You know, something has to be said about the feeling of sitting on your bed with the haze of weed in the air and a walking wallet resting his head in your lap.

Actually, a fucking lot can be said about this moment.

If I was a different kind of person, I might have deemed this scene photo-worthy.

"C'mon, Vic," Nathan says languidly with a doped-up grin on his face. "You can't space out after one hit. It's not allowed."

"I'm a photographer at an art school," I retaliate. "Pretty sure that gives me a free pass for pretentious space-outs."

"Oh?" A shit-eating grin spreads across his lips. "Should I start calling you Max Caulfield, too?"

"Shut the fuck up, Prescott."

Nathan laughs at that, but I'm certain that if he wasn't stoned to hell, the reaction would be different entirely. Way to watch your step, Victoria.

Of course, things could equally go to shit if he ever finds out I'm only close to him for his family name. Even the runt of the litter has connections, right?

Even if Mom and Dad are full of shit, they're right on one thing: the art world is a pit of vipers. The only way to survive and thrive is to play to win and use every advantage you can get. Even if said advantage is the jumped-up son of the richest family in town with a probable psychological problem.

Nobody ever said gambling was safe.

I reach over to the bowl and take a few tokes of the joint to appease Nathan. He seems to relax as the smoke blows out my mouth.

It's enough for a good buzz. Not quite enough to get high. It would probably be an incredibly stupid idea to lose myself when alone with Nathan Prescott.

"That's the spirit," Nathan says, helping himself to a portion of the weed that can't possibly be healthy. "It's no good when you're sober. What's the fucking point of that?" Quite a lot, actually.

I keep quiet.

We remain still for a few moments; enough for me to look over to my window and see the dust suspended in the light filtering through the curtains. It's all such hipster crap that half these Blackwell wannabes get hooked up on.

It's not until there's a banging against the wall that the scene is disturbed.

"Oh shit," I say, crushing the joint in the bowl. Nathan is still fumbling around with his by the time I've moved across the room, applied some more perfume, placed a piece of mint gum in my mouth, and opened the window.

"We gotta get this out of sight." Even as a Prescott, there's no way that being in the girls' dorm with a bowl of weed won't go without some kind of repercussion, minor as it is. I've never seen a puppet as sad as Principal Wells.

"Just put it under the bed," I say. Nathan scrambles to shove the bowl under the bed as I fix myself up in the mirror. Shit. There's no way he didn't spill that all over.

If I have to wash my bedsheets again, I swear to God not even Nathan's money and reputation will help him.

"Fuck," Nathan utters, standing to his feet again. For a guy that supposedly owns the school, he sure does get jumpy and incompetent at the first sign of authority.

"Just—go stand by my closet. I'll go check it out," I say. "And don't touch anything, all right? You're paying for the dry-cleaning if you do."

"Whatever. I'll just buy you a new wardrobe," Nathan says as he crosses the room with jittery movements. Jesus.

I open my door and take a step out into the hallway. "Okay, who thought it would be a good idea to—what the fuck are you doing in this dorm?"

It's some punk girl – tattoos, beanie, blue hair. She's standing by my slate, staple gun in one hand and a stack of paper in the other. I glance at the wall and want to throw up.

Yet another missing poster for Rachel Amber.

"Door wasn't locked," she replies evenly. I can't help but stare at her, open-mouthed. "Besides, it's not like I'm some pervert trying to get hella off on creeping on your dorm rooms. I'm literally just putting some posters up."

"Yeah, we get it," I say. "The bitch is missing. Who gives a shit? Now stop polluting the campus with this crap. Nobody even cares."

The girl's face darkens. It's at this point that I recall who she is – that loud bitch who got expelled a few months back. I wasn't at Blackwell long enough to know all the details – just enough to know that Rachel Amber thought herself above literally fucking everyone and this girl was her groupie.

"Fucking say that again," she says. Her entire expression darkens and she takes a step towards me. Stand your ground. She's not worth your time.

"Nobody at this school gives a fuck about Rachel Amber," I tell her. "So take your pathetic little posters and get lost. I could call security, you know."

"David Madsen? Like that douchebag frightens me." She flips her middle finger at me – no wonder she got expelled – and proceeds to staple another poster to the wall.

"Vic? What's going on?" Nathan calls out, evidently loud enough for our intruder to hear.

"Is that Nathan Prescott in there with you?" she asks. A bewildered look falls on her face. "You must be hella fucking stupid to get close to him. And I'm so not in the mood to deal with that prick. I'm out."

She just drops the posters all over the floor and leaves. I grab one off the wall and tear it in two. Fuck you, Rachel Amber.

"What was that?" Nathan says.

I retreat back into my room and look at him. "Rachel Amber's groupie," I tell him. "She just decided to throw a pile of missing posters all over the dorm."

"Chloe Price. No fucking way," Nathan says in a disjointed way. Maybe getting high like this wasn't the best idea. "She was expelled."

"Well, evidently that doesn't stop you from coming back to paint the walls with Rachel Amber's face," I say. Irritation ticks away inside me.

"Let's just… let's stop talking about Rachel," Nathan almost whispers, twitching. Maybe he should have let up on the weed before getting worked up like this. "She's not here either."

I blow a bubble that deflates rather than bursts. "We still need to get rid of them," I say. "Before someone like Kate Marsh decides to put them up."

"Yeah… sure." Nathan straightens his jacket with another series of twitches. "Nobody wants to see any more of Rachel Amber, right? Right?"

We end up burning the posters in the parking lot that evening. Nathan doesn't say much.