Page 21 of Ruthless Dream

“And one day you’ll remember the time you were a bitch to Adeline Akatov and think better of it.”

My shoulders are tight as I turn away from him, marching into the bar. The back of my neck pricks, but I refuse to let him see how stiff I am. How annoyed I am at this asshole.

Something bad will happen.

He’s not the first guard who’s tried to give me the ‘Please don’t be so reckless’ speech. But this is not like the time I forced Tobias to a drag show in New Jersey. My life lately has been nothing but school and my internship.

I deserve a drink no matter what this asshole thinks.

“Hi, you’re Billie, right?” I ask a girl from my statistics class. I take a seat next to her, balancing my cranberry vodka.

Billie’s got deep auburn hair with freckles and has this totally down-to-earth, Stevie Nicks style. She’s wearing jeans, but she doesn’t roll her eyes at my little black dress. If anything, she smiles wider when she spots me, and I feel better.

Despite what Nat thinks, I didn’t expect to become best friends with my roommates. I can admit, though, I want to make friends. Or at least for someone to be willing to give friendship a shot.

My shoulders relax, the vodka soothing me. There’s a tension headache that won’t go away, though. It’s like a web, starting in the center of my forehead and spreading out.

I smile as Billie introduces me to people. I take notes of those I think I’ve seen around Brittany Hall before. Perhaps I can hang out with them when Rina decides to pluck her pubes again.

“Would you like another?” I offer Billie. I’m not one to brag, but I’ve had a fake ID since I was fifteen, and thanks to my time hanging around Russians, I’m pretty damn good at holding my liquor.

“Thanks,” Billie says, and a spark of appreciation glows in my chest. What a weird fucking week if I’m excited about buying my classmate a drink.

Don’t be a pick me, I tell myself, internally groaning. It’s so not a good look.

There’s a crowd at the bar, and I look for a spot to sidle up to. There’s a group of women giggling. A few young guys, who are clearly on their way to becoming finance bros, stand around in their Italian loafers.

There’s a bearded man at the end, the grumpiness exuding from him.

It’s a shame because he’s kind of cute, with his thick beard and dark hair. If they weren’t narrowed, they might be pretty, and I’m a sucker for a man in a button-down with a wristwatch. It’s the classy bitch inside me. But there’s something off about him. Because he’s alone and because he’s scowling at me like I’ve done something to him, I give him a wide berth.

I’ve already caught enough woman hating vibes from Jack—which will be addressed with my mom pronto—so I’m really not willing to get close. I wait my turn until I can speak to a bartender, ordering an extra shot of vodka. I throw it back, not in the mood for anyone’s judgment. It’s been a long, freaking week.

Our group of classmates ebbs and flows. We’ve only ended the third week of school, but it feels like everyone has at least one established friend. The person they turn to when making an extra comment. Or they’re already swapping stories about something that occurred during class.

I sit on my barstool, wishing I’d had another shot, sipping on my cranberry vodka. Almost everyone else has a beer in front of them, but I’ve never been a fan.

Maybe I got the vibe wrong? Maybe I dressed to go out dancing.

Maybe I do, in fact, want to go dancing.

I don’t need friends to go out and go dancing.

The idea of jumping up and down, of loud pumping music, grows in my veins. I’m handed another vodka, and I smile but blink as I try to track which of my classmates was in charge of this round.

I smile as people talk around me, but my headache won’t go. Nat’s voice warns me that clubbing won’t help said headache, but at this point, fuck it.

“We’re headed back,” Billie tells me. “You want to walk with us?”

I shake my head, too tired of small talk to even respond properly.

“I’ll see you in class,” Billie says.

“Night.” I wave goodbye, tripping in the opposite direction.

If there’s one thing I know about New York City, it’s where to go when it’s late at night and you want to keep partying.

“Come on,” I tell Jack. Hope he enjoys pounding music and staying up until three in the morning. “Jack?” I say a second later, glancing over my shoulder.