Alex shook her head. So much power just left on the mantel for anyone to seize. What was in the rest of those urns?
“You shouldn’t have these things,” she said, thinking of Darlington’s wild eyes, of Mercy on her knees. “You shouldn’t be able to do this to people.”
Mike’s brows rose. “You don’t want it?”
“I didn’t say that.” Alex folded the envelope into her pocket. “But if I ever find out you used something like this on me, I’ll burn this building down.”
The house on Lynwood was two stories of white wood and a porch sagging beneath the weight of a moldy couch. Darlington had told her that Omega once had a house in the alley behind Wolf’s Head, a sturdy stone cottage full of glowing brown wood and leaded glass. Their letters were still worked into the stone, but Alex found it hard to imagine parties like Omega Meltdown and Sex on the Beach in what looked like a cozy tea room for Scottish spinsters.
“Fraternity culture wasn’t quite the same then,” Darlington had said. “They dressed better, dined formally, took the ‘gentlemen and scholars’ bit seriously.”
“ ‘Gentleman scholar’ seems like a good description for you.”
“A true gentleman doesn’t boast of the title, and a true scholar has better uses for his time than downing flaming Dr Pepper shots.”
But when Alex had asked why the frat had been kicked off campus, he’d only shrugged and underlined something in the book he was reading. “Times changed. The university wanted the property and not the liability.”
“Maybe they should have kept them on campus.”
“You surprise me, Stern. Sympathy for the brotherhood of keg stands and misplaced aggression?”
Alex thought of the squat on Cedros. “Make people live like animals, they start acting like animals.”
But “animal” was too kind a term for Blake Keely.
Alex took the plastic packet from her pocket and downed the powder inside. She gagged instantly and had to pinch her nose shut, covering her mouth with her fingers to keep from spewing the substance back up. The taste was fetid and salty and she desperately wanted to rinse her mouth out, but she forced herself to swallow.
She didn’t feel any different. Jesus, what if Mike had been messing with her?
Alex spat once in the muddy yard, then climbed the stairs and tried the front door. It was unlocked. The living room stank of old beer. Another busted couch and a La-Z-Boy recliner were arranged around a chipped coffee table covered in red Solo cups, and a banner with the house’s letters had been hung above a makeshift bar with two mismatched stools in front of it. A shirtless guy in a backward baseball cap and pajama pants was picking up scattered cups and shoving them into a big black garbage bag.
He startled when he saw her.
“I’m looking for Blake Keely.”
He frowned. “Uh… You a friend of his?”
Alex wished she’d been in less of a hurry back at Manuscript. Just how was the Starpower supposed to work? She took a breath and gave him a big smile. “I’d really appreciate your help.”
The guy took a step backward. He touched his hand to his heart as if he’d been punched in the chest. “Of course,” he said earnestly. “Of course. Whatever I can do.” He returned her smile and Alex felt a little ill. And a little wonderful.
“Blake!” he called up the stairs, gesturing for her to follow. He had a bounce in his step. Twice on the way up he turned to look at her over his shoulder, grinning.
They reached the second floor and Alex heard music, the thunderous rattle of a video game being played at full volume. Here, the beer smell receded and Alex detected the distant whiff of some very bad weed, microwave popcorn, and boy. It was just like the place she’d shared with Len in Van Nuys. Shabby in a different way maybe, the architecture older, dimmer without the clean gilding of a Southern California sun.
“Blake!” the shirtless boy called again. He reached back and took Alex’s hand with an utterly open smile.
A giant poked his head out of a doorway. “Gio, you fuck,” he said. He wore shorts and was shirtless too, cap backward like it was some kind of uniform. “You were supposed to clean the toilet.” So Gio was a pledge or some other kind of lackey.
“I was cleaning downstairs,” he explained. “Do you want to meet… Oh God, I can’t remember your name.”
Because she hadn’t said it. Alex just winked.
“Clean the fucking toilet first,” the giant complained. “You cockshiners can’t just keep shitting on top of shit! And who the hell is—”
“Hi,” said Alex, and—because she never had—she tossed her hair.
“I. Hey. Hi. How are you?” He tugged his shorts up then down, removed his cap, ran a hand through his tufty hair, set the cap back in place. “Hi.”
“I’m looking for Blake.”
“Why?” His voice was mournful.
“Help me find him?”
“Absolutely. Blake!” the giant bellowed.
“What?” demanded an irritated voice from a bedroom down the hall.
Alex didn’t know how much time she had left. She shook off Gio the Lackey’s hand and forged ahead, making sure not to look into the bathroom as she passed.
Blake Keely was slouched on a futon, sipping from a big bottle of Gatorade and playing Call of Duty. He was at least wearing a shirt.
She could sense the other boys hovering behind her.
“Where’s your phone?” Alex asked.
“Who the fuck are you?” Blake said, tipping his head back and assessing her with a single arrogant glance.
For a moment, Alex panicked. Had Mike’s magic powder worn off so fast? Was Blake somehow immune? Then she remembered the way the powder had burned her throat. She yanked the cord from the wall and the game went silent.
“What the—”
“I’m soooo sorry,” Alex said.
Blake blinked, then gave her a lazy, easy smile. That’s his panty-dropper grin, thought Alex, and considered knocking his teeth in. “No worries at all,” he said. “I’m Blake.”
“I know.”
His grin widened. “Have we met? I was pretty wasted last night, but—”
Alex shut the door and his eyes widened. He looked almost flustered but utterly delighted. A kid on Christmas. A rich kid on Christmas.
“Can I see your phone?”
He stood and handed it over, offering her his spot on the futon. “Do you want to sit?”
“No, I want you to stand there looking like an asshole.”
He should have reacted, but instead he just stood smiling obediently.
“You’re a natural.” She gave the phone a shake. “Unlock it.”
He obliged and she found his gallery, pressed play on the first video. Mercy’s face appeared, smiling and eager. Blake stroked the wet head of his penis against her cheek and she laughed. He turned the camera back on himself and gave his stupid, shit-eating grin again, nodding as if to the viewers at home.
Alex held up the phone. “Who did you send this video to?”
“Just a couple of the brothers. Jason and Rodriguez.”
“Get them in here; make them bring their phones.”
“I’m here!” said the giant from behind the door. She pulled it open. “I’m Jason!” He was actually raising his hand.
While Blake scampered off to find Rodriguez and Jason the Giant waited patiently, Alex found the texts he’d sent, deleted them, then deleted the rest of his messages for good measure. He’d obligingly named one of his photo albums Pussy Vault. It was full of videos of different girls. Some of them were bright eyed and had purple tongues, some just looked wasted, drunk girls with glazed eyes, their tops off or pushed to the side. One girl was so far gone only the whites of her eyes were visible, appearing and disappearing like slivers of moon as Blake fucked her, another with vomit in her hair, her face pressed into a pool of sick as Blake took her from behind. And always he turned the camera back on himself, as if he couldn’t resist showing off that star-worthy smile.