Whistleblower ✓

26 | take me home (part one)

I didn't want Hanna or Andre to see my car, so I left it on the third floor of a university-owned parking garage across the street. It was spill-over for The Palazzo, so there were security cameras and plenty of cars much more alluring to potential thieves and carjackers than my shitty white Corolla. Especially now that she had the word LIAR carved into her hood.

There was nothing I could do about it tonight. I had to get Hanna home, put my bag of groceries away, and get some sleep.

And there was no use crying about it until I knew how much it'd cost to fix.

Still, as I clambered down the winding steps to ground level, my eyes started to sting and my vision went blurry.

How would I tell my dad?

I stopped on the sidewalk outside the parking garage and pinched the bridge of my nose.

"No llores, no llores," I chanted under my breath.

The thought came before I could shove it back: I want my mom.

I dropped my arms to my sides, blinked up at the night sky, and started towards the crosswalk. There was no time to feel sorry for myself.

Hanna needed me.

❖    ❖    ❖

The lobby of The Palazzo was more hectic than Target at eight o'clock on a Saturday night.

It was far too easy to blend in with the residents and slip past security.

I got into the elevator with a group of four girls who looked like they had a great night, judging by their tangled hair and smudged make-up.

One of them carried a cardboard box of pizza that made the whole elevator smell like melting cheese. Another girl had her high-heeled booties in her hands; on her feet were a pair of beige socks with pink-nosed pug faces on them. I listen to them chatter and giggle softly about the bar they'd been to (somewhere halfway to Los Angeles, it sounded like, judging by the way they complained about the disgustingly expensive Uber) and all the boys and girls they'd danced with and given fake numbers to.

When the doors slid open on Andre's floor, I darted out and made my way through the maze of plush-carpeted hallways until I arrived at room 352.

I pounded on the door twice before it swung open, revealing a bleary-eyed Andre. His button-down party shirt (the one with little pineapples embroidered all over it) was thrown open, abs on full display, and he wore a string of green plastic Mardi Gras beads around his neck.

"I love you," he said earnestly. "You're a god damned saint."

"I know," I said, shouldering past him. "Where is she?"

The party had ended, but wasn't completely cleared out yet.

An expensive set of speakers in the corner of the living room were still playing Migos—though the volume was barely a whisper—and there was a small army of empty Svedka bottles on the coffee table in front of the black leather couch, where Scott Quinton, the linebacker with the wide neck, was snoring.

There was a bra hooked over the corner of the flat screen TV.

I had a split second of terrible panic before I realized the cup size was too big for it to belong to my roommate.

"Classy," I said, nodding towards the new decor. "Where's Hanna?"

"Bathroom," Andre murmured.

I turned towards the hallway.

At the very same moment, Bodie St. James appeared, a half-empty bottle of Svedka tucked under one arm. He wasn't in flannel pajama pants this time. Instead, he wore dark wash jeans that hugged his thighs and a black henley that did wonderful things for his shoulders.