“I know.” I shake my head and sigh. “You know the shit with my dad …”
My dad didn’t think it was the right thing to do for a Van Hewitt to live off campus. Why? I have no fucking clue. But if I didn’t live in an on-campus apartment or dorm, he wasn’t paying for my senior year. That’s seriously what he said. When the situation got so bad that I told my parents I had to move, he told me that I’d be paying my room and board out of my trust fund. It wasn’t much of a threat, since I wouldn’t feel any tightness in my own pockets, but it was more the meaning of it.
What kind of parent doesn’t want their child to be happy? If it meant leaving a crappy situation, that was only crappy in the first place because of said parent’s irrational rule, and moving to one that made that child content … wasn’t that a good thing? I don’t know why I keep expecting my parents to be any different. They’ve only shown me moderate disappointment and annoyed judgment my entire life.
“Yeah, what a prick. But at least you got a sick house now! And close to the bars. You know I’m going to be crashing here once in a while when I can’t make it back up the hill.” Brian booms out a laugh.
“I’ve got the attic to myself, so you’re always invited.” I chuckle, sipping the rum and Coke Callum mixed in a Solo cup for me just before the party really started.
“Let’s do a shot, we have to celebrate!” Brian wields a bottle of tequila from the kitchen counter and finds two shot glasses.
I’m not going to disagree.
I’m normally a little more controlled with my drinking, sticking to beer or going low-key with a glass of whiskey hanging with friends. Once you’re over twenty-one, getting blackout drunk isn’t as exciting as it is when you’re legally not allowed to do so.
Tonight, though? I’m celebrating. Someone offers me a shot? I’m in. Beer pong? Flip cup? Funnel? I’m your guy.
There is just something lighter about moving into this house, getting out of my weird other living situation, and falling in with a new crowd.
Then, of course, there is my very interesting new roommate.
Taya. Christ. When she walked down those stairs tonight, my tongue nearly fell out of my head. She’d changed out of her little tank and jeans ensemble into a skintight, fire engine red dress. All of those mahogany curls were flowing down her back, and her olive-skinned shoulder blades peeked out from under them. I’ve never found shoulder blades attractive, but hers gave me a semi.
I can’t stop following her with my eyes, tracking her like prey in my line of sight. Something primal is happening, and I know she feels it too. While setting up for the party, I found myself completing tasks anywhere around her, finding any reason to stand near her or talk to her.
After two shots with Brian, I wander off to find my other friends—or maybe in search of the girl who won’t leave my thoughts.
My body buzzes with alcohol, happy and goofy. I’m the friendliest drunk you’ll ever meet, and I smile at almost everyone I pass. The layout of the house is pretty easy to navigate. There are four bedrooms on the second floor, my attic bedroom on the third, and then the first floor is comprised of the cathedral-ceilinged living room, open-concept kitchen, and a dining room that is mostly used to store empty beer boxes or serve as a study space. All of the furniture in each room has either been covered with tarps, to prevent spills, or pushed to the side so that the aging light brown hardwood can be used as a dance floor.
I was amazed as they set up for the party, but I shouldn’t have been. It’s not just rowdy guys who live here; my female roommates have a system so that we can party until the wee hours, but also keep our couch stain-free and comfortable to watch movies on the next day.
I find myself at the basement stairs, the noise from the lower level bubbling up at me. The basement is like any other; a bare-bones college party space with gray cinderblock walls and gray concrete floors. The girls strung fairy lights all over the walls, giving it some ambiance, and there were two huge folding tables in the center. One is being used for beer pong, and the other for flip cup. At the back of the basement is a bar, some old piece of crap Callum’s dad donated to the house when they all moved in.
And across the room, I find who I’m looking for—a beautiful girl in a knockout red dress.
“Hi.” I smile at her as I walk right over, the alcohol buzzing through my veins.
“Hi.” Taya leans against one of the support poles in the basement, smirking into her red cup.
“How is your night?” Leaning in allows me a whiff of her perfume, something flowery with a hint of cupcake.
I have to hold in a snort, because I just thought the word cupcake in my head, and that is definitely not smooth.
“Pretty good. Though I lost at beer pong.” She pouts, and I want to catch that plump lower lip between my teeth.
“It’s because you had the wrong partner.” My dick jumps in my pants as I say it.
Her hazel eyes flash, unmistakable desire in them. “I guess you’ll have to come find me earlier, next time.”
“Well, I’m here now. How about we go upstairs and … dance?” I grin, shameless in my approach.
What I really want to do is take her upstairs to my room, but I don’t want to come on too strong. I do, however, think it’s not too forward to take her to the dance floor and use it as an excuse to put my hands all over her.
“Oh, Austin. Austin, Austin, Austin. The guy who flirted with all the pretty girls in high school.”
Something like suspicion and caution shoots down my spine, killing a little bit of my buzz. I almost forgot, for a moment, that Taya went to my high school. That she’s known who I am for years, that she is fully aware of who my family is.
That age-old mistrust sneaks up on me, stealing all the flirty energy I’ve been sending her way. Why did she have to say that?
“Did I?” I eye her, and she’s not aware that she just spoiled some of my fun.
Taya’s head bobs on a nod, and even though I’m bordering on the edge of annoyed, I can’t help but be attracted to her. She’s a little goofy, which is endearing with how pretty she is. Some girls are beautiful and intimidating, and it makes them seem untouchable. But Taya is gorgeous and barely acknowledges it. Whenever we’ve been around each other, she’s joking or laughing, which only adds to her appeal and charm.
“You were Mr. Popular, duh. All the girls wanted a chance with Austin Van Hewitt.” She snorts into her cup as she takes a drink.
She’s drunk. I know that. So am I. But her words have officially turned me off. I hate being handled like I’m some prize to win, and this interaction is no longer what I sought her out for.
If we hooked up, would she run back to all her Webton friends to brag about it? Would she hold some misguided notion that she was marrying into the Van Hewitt family? It’s happened before, as crazy as it sounds.
And as much as I am into Taya and some no-strings-attached fun, I don’t want the things that would come attached.
“Hey, I’ll catch you later, okay?” I rub her arm in a friendly gesture, pissed that my fingertips spark when they touch her skin.
I almost break, because goddamn, she feels like velvet, but hold strong knowing that this is probably a mistake all the way around. A girl from my hometown, my roommate, a sophomore who has two more years left at Talcott.