the last day?"

  "Yeah." I squinted. What the hell was he babbling about?

  "So…" Nixon took another swig. "…why did he create women again?"

  I smirked. "You really need me to give you an anatomy lesson? And if the answer's yes? Number one, you're already drunk, and number two, pretty sure Tex would do a better job, you know, on account that he uses hand gestures."

  Nixon gave me his own hand gesture.

  I'd never seen him so… upset, and I'd seen him upset a lot. The kid was tortured half his life and still found a reason not to murder people in their sleep.

  "So…" I sat down next to him and grabbed the bottle. "…what's up? Some chick turn you down?"

  Nixon snorted. "Please. Like I've ever been turned down."

  "Holy shit." I gaped.

  Nixon looked away and rubbed his hands through his hair then slapped his face.

  "Someone rejected you?"

  "No." Nixon's jaw flexed.

  "Yes." I grinned. Wow. Best day of my life. "Who was it? I won't tell Tex or Phoenix."

  "The hell you won't." Nixon swiped the bottle from my hands. "And it was just a misunderstanding."

  "Oh." I licked my lips, enjoying myself way more than I should. "So was it a language barrier? You spoke sweet Sicilian nothings into her ear, and she thought you were high?"

  "Chase—"

  "Or were you speaking English, and she just wasn't the crunchiest fry at the bottom of the box? Hmm?"

  "She—" Nixon's mouth slammed shut. His teeth clenched together. "She's irritating, stupid, and not even pretty."

  "Not even pretty?" I repeated. "So why do you care?"

  One thing about Nixon? He was a freaking raccoon. Loved things that were shiny and pretty. His cars? All black and shiny. His guns? Shiny. He was a collector of all things pretty — almost OCD about it. We all had our quirks, so I didn't judge him for his.

  Me? I loved women. LOVED them — all shapes and sizes. They all had something to offer, you know, as long as they weren't talking.

  Tex, on the other hand, memorized body language. Never play poker with the guy because your chances are higher of getting hit by an asteroid than actually beating him. It was part of his ploy. Act stupid and nobody suspects anything. Sometimes it freaked Nixon out — how intelligent Tex was. He was like one of those child geniuses, not that Nixon wasn't. That guy was also terrifyingly smart.

  And Phoenix.

  Well Phoenix was the guy you wanted on your side when you killed people, because he enjoyed it so effing much that it was a bit terrifying. Watching Phoenix and Tex torture someone? Well, let's just say it brought a whole new meaning to the word nightmare.

  Nixon groaned. "I'm just tired, didn't sleep well last night."

  "Right, you're tired. That's why this chick didn't like you. Stupid bags under your eyes. Damn you, sleep!" I shook my fist and punched him in the arm. "Seriously though, get your shit together."

  "When have you ever," Nixon spat, "and I do mean ever had to say that to me?"

  "When we were ten," I said softly, "and her parents died and—"

  "Fine." Nixon got up, his knees cracking. "You're right. It's time to get ready for the party. Screw her…"

  "Because you kind of want to?" I offered jokingly.

  Nixon rolled his eyes. "She means nothing."

  "Keep telling yourself that."

  "I have to," Nixon whispered. "I really do."