Once I’m dressed, I head back into the locker room and start the search for my panties all over again.
After clearing my locker out completely, it dawns on me.
“Goddamn it,” I grumble, rising to my feet and slamming my locker door closed. I throw my bookbag over my shoulder and make a beeline for my dorm, fully aware that this is yet another Idol prank. Knowing them, they’re probably waiting around a corner somewhere to flip my skirt up and snap a pic. Using extreme caution, I go the back way—out the door where I first saw Tristan’s Ferrari Spider and then all the way around the outside and in the other door nearest the chapel—before I hit my apartment door.
Free and clear.
After I slip inside, I set my bag down and start looking for a pair of clean panties so I can make my library meeting with Tristan.
The drawer on the bottom of my wardrobe is empty. All my bras are there, but my undies are gone.
With a snarl, I dump out my dirty clothes basket and search there.
Still, nothing.
How these girls keep getting into my dorm is beyond me. I’m going to have to ask for a lock change which means I’ll have to make a report. Nothing will come of it, I’m sure, as there’s no proof pointing to anyone in particular, but at least it’ll be on file.
Fine.
I go for a pair of pj shorts to put under my skirt, but those are gone, too. As are my jeans. As is every single piece of clothing that’s not a shirt, skirt, or dress.
Those bitches.
Sitting down on the edge of my bed with a sigh, I text Miranda, asking if I can borrow some shorts or leggings, but she’s at volleyball practice and won’t be able to get back to me for a while. While I’m at it, I use the online form to ask for an off-campus pass for tomorrow evening, and then grab my bag and head for the library.
Panties or no panties, I still have to get this project done.
I’ll just be really, really careful.
As usual, the library is deserted, most of the students choosing to retire to their dorms or heading outside to one of the courtyards to study. That’s one of the reasons I like it here; I can get a little time to myself. The Idols and their Inner Circle most definitely don’t hang out here unless it’s for a specific and necessary purpose.
The other reason I like it here … the books. Five stories of invaluable knowledge, row after row of old tomes, and rooms filled with historical archives. The architecture is to die for: Gothic revival with soaring arches and intricately carved columns. The whole place smells of ink and paper, and I feel this sense of relaxation come over me as I wind my way toward the back corner where Tristan’s waiting.
He’s standing two shelves over from the entrance to the archive room, a table nearby littered with file folders and boxes of slides. Burberry Prep has had a student-run paper since 1970, but while the journalism club is in the process of scanning old articles into a digital archive, they’ve still got a long way to go. The time period Tristan and I are most interested in isn’t even close to being uploaded.
His eyes snap over to me when I walk down the aisle, the silver of his irises glimmering with some unknown emotion. I can’t seem to figure this guy out when he’s not being a dick. He holds his face so still, with this practiced haughtiness covering up any real emotion that I have no idea how to get a read on him. I fully expected him to go back to treating me like shit, but instead he seems to be doing the opposite.
Tristan smiles at me, and while it’s just as cocksure and arrogant as the day I met him, there’s a smoldering undertone to it, like he’d enjoy searing my mouth with those full lips of his again.
“Sorry I’m late,” I say, trying my very best not to think about the fact that I’ve got no panties under my skirt. It occurs to me then that I should’ve unrolled the waistband and dropped the hem a few, careful inches. My cheeks flame and Tristan raises a dark, questioning brow. “There was some … shit happened in gym.”
His mouth turns down into a frown.
“Harper?” he asks, and I shrug my shoulders. “If it happened in the girls’ locker room, then it was Harper. Not a single girl makes a move on this campus without her approval.” He pauses and narrows his eyes, not at me but just in general. “Except for Miranda, of course … and you.”
I’m not quite sure what to say to that, so I don’t say anything, turning to examine the row of books in front of us. They’re all titles penned by alumni, some of which pertain to the construction of the school or its many additions. Since our chemistry project has to do with levels of contamination in the soil and building materials, we’re trying to match up the time period in which the contaminants might’ve occurred.
