We met a few weeks ago when I moved into the dorm after Christmas. I originally thought I would be living off campus with Bennett at his apartment, so I didn’t arrange a dorm room, which left me stuck in Ellington Hall, an ancient, creaky place with hissing radiators and dark stairwells.
I make my way over to her and plop down on one of the stools.
There’s a hard glint in her pretty whiskey-colored eyes as she turns and studies me, the movement accentuating her strapless black pleather dress. Delicate heels are on her feet. Obviously, my frat party attire sucks. “Where were you?” she asks.
I can’t tell her I’ve been hunkering down behind a support beam. Plus, the independent streak in me is annoyed. “Why?”
She shoots me side-eye from underneath her smoky eyeshadow. “You disappeared and never came back. I made an entire loop around the place looking for you.”
“I can handle myself fine, Julia. I work at Boobie Bungalow, the finest gentlemen’s club in Sparrow Lake, Minnesota,” I add with a smirk, quoting the slogan on the faded billboard next to the interstate.
Her eyes flare big as saucers. “You strip? Holy cow. You look so…nice, but I guess you’ve got the boobs for it.”
“Uh, thanks, but I don’t strip. I just run errands and tend bar sometimes.”
She nods. “Is that how you’re planning on paying for law school?”
I take another sip of punch. “I’m counting on student loans for law school.” I can’t ask Mara to foot that bill—being a strip club owner doesn’t make you rich, and she isn’t even technically family. She is the only good friend my mama ever had, and if she hadn’t taken me in, child protective services would have.
“I see,” she says, looking bored. She comes to these parties for random hookups, and I know that because she told me so right before we met out in the parking lot and walked in together. I’m here for hot sex. Those were her exact words.
Okay. Good to know, good to know. You have to appreciate her honesty. I mentally filed it away.
A cute girl with pink and white hair cut in a pixie style is in front of me, indicating my Solo cup. “Want more punch?”
I grimace and give Pixie Girl a hopeful look. “Got any top-shelf tequila back there?”
She smirks. “I suppose you’d want fruit with that? This isn’t the Ritz.”
“Vodka? Bourbon? Prosecco?” My gaze is hopeful, but she shakes her head with each question.
“Look, it’s spiked punch or draft beer. You pick.” Her annoyed gaze is calling me a special snowflake, and I sigh. I’m just not quite sure what’s in that punch, and I’m a cautious person.
“I’m good,” I say.
She shrugs and moves on to someone else.
I turn back to face the party, and Julia’s gaze bounces over the crowd of people, stopping on the hockey players.
Praise Jesus. This might be a way in. “Please tell me you know them,” I say.
Her lips tighten as her red nails tap against the wooden bar. “I do, and it’s best to avoid them. If you’re here for an athlete, I suggest the volleyball or tennis players—both have great fingers.” She smirks, giving me a look. “Avoid the wrestlers though. Word is they all have the clap.”
I blink. Indeed, she is knowledgeable. She also thinks I’m here for a one-night stand. Whatever. Let her think what she wants.
“I sense backstory. What happened with the hockey guys? Did you hook up with one?”
I cross my fingers. Please don’t say Zack. It will be super weird if my new, bad-girl roomie has slept with my future fake boyfriend—that is, if I can get the nerve up to ask him.
“No. They’re just all assholes.” She fidgets and tilts her head toward the dance floor, clearly changing the topic. “See anyone you know?”
My shoulders slump against the bar. “I see faces I recognize, but this isn’t really my crowd.”
A group of broad-shouldered men in football jerseys saunter past us, headed toward the dartboard in the back of the room, and one of them gives her an eye waggle.
“Now that’s a tall drink of water.” Straightening up, she tucks a strand of sleek brown hair behind her ear. “And I’ve always wanted to score a tight end or a wide receiver.”
I snort. “You just like saying the names of those positions.”
“Maybe.” She downs her punch. “I should follow them.”
My mouth opens. “How do you even start a conversation with a guy you don’t know?” Please. I need to know.
She arches an elegant eyebrow. “Girl, you’re just out of practice because you were in a relationship for two years. You just bat those eyes and start talking about whatever he likes—and in this case, it’s how spectacularly he handled that ball.”
I snort, watching her check out the football players at the dartboard. Again. “Go on. I’ll be fine. I know how to kick a guy in the nuts if I have to.”
Considering she was worried about where I was before, it doesn’t take much convincing this time. I watch as she fluffs out her hair and sways away from me, her willowy figure drawing its fair share of looks. She makes her way over to the group of players, steering herself right into the center of the action where the guys are.
She’s good.
A long exhale comes from me as I look around the room for Zack.
Ladies and gentlemen, I’ve put this off long enough.
I gather my resolve. No way am I leaving this party until I’ve at least spoken to Zack Morgan.
If Julia can do it, so can I.
4
Sugar
Half an hour later, I’ve made zero progress and haven’t budged from the bar. I suck so bad. Julia has disappeared upstairs with a football player and I’m alone. When Pixie Girl does a pee dance, I volunteer to make sure no one steals the punch, even though she was kind of mean to me earlier. She gives me a long look, promises to be right back, and dashes to the restroom.
Feeling like a bump on a log, I groan, surveying the crowd. There are so many people here, I have no clue where he is, and I keep hoping he’ll walk by to get a drink, but he doesn’t. I picture random girls at his beck and call, rushing to refill his glass and feeding him juicy strawberries on some sofa in the back. Scratch that—it’s way too PG. He’s probably getting sucked off in a bedroom upstairs.
It feels as if someone has cranked up the heat, and I take my coat off and tie it around my waist.
I’m looking at my phone when a warm, sweaty body appears next to me.
Frat Boy.
He’s back and we’re only a few feet apart. I get a better impression of him, stocky with a barrel chest and big biceps…like a wrestler. I recall Julia’s warning about the clap. Great. Just great.
There’s a red zit on his forehead and it takes center stage as he shoves back a lock of brown hair that’s fallen in his face. Giving me a once-over, his beady gaze lingers on my chest.
“Heyyyyyyy, you. Has anyone ever said you look like an angel?”
Ugh. “I haven’t fallen from heaven, so don’t even go there.”
He squints down at me, his words slurred. “I’ve never seen you at a Kappa party. You new here?”