Blind Spot - Katana Collins Page 0,4

yet. What the hell good does studying do us?”

Harrison looked to me with a raised eyebrow. “She’s got a point there.”

“Because,” I said, standing and snatching the broom once more, banging it on the ceiling. Not that it was working the least bit. “There was summer reading, and sometimes they give tests on the first day.” I threw the broom down, rushing to the security phone on the wall.

Reagan rolled her eyes, muttering, “They never give tests on the first day. Who are you calling now?”

“The lobby,” I muttered.

“Again? You’ve called twice already.” She fell back into the couch and put her book on her face.

“She’s right, Shelby. All they’ve done is turn the music up louder with each call.”

I muttered a curse. “You’re right.” I hung up the wall receiver and grabbed my cell. “Yes, hi, I’d like to file a noise complaint. Can you have someone come to 148 Congress Ave?”

Harrison rolled his eyes. “Making enemies already.”

“It’s the penthouse. You’ll hear them when you get here, I’m sure.”

On the other end, the dispatcher was polite but curt. “It will likely be anywhere from thirty minutes to an hour before we’ll have an officer there.”

My stomach dropped to my feet. “An hour?” There was no way I was putting up with another hour of this noise.

“Sorry, ma’am. It’s a busy night and ‘noise complaint’ isn’t exactly a priority.” I heard her shrug in the half-hearted apology.

“I understand.” Was murder a priority? Because if this noise didn’t stop soon, I was going to kill someone. I tossed my phone onto the table and grabbed my apartment key.

“Where are you going?” Reagan jumped up, following me, and Harrison was only a step behind her. “Shelbs, you don’t even have shoes on.”

“I’m going up there.” I said, stomping down the hallway. I jammed my finger into the elevator button once. Twice. Then a few more times for good measure.

“How? Don’t you need a special elevator key for the penthouse?” Harrison asked, following Reagan and I out the door.

The elevator dinged and stuffed inside were a handful of students I recognized as CSU people. “Apparently not.” I smirked at Harrison over my shoulder and stepped on the elevator—they both followed me. I leaned into one of the girls who swayed unsteadily on her four-inch heels. She reeked of vodka already. “Do you know whose party this is?” I quickly picked a name—any name that seemed common. “Joe invited me, but I wanted to thank the host when I get in.”

“Oh, Joey invited you? How is he? Is he coming tonight?” she slurred and fell into the guy behind her, breaking into a fit of giggles. I studied the guy—he also looked like a college student. His hand crept to the girl’s waist, and he smelled her hair. My jaw tightened as I sent him a death glare.

“Hello?” the girl said, breaking me out of my trance. She tipped her head back, resting it against the guy’s chest casually. Fun. Carefree. There was a time I’d been those things, too. A short-lived time.

“What?” I asked, having completely lost my train of thought.

“Joey. Is he coming tonight?”

“Oh, right. Um…maybe…I don’t know.”

“You want me to introduce you to Tate? He’s a doll.” A tiny bit of eyeliner smeared down one side of her face. Before I could thank her, the elevator pinged open to the penthouse lobby.

I ignored the looks that passed between Harrison and Reagan, and instead marched into the marble foyer, momentarily awestruck. A college kid lives here? I held back a grunt, reminding myself that my two best friends came from wealth as well and were wonderful, loving, hard-working people. Money did not automatically equal corruption and laziness.

I scanned the sea of people, looking for anyone who gave an indication of living in the apartment—a greeting, a tour, something. I walked deeper into a huge kitchen that opened into a living room decorated with a black leather sectional and chrome accents, and dread filled my stomach. This was going to be like searching for an M&M in a bowl of Skittles.

I turned to Harrison and Reagan, ready to admit defeat, when from my left I heard that same slurred, tinny voice squeal, “Tate.”

I spun to find the sexy doorman from earlier swaggering toward the drunk girl from the elevator. Did they send him up here to quiet everyone down? He leaned in, giving Vodka Girl a kiss on the cheek, and my chest squeezed as I watched, unable to tear my eyes away.