College Ruled

one

| 01 |
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I'M GOING to kill her.

Like always, the air in Mystic is weighed with anticipation when I show up. The club's busy, which is surprising given the much nicer, less run down Nebula a few miles away. It's closer to campus and therefore doubles as Westwood's own personal dating pool. There, the music is two times softer and the furniture is plush enough to sit on for more than two minutes without your lower half going numb.

Compared to the mysteriously stained carpet and cracking foundation I stare at now, Nebula is luxury.

But at Mystic, drinking alcohol is cheap. Mix that with dark lighting and the fact that this club actually serves fries or onion rings when you ask for them and you have the perfect trifecta for the rest of Westwood students—those not bouncing off of their parent's bank accounts—to be fed and buzzed enough to hook up with anyone they deem worthy.

The stolen touches, the non-subtle glances, rushed kisses, hushed voices—it's all the candy of the club. And the sugar high goes straight between everyone's legs.

As far as I can squint through the fog drifting out of the smoke machines and the shimmering, mismatched colors flickering off the strobe lights, couples are already sneaking away or leaning into one another, pairs of bodies slipping in rivers of pounding music. And alcohol—the king of the nightclub—buzzes around every single mover in the dancing crowd.

Under his reign, people are happy.

Which means Christina, from her route zigzagging through the crowd in a cropped tank and mini skirt, a tray of empty glasses balancing in her hand and a wad of cash stuffed in her bra, is also happy.

And still very much employed.

Which brings me back to this: I am going to kill her.

Bouncing down the steps leading from the bar to the dance floor, I shove my way through the mess of people gathered away from the DJ and line my path right up with hers.

"Lying bitch," I say.

She startles easily, which I've never been happier about, and nearly drops the tray she's carrying. The glasses clink against one another. A guy leaning into one of the chipped pillars behind her jumps out of the way, like he expects it all to go tumbling. When it doesn't he tucks a strand of dirty blonde hair behind his ears, snorts out a humorous "shit", and reaches over her shoulder to plop his own mostly-empty glass among the rest of them.

"God, Remi," she mutters, a hand on her chest, "what's gotten your panties in a twist?"

But she knows. She always knows. Because she always does this.

And she has the same goddamned smug smirk plastered across her ruby-painted plump lips that she always sprouts on a night like this, when she somehow weasels me out of whatever burrow I'd planned to be in for the night. The same smile that always gives away the fact that she knows exactly how badly I want to kick her ass.

I fold my arms across my chest, the sleeves of my oversized cardigan squeezed between my fingers. A sweater I'm sure already gained me several weird glances considering, along with the jeans I'm wearing—where my entire knee hangs out from an accidental make-shift hole gone wrong and the back pocket has a dried crystal blue handprint smeared right over the right side of my ass (ironically, another past Christina-centered incident)—it's far from club attire.

"Remi." Danny, the bartender who should know better than to press me right now, retreats from the bar and makes his way over to us with much less struggle than I had. People here seem to know exactly who stands between them and their next drink; they practically dive out of his way when he walks through the crowd.