Page 3 of Fatal Scheme

“This is … depressing,” Ellie whispers, taking a step back and scanning my face, waiting for me to say something.

“Don’t worry, girly pop. I’ll dress myself.” I wink, hopping off my bed and pulling down a classic going-out outfit that I’ve perfected over the years.

A black tank top with lace trim that shows off my boobs, solid black tights, and a dark purple skirt that covers just enough of my ass.

Once I slip into the barely-there outfit, I pair it with my three-inch mid-calf boots, fluff my curls quickly in the mirror, and in just a few minutes, I’m ready to party.

“Holy. Shit. You’re like … the bad witch, if she had the body that you do, of course,” Ellie exclaims once I step out of my room, her jaw stuck to the floor.

In complete contrast, she’s chosen a bubblegum pink dress, white pumps, and pinned up her bright blonde curls into a high ponytail.

We’re so different, on two opposite scales, but we both look hot, and this is the most I’ve smiled or laughed since arriving in Jersey.

“If I’m the bad witch, that must make you the Princess of Pink,” I joke, reaching around her to snag a fruity seltzer from her side of the fridge. “If you don’t mind?”

“No, please, help yourself!” She smiles, her phone vibrating against the countertops.

It wasn’t in the curated plans to partake in usual college pastimes like drugs, drinking, and parties, but if my marks are interested in that shit, then so am I.

Attempting to start the night off with a proper pre-game, I crack open the passion fruit flavored toilet water, chugging it down in two and half sips, desperate for the taste to evacuate my mouth at the earliest convenience.

“Ellie, do you drink anything harder? God, I’d even settle for wine!” I cough, spitting the bubbles into the sink, crushing the can as I toss it into our meticulously labeled recycle bin.

“I’ll add it to the shopping list! Whatever you like, my mom will buy,” she says cheerfully, looping her arm in mine as she grabs her purse from the coat rack by the door.

“Wait, I forgot something,” I pause, realizing that I’m missing one crucial piece that I never leave home without.

Quickly I dig through my desk, pulling out ol’ reliable, a gift from dad when I turned fourteen. My beautiful blade, with a matte black handle, shines in the light as I slip it into its case, shoving it through the sheath that’s strapped to my thigh.

It’s second nature at this point, as I never take two steps without it, and tonight, it’ll serve as protection in case I get a little too close.

After all, I’m here by myself, without the comfort of fifty men just around the corner at the drop of a hat, and I need to stay alive.

Of course, I didn’t cross the country alone, my guards are always nearby, but Dumb and Dumber – as I like to call them – can’t intervene unless it’s life or death, a direct order from dad. He’s trusting me completely, whole-heartedly, and I’m determined to prove to every single member of the Cassini family just how well I’ve been trained to take over at the head of the table.

“Come on, Carter! The girls are here!” Ellie shouts, and I shake out of my thoughts, painting the ‘I’m just a dumb girl’ look on my face that’s taken years to master.

A gaggle of young women are waiting as we exit the building, all of them dressed in bright colors just like Ellie, and they all practically freeze when they see me, as if I’m the Angel of Death coming to steal their souls.

“Ladies, this is my roommate, Carter!” Ellie introduces, and I offer a small wave, mustering up my best, most friendliest smile in order to seem less intimidating.

“Hey, Carter, it’s so good to finally meet you. I’m Liv, and this is Ashley, Rachel, and Jackie,” she explains, pointing to each girl as she rattles off their names.

My god, their names are as basic as they are, but again, I do my best to seem approachable, assuring that I can snake my way into this party.

“Well, I’m new here, so you guys have to give me the full tour,” I say, matching their giggles as I join them on the sidewalk, each of their faces a mix of concerned, yet intrigued, by my presence.

“Oh, we’ll show you everything!” They all practically say in unison, further freaking me out as I’m left to wonder if I’ve stumbled upon some kind of white-girl cult.

Rolling with the punches is one of my strong suits, almost like hiding in plain sight, and before I know it, we’re walking through a full-blown house party, the bass thumping through my feet as I cross the threshold.

Right away, the cult girls spread out, running to different spaces of the house, and I’m left alone again, but through the front door, which is all that counts.

Casually, I make my way toward the kitchen, pretending I belong here by filling a plastic cup with what smells like vodka – hoping it isn’t mixed with anything else – just to have my hands focused on something while I scan the room for any sign of my targets.

I’m just a college girl, I keep reminding myself, attempting to play on my ability to adapt.

After a few minutes, I’m reduced to feeling like a creep, watching while kids grind on each other, make out against any surface they can, and play silly games while forcing each other to take drinks.