DIRTY DREAMS
But he’s already pulling me toward the stairs, and I’m already following because that’s what I do – I follow Connor into his bad decisions and clean up the mess afterward.
The basement door closes behind us with a click that sounds way too final.
And I understand.
Oh.
Oh, fuck.
Five men. Five senior men. Arranged in a loose semicircle on leather couches and armchairs, drinks in hand, watching us descend the stairs like we’re the evening’s entertainment.
Which, apparently, we are.
I recognize them all. Everyone on campus does.
Blake Carter. President. Six-four, built like a linebacker, Black, with a jaw that could cut glass and eyes that have made better women than me forget their own names.