I walked past them into the house, scrunching my nose at the scent of sweat, booze, sex, and vomit. The bass was so loud that I could feel it vibrating in my teeth, and it was so crowded that I could barely push through. I used to live for this kind of party. It just wasn’t a fun night if you didn’t puke, sit on a random guy’s face, or post twenty-three pictures to Instagram to prove you were #LivingYourBestLife. Now, I just wanted to find Oakley and get the hell out of here.

I walked into the next room. Standing on my toes, I tried to pick Oakley out of the crowd, but it seemed that a requirement to get into the frat was to be tall and muscular. Everybody looked the same and was blending together. This was starting to feel impossible. I was about to walk into the next room when I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned toward it and ran right into Dale’s chest. Smooth, Amanda.

Dale looked like every other cookie cutter frat daddy in this place. He wore boating shoes, and his button-down shirt was drenched in sweat from all the bodies slammed up against one another. His red hair was pushed back, like he’d been running his nasty-ass, greasy hand through it all night, and there was a bead of sweat perched on his plump upper lip.

“Come with me,” Dale shouted over the music. I couldn’t tell if he was drunk or not, but the cup in his hand was overflowing with beer. I followed him silently, mostly because he wouldn’t have been able to hear anything I said anyway. He led me up the stairs and then down a hallway. It was quieter upstairs, so I started to ask Dale what was going on. “Where is Oakley? If this is some fucking prank, then I’ll sign him up for volunteering on a Sunday morning, so help me Orlando Bloom.” I abruptly stopped, my voice coming to a complete halt when he opened the door.

The room was predictably messy, with dirty clothes and empty beer cans strewn across the stained carpet. There was what I assumed to be a sorority girl crying on the bed, her head in her hands and her brown hair falling forward like a curtain around her. Oakley was standing uncomfortably a few feet away from her. Oh fuck.

I immediately went to her. “Are you okay?” I asked, kneeling at her feet. Her head popped up, and I noted the smeared mascara trailing down her cheeks. A series of scenarios went through my mind. If Oakley hurt her, I’d end him. Client or not, there were certain lines I refused to cross—supporting a rapist was one of them.

“I just want to go home,” she choked out. Her voice sounded rough and clogged with emotion.