“Oh, beer’s fine.” She dips her lips to the cup. “Thank you.”
I make a mental note to lecture her about accepting drinks from dodgy characters later, though frankly, I don’t think Nate would lower himself to spiking beverages. And if he had, he wouldn’t have offered it to her in front of us.
“Let’s find those drinks,” I grumble. “I’m going to need one if I’m supposed to handle a houseful of sharks.”
“Oh, you’ll handle us just fine,” Nate retorts, lifting his cup. “Later, love.”
Arm hooked in the crook of Olivia’s elbow, I walk into the dark lounge, my memories of last year at the forefront of my mind.
The last time I was here, some guy snogged me right here, and I got to my knees by the beer station, before reluctantly wrapping my lips around Cross’s cock.
Fuck.
At least it’s easy to find the drinks: they’re set up at the exact same table.
I help myself to a shot of tequila and down it in one go before pouring a beer out of the keg.
“You came!” Dez cries, looking absolutely gorgeous in pink and black, with tiny leather shorts and a cropped top over a mesh playsuit.
Her eyes are heavily made up, her lips glossy pink.
She hugs Liv and me, waving to Jack. “You’re going to love it here,” she proclaims. “They have a sick game room with VR headsets, multiple screens, the works.”
Jack’s eyes widen. “Seriously?”
“I mean, they only playCall of Dutyand other stupid shooting games, but the setup’s a dream.”
She leads the way to one of the rooms on the ground floor, where a handful of guys play against each other, taking turns.
The furniture alone’s incredible: high-back leather reclining swivel chairs that look like they might be comfortable enough to sleep on.
I wouldn’t have believed it possible if I hadn’t witnessed it, but Jack approaches the jocks. “Room for one more?”
He doesn’t even stammer, apparently in his element.
The players don’t bother sparing him a glance. “Sure, man. We’ll add your name once this game’s over.”
Dez laughs, tilting her head. “Let me show you the rest. You’ll love the workshop.”
A few doors down from the gaming room, the studio’s a large room with a huge floor-to-ceiling window that must let in so much light during the day.
There are a couple of aisles, several long workbenches, tools hanging on the far walls, and a furnace either meant for metalwork or glassblowing—I can’t tell.
“I think I hate them,” I state.
I hadn’t truly seen the point in their stupid private houses until now. Thinking back to my roommate, complaining when I dare spray-paint a few pieces in her absence, I’m positively green with jealousy.
All the stations are cleaned up, but the faint smell of paint hangs in the room. At least they’re using this beautiful space.
Dez laughs. “Only the best for them. You should see the studio we have at the Wyvern Den. The sharks’ most impressive setup is their gym, of course, in the basement. I’ll spare you that tour, though.”
Next, she shows us a study with leather armchairs, a fireplace, several rows of books, and I genuinely wonder why the sharks ever bother with the library. I’d never leave their house in their shoes.
“I dread to think how much they pay for their stay here,” I say, remembering the outlandish cost of the dorms at Rothford.
“Nothing. Or rather, their parents pay a family Heritage membership, and the house is one of the perks.”
I groan. “No one gets more free shit than people who don’t need it.”