“Please.” She resorts to begging when I remain in bed just staring at her. “Just this time … It’s just one party.”
It’s been a while since I’ve had a girls’ night with her. Matt’s never been a big fan of Sarah’s. He says that she’s too flirtatious with everyone. He’s been very vocal about his hatred for her over the years. When we’re all back home in Texas, he’d always show up or make plans for us with his parents, so I’d have to cancel mine with her. She never seemed to get mad at me for that. Funny how I’m just now noticing that he would do that. “Fine,” I growl, throwing the covers off. I do want to get out and have some fun. “We’ll find out what this chosen shit means,” I add.
“Yes!” She jumps to her feet. “I’ll go get dressed.” Storming out of my room, she yells over her shoulder, “Wear something slutty.”
I laugh, entering my closet.
An hour later, we’re pulling up to an open gate outside the house of Lords. It’s about fifteen minutes from Barrington’s campus off a two-lane road. It was a hotel back in the day that was given to them. All members must live in the house during their duration of college. Matt moved in his freshman year. You’re not welcome to be here unless they are throwing a party. Otherwise, the gate is closed, and the property is off-limits to outsiders.
Two men stand on either side of the gate dressed in black cloaks and white masks, resembling skeletons.
A building comes into view at the end of a long and curvy drive. The renovated hotel stands five stories tall with large windows. Its white brick with black shutters makes it look designed for the rich. Six columns are decorated with black garland wrapped around them from top to bottom. Spotlights are placed strategically on the ground to illuminate the site of the party.
It has a large roundabout with a pond in the middle with a fountain on either side and a white arched walkway across the center. Men and women stand on it with their drinks, some smoking cigarettes.
After pulling into a parking spot to the left, we get out of the car. “Are you sure we’re invited?” I ask.
“Of course.” She waves me off. “Everyone is.”
“But Matt has never let me come here.” Not even during the parties. He said even though I was off-limits, he didn’t even want me around the members. I never knew what he meant, and when I asked, he would get mad, blow up at me, then avoid me for a few days.
You can hear “Make Hate to Me” by Citizen Soldier blaring from the inside of the house.
Both glass doors are wide open, and we step inside. The marble floors, expensive décor, and artifacts make my mouth fall open. Now, I’ve grown up around money. My father owns a multibillion dollar business. My mother isn’t nearly as wealthy as my father, but she’s known around the world for her swimsuit spreads. That’s how they met. He saw her picture once and flew halfway across the world just to buy her coffee. Three months later, they were married. I was born six months later. Pretty sure my mom got knocked up that first night on purpose—trap the wealthy man type of situation. Then after they had me, they were done. I always begged for a sibling. Not like it would have taken time out of their days. I was raised by nannies and tutors. But this is on another level.
Everything is white as snow and polished to perfection. The walls are painted white with black and white pictures. The one on the wall to my left is a large picture of the Eiffel Tower. I’ve been there several times, and I’ve never seen it prettier than in this photo. Straight ahead is a grand staircase covered in black carpet with a matching banister. On the second floor, the platform opens up, giving the option to go left or right. The upper level is also open in the middle, allowing you to look up at the high, black-painted ceiling where chandeliers hang down to the first floor. I see multiple doors that lead to some of the rooms. An elevator in the left-hand corner must take you to the third and fourth floors.
“This place is amazing,” she whispers in awe.
“Phones, keys, and ID.”
We both turn to the right to see a man standing behind a concierge desk. He wears a black mask with Xs over his eyes and stitches for lips along with a black cloak.
“Phones, keys, and ID,” he repeats loudly over the music, holding out two baggies for us.
Walking over to him, I take them. “Why?” Sarah asks.
“Because those are the rules. Either drop your shit in the bag or get the fuck out,” he barks, handing the kid next to us a bag. He doesn’t think twice about digging his belongings out of his pockets and placing them in the bag. He zips it up before giving it back.