Tied Tight

Warning: this story includes a gratuitous amount of graphic s*x (all consensual) and murder. If that’s not your cup of tea, please refrain from reading.

I know what this looks like.

Hands tied—softly, not tightly—to the ornate show bed from the Peter Pan set. A faint spotlight filters in from the trapdoor above, catching on the rise of my chest.

We’re in the tunnel under the Gordon Center, where theater kids stash props and trade secrets. Most people don’t know it’s here. But Cole does. And so does Tate.

They’re standing near the foot of the bed now—two hockey players who don’t exactly scream stage crew—watching. Waiting their turn.

It’s thrilling, in a slow-burn, skin-prickling way. I should be nervous. But I’m not. Not really.

This was my idea.

#

I mean, I can't say I never thought about it.

I used to read smut, after all.

It started easy enough. First, you owe a favor to one person to keep a secret. But then you owe another favor. And favors add up quickly, till your ledger's full and it all snowballs out of control.

But that's usually how these things happen, isn't it? The only people who plan a night locked below ground with multiple members of the opposite s*x are bored married couples.

Or sorority girls.

And I'm neither. Elly Sahni is a good girl.

It's the one time I tried to be a bad girl—that's when everything blew up in my face.

#

It all started with Paige Connors.

Paige and I work at the campus library. Now, Paige is curvy, with porcelain skin and fine red curls. We're not talking copper or fake red. This is the natural, 'forged in the fires of hell' red. And while she was born in Boston, most days she looks like she stepped off a photoshoot on Isle of Skye, with her dash of freckles and gray eyes.

Next to Paige, I'm invisible. If I style my shoulder-length chocolate hair, and bother with makeup, I can pass for a decent seven.

Although I haven't had a reason to care about my appearance in a while. I'm a bookworm. I live through other people's experiences the same way I live vicariously through a good book.

I'm also a pushover, which is what makes my friendship with Paige so easy. She makes the plans, and I go along with them.

Most of the time.

The night I met Cole, Paige had a plan to take the train into Boston.

"There's this club. Hellfyre."

I'm shelving books as Paige prattles, tracing cider lipstick over her lips.

"Come with me."

"I don't think so."

I've been daydreaming all day about finishing the spicy D.A.M. book on my bed. It's how I usually spend a Friday or Saturday evening, if I don't have plans with Paige or no major assignments to work on. Snuggled in with a historic romance novel. Book boyfriends top reality any day.

"Puh-lease," Paige begs. "Simon will be there with his new girlfriend."

I cast a judgmental side-eye. Simon was last week's Tinder hook-up. And I'm pretty sure "new" is a generous word, if it's the same girl he talks about in geography. They've been dating on and off since freshman year.

Apparently, last week was an "off" week.

"What does that have to do with me?"

It's not that I have a problem with Paige living the promiscuous life. I love hearing her wild stories.

I just wish her latest flame wasn't someone I share a class with.

"You can keep me company," she pouts.

"I can keep you company just as easily on my couch with a horror movie and a bucket of ice cream."

Like most upperclassmen at Salem State University, I live in on-campus housing. The school has undergone some ritzy renovations in housing over the past few years, but I still live in the janky, old-world Bates Complex apartments. True to its name, Bates is a secluded set of apartments set a mile up from Harrington Campus. It's a five-minute walk in good weather, and twenty-minute walk in the snow. But I like the quietude. While I share my apartment with five other girls, most will live it up in the city tonight, promising the TV—and most of the apartment—all to myself. If I can convince Paige to stay on campus.

"Stop being a wallflower," Paige whines. She's a real whiner—which is how she usually gets her way. I hate the sound.

"You always make me a wallflower," I protest. "Every time we go out, you find someone to go home with, and then I have to walk back to the train station myself."

Paige lifts two fingers in Scout's Honor.

"I promise that won't happen again."

#

It's easy to blame Paige, but I should take some ownership of my actions. I mean, I knew the drill.

We make it through two hours of dancing, before Paige is plastered to the side of a Harvard Law student, tossing back a chocolate martini while I nurse my Guinness at the bar.

I've traded some words with the couple beside me, but otherwise I've been on my own, scrolling through Insta.

I survey the room for probably the twentieth time in the last five minutes. Paige has moved to a booth with her hottie, and she's sitting in his lap. His palm digs into her hip, dragging her lower.

They'll be leaving soon.

An argument breaks out to the right, making my jaw swivel. A girl is shoving a familiar figure away.

"F*ck off, Jackson!" She snaps, just before security sweeps in and apprehends the dark-haired imp. My ex-boyfriend. Jackson Murphy.

On the way out, Jackson's attention shifts to the bar. I make a point of hiding my face behind my hand, hoping he won't notice.

Things ended messily, and I'm not exactly up for seeing him right now.

Thankfully, he's swept out like sand at high tide, and the party resumes.

"Hey, gurl," Paige slurs, wrapping one arm around my neck and giggling into my hair. "Tino invited me back to his dorm." She leans closer, her breath tickling my cheek. "He has a sports car."

There's nothing I can say once Paige has made up her mind about something, so I remain silent.

Mr. Harvard winds his palm over her wrist. It feels like a possessive gesture, although Paige leans hungrily against him. She grins at me, and I borrow her smile like a coat.

"I know I promised it would be girls' night, which is why I—." She flings a finger across the floor to Mr. Harvard's companion from the booth. "Found you a friend."

She winks. The friend is a preppy Asian boy in chinos and a collared tee, sunglasses hanging from the top button, as though he plans to wear them in the dark.

"No."

"Elly, come on," Paige whines. "You can't let Jackson win."

My black eyes narrow. She must have missed him getting tossed out earlier. It's for the best, I suppose. Otherwise, she'd be prattling on about that.

"This has nothing to do with him."

"Ian is way hotter than Jackson," Paige goes on.

"Ian?" I scoff. "Asians hate Indians."

"Wow," Paige drawls, arms dropping over her chest. "That's so racist. For your information, Ian was born in America. And besides, it's just s*x."

Just s*x. I wish I could see things as simply as Paige.

Oh, don't confuse me. I'm not, like a romantic, or anything. Even if I do enjoy a good spicy novel. The fact is, I've just never been able to connect to someone fast enough to jump right into bed. I struggle to connect with anyone at all. I always have. That's why I enjoy reading. I can pretend to feel what I emotionally cannot.

Harvard Law drags Paige into his arms, kissing up her neck. It looks deliciously delightful, and I imagine what it might feel like, my belly warming.

Paige giggles.

"Ready to go, baby?"

"Go," I say, before Paige can prod. "I'll catch the train. Have fun." I wink, because I know that's what Paige would do if the roles were reversed. "I expect details in the am."

"I hope to have something worthwhile to report, then," Paige smirks. Mr. Harvard gropes her bottom. "Looks like it's just the three of us, big guy," she says as she pulls away. "How do you feel about sharing?"

I watch the trio slip into the thickening crowd.

It's been over two months since I've had s*x. Until now, I've been completely fine with my celibacy. But something in the way Paige swings hands with both men on her way out makes me long for that breathtaking high of a good romp. I can say a lot of bad things about Jackson, but one thing he was good at was using his mouth.

I linger another five minutes, finishing off my pint before packing my purse and making my way to the subway.

The tunnel isn't so bad at ten. By midnight, it'll be nearing the drunk train, and by two it's just scary.

But I never have issues with the ten o'clock train.

The worst part is the walk. It's a twenty-minute trek, in high heels, five blocks over, to the nearest access point. Beneath my coat, I'm only wearing a slinky ruched mini dress with gold-laced flutter sleeves. I'm cold, and my ankles are aching.

The snowfall picks up, clinging to my coat and mascara-studded lashes. In the blustery wind, I miss a turn. When I try to right myself, I get even further disoriented, until I'm standing on a residential street marked with frat and sorority houses. I survey the weathered Victorian structures, before settling on a townhouse hosting an active rager. One girl is at the foot of the steps, puking.

I move around her, gliding into the packed entrance. Figures line the walls, and it takes a minute to get to an area that opens into the kitchen and living room. A group i