Page 43 of Blacklist

There’s no sign of her, though, which means I’m stuck with Cy. I have no idea if I’m expected to play wing man or babysitter. “So, what’s the plan?”

“For tonight? College?” He responds seriously like he’s considered both.

Curiosity gets the better of me. Cyrus Eaton, who I’ve come to find out is the heir to a fucking hotel empire, doesn’t need to think too far ahead. Given that every morning he wakes up he’s surprised that he has classes, it shocks me to consider he might have done exactly that. “College, I guess.”

“New one every night,” he informs me with a grin that might suggest he’s joking. I know he isn’t. I’ve already come home to a sock on the door a couple times. He’s been kind enough to drive them down to his family’s hotel in Nashville since I complained about sleeping on the common room couch.

“That’s ambitious, mate.” I follow his eyes to the throng of people, wondering if he already spotted his prey for the night.

“Not up for the challenge, Ford?”

His words ricochet off me without hitting their mark. It’s not the first comment he’s made about my lack of bunk buddies since school started. He suspects I’m gay. I’m not, but it amuses me to let him wonder. He doesn’t seem bothered by it. Still, he tests me every chance he gets.

“Look, I know these girls. Half of them are still in prep.” Cyrus moves closer to me as if anyone could hear us in here.

“For fuck’s sake, Cy. Did you drag me to a high school party?” I thought I’d left that particular brand of drama in New York. It’s one of the few things I don’t miss about my hometown. I have friends there, but my school didn’t cater to the likes of people like Cyrus and his crew.

“They’re legal, and half of them go to school with us. Beer doesn’t discriminate, my friend,” he advises me, dropping an arm around my shoulder. “The best part is that they’re all looking to screw their daddies.”

“I think we’re a little young to be their daddies.” I’ll play along with his game for now. I don’t have anything else to do at the moment.

“Metaphorically speaking,” he clarifies, spreading his hands in surrender. “They’ve been told their whole lives that they have to marry up, marry well, marry rich, and then they’ve been forced to attend the same polo matches and charity fundraisers and schools with the same rich assholes for years. It’s their own incestuous mating ritual.”

“Aren’t you one of those rich assholes?” I can’t help but point out the obvious. Cyrus Eaton was born and bred in Valmont on a family estate to parents who inherited one of the world’s largest luxury hospitality chains. I’m fairly certain he hasn’t so much as washed a dish in his life. Cyrus was born with an inheritance larger than any income I’ll ever make even if I had started knocking off banks from the cradle.

“Unfortunately, I am,” he says. “But you aren’t. This time of year new guys are like blood in the water. They can smell you.”

I’ve met a few of these girls he’s talking about. I have no doubt that they could rip me to shreds.

“That simple, huh?” I ask.

“You don’t even have to try.” He tips his head to the side and I look over in time to catch a few girls gawking at us. “First of all, you’re fresh meat and every woman here knows it, and you look like you could rip someone’s fucking arms off.”

“That’s a turn on?” I’ve known men who could do just that. I didn’t see them as role models.

“To a girl who’s spent half her life at country clubs and debutante balls, it is,” Cyrus explains. “It’s unfair. The rest of us have to rely on our charm.”

“You’re in serious trouble then.”

“Come on,” Cy prods me. He is not letting this go. “Call one or they’re all mine.”

I’m not here for that, but there’s no way I’m going to explain to Cyrus why I came. He’s not gonna back off until I’ve made a match and what else do I have to do with Adair a no-show? I scan the room, stopping when my eyes lock with a pretty black girl who looks familiar. It takes me a second to place her. We’d met at the funeral, but I don’t remember her name. Her fuchsia lips part in invitation, her body angling toward me slightly across the space. “Who’s that?”

He follows my gaze to her. “Darcy? This is her place. She’s—”

“I think I’ll go say hello,” I cut him off before he can dispense more well-meaning advice. He stalks off in the opposite direction to begin his hunt.

I like Cyrus despite my reservations, but I’m not stupid enough to believe we’re friends. As his roommate, I hold some interest for him. He’s already talking about renting a house with Money and some other guys next year, though, and there’s no way I’m signing up to live in that viper pit. Not that I could afford it, anyway.

“Hey,” Darcy says, fanning her black lashes at me, as I approach. “Sterling, right?”

She remembers me? Maybe Cyrus isn’t so far off in his estimation of my fresh meat status. “Darcy.” She preens when I say her name, sticking out her chest which is already on display in a low cut, canary-yellow dress that hugs her curves. “Thanks for inviting me.”

It seems like the right thing to say to the hostess. Her smile widens even as she feigns humility. “Of course. I don’t even know half these people. Honestly, it’s nice to see a friendly face.” Her hand closes over my arm, long, manicured fingers squeezing it slightly. She bites her lip a little before pulling me toward the kitchen. “You need a drink!”

“I’m the designated driver,” I say, latching on to the excuse Cyrus gave me.

Darcy shakes her jet-black ringlets, annoyance marring her face. “That is just like Cyrus. He doesn’t have friends, because he treats everybody he meets like employees.”