They aren’t rogering up?
What the fuck…maybe they all did lose signal.
I’m pushed into hyper-drive. “Go, go, fucking go.” I’m practically shoving Banks out the door. I head into the hallway while he’s still jumping into a pair of joggers. No time for Banks to grab a shirt, he just seizes a blue jacket off the coat rack at the front door.
We’re lucky that everyone is asleep in the penthouse. It’s easy to leave without passing Moffy, Jane, Thatcher, or Farrow. My hands tremble slightly by the time we reach the car.
“I should’ve gone with Luna,” I mutter to myself. “I should’ve fucking been there instead of…lifting.” Eliot and Tom are in New York, and they couldn’t attend the frat party in Philly. I’m not sure she asked anyone else to go with her.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Banks climbs into the security vehicle, the SUV undulating under his weight. “Don’t put that on yourself, Sulli,” he tells me while I slide into the passenger seat. “She’s probably fine.”
Probably. Maybe.
I want fucking certainty.
“Can I borrow your phone?” I ask.
He reaches into the cup holder with one hand, the other firm on the steering wheel. Once we’re out of the parking deck, paparazzi vans skid out. Tailing us, even in the dark.
I’ve oddly grown used to the white lights and the bumper-fucking. My heart rate still climbs but not to perilous heights anymore.
Quickly, I scroll through Banks’ contacts until I find Donnelly’s number.
I add him into my contacts and quickly compose a text message from my phone.
Hey Donnelly, this is Sulli. I got your number from Banks. Have you spoken to Luna tonight?
I hit send before rereading my message.
Banks grips the steering wheel tighter, briefly glancing at my phone, then back at the road. “You going rogue, mermaid?”
“If anyone might know what’s going on with Luna, it’s Donnelly.”
Banks winces. “This is that thing again—the I don’t want to know thing?”
“Yeah. It’s that thing.” Though, I do know for certain that Luna and Donnelly never hooked up since that one-and-only time.
They’re at least still friends, and Luna’s biggest friend on security is Farrow, our roommate. Who’s asleep right now, so I doubt he has any news to share.
I remember the awkward bit where Donnelly thought Luna asked him on a date to Wawa, but according to Luna, the Wawa invite was just a friend thing. She told me she cleared up the miscommunication, but they’ve still really only seen each other in group settings. I honestly was a little jealous at how well Luna was able to breezily repair that awkward snag.
For me, my friendships feel messy and any small fissure of awkwardness usually breaks open into a giant cavern. Maybe Luna is just really good at not overanalyzing the awkward things in life.
My phone buzzes quickly.
No. Everything ok with her? – Donnelly
Fuck.
I text back: Don’t know. She’s at a frat party. Can’t get ahold of her. I’m about to slip my phone in my pocket, but it buzzes almost immediately after I click send.
Which frat? – Donnelly
I’m not sure if he’s asking just to gather more intel or so he can go to the frat himself. Either way, it wouldn’t hurt having another bodyguard involved. Right? Fuck, I don’t want to mess this up for security.
I ask Banks, “Donnelly wants to know what frat.”
Banks says easily, “Just tell him. He’s gonna worry otherwise. Any of us would.” Any of us. He means SFO. The security team. Because they all care about us and our safety.
I text back: Omega Theta Phi.
Thx – Donnelly
The frat house smells like cheap beer and weed. Bass thumps the floor, and chatter is indistinguishable over popular remixed hits. Banks clasps my hand tight like he’s worried we might be separated.
Girls adorn faces full of makeup, bandaged dresses, and four-inch heels like it’s a night out on the town. Not a night in a dingy frat house with a broken disco ball, beer pong tables, and inflatable swords and dolls. Guys wear boat shoes and Polos—putting in half the effort of the girls.
I put in zero effort.
Looking out of place, Banks and I are still in sweats. He zips up his jacket so he’s not bare-chested. I tip the brim of my Eagles baseball cap low over my face.
Hiding as we weave between bodies in the living area. Beer bottles already littering the sticky floorboards.
If people have recognized us, they don’t say anything. I scan the crowds quickly and try calling Luna back. Her phone goes to voicemail.
Fuck.
We push towards the oversized kitchen. Half-filled liquor bottles cover the humongous island. Vodka, whiskey, rum, and tequila. Two frat guys man the keg.
“Leggings!” the one with a collared palm tree shirt shouts.
It takes me a second to realize he’s talking to me.
“Recon?” I ask Banks.
“Couldn’t hurt.”
Moving towards the keg, Banks rotates his head like he’s scanning for threats. Not for Luna. But it’s possible he’s doing both.
Palm Tree Guy fills up a red Solo cup. “You’re both looking dry,” he says like it’s a sin, then nods to Banks. “Bro…you’re huge.”
“Six-seven,” Banks says before he can ask.
“Shiiiiit.”
Banks is eyeing the guys’ hands as he fills the cup. I am too. My mom once got roofied at a party, and the story has been drilled into my head as a cautionary tale. Of what not to do and what to do.
No fast ones have been pulled.
Palm Tree Guy passes me the Solo cup. I want to blend. Plus, this might calm some of my haywire nerves. Putting the rim to my lips, I swig once, then twice. Letting the beer wash down the back of my throat.
Hoping my pulse stops jumping.
I take a large swig as he begins filling another. “We’re looking for someone.”
Banks adds, “A girl around 5’5’’—brown hair, probably glitter on her face?”
He doesn’t come out and ask have you seen Luna Hale? because there’s no way we know that Luna didn’t come here under some cloak of disguise. And it’s not smart to alert the whole frat house a famous girl could be here.
Palm Tree Guy laughs. “Man, there’s about a million girls in this house that match that description.”
“A million?” My brows rise.
He rolls his eyes. “You know what I mean.” His head swings back to Banks. He narrows his eyes at him. “You look really familiar, man. Are you on the football team?”
Banks shakes his head. “Thanks for the help.” He puts a hand on the small of my back, ushering me away from the kitchen.
“The help?” I look to Banks. “You mean the opposite of fucking help.”
“Getting in a fight with frat bros isn’t gonna help us find Luna.” He seems on edge. Like he thinks this is a fucking possibility. “This isn’t my crowd.”
“It’s not mine either,” I mutter, uncomfortable as people push up against me to shift into a hallway. Banks tucks me closer to his back, his hand slipping up to my forearm for a better grip.