“Bastard,” I hiss, sitting up in bed and letting my feet hang over the side as I hang up the phone. I stare at the hardwood floor for a beat, then rub my hands over my face like it’ll scrub off the boredom sinking into my skin.
This is college.College. I’m eighteen, technically alive, and probably sitting less than five miles away from bad decisions and lukewarm jungle juice.
There’sgotto be a party tonight. Somewhere. Always is.
And if there’s not? I’ll start one.
I stand, stretch, and pace toward the closet—eyeing the sad excuse for a wardrobe like maybe it’ll look different if I squint. It doesn’t. But I can work with it. I always have.
A party means people. Music. Making out with a hot girl that will push Landon so far out of my mind he cliff dives into the next universe.
An hour later, I’m freshly showered and tying up my black corset top. I’ve matched the corset with fishnets under baggy, horrendously ripped jeans and my hand-me-down black combat heels and some matching cheap silver chunky chains.
A little mascara. A quick fluff of my wavy hair into a slick high ponytail. Done.
I look hot.Ridiculouslyhot. The kind of hot that says I’m not just here to make out with a girl in the corner—I’m here to ruin someone’s whole life and walk away smiling.I fucking live!
The moment I step outside, the humid air wraps around me like a dare, thick and electric, but I don’t even need to check a flyer or ask around. I just follow the distant thump of bass and the flicker of bad lighting until I’m standing in front of a three-story house lit up like someone gave a bunch of rich white boys access to a couple of keggers and zero adult supervision.
The flag out front says Beta Tau Delta.
The smell? Cheap beer, testosterone, and Axe body spray.
The vibe?Exactlythe kind of chaos I’m in the mood for.
A guy in a backwards cap gives me a slow once-over from the porch steps, eyes dragging over my outfit like he’s never seen fishnets outside of a Halloween costume. He nods like I’ve passed some unspoken dress code—hot girl privilege unlocked—and waves me in with a red solo cup like a blessing from the Pope of Bro Culture.
“Yo,” he slurs, already leaning too far into my space. “You know anyone here? Or are you just, like… destiny or something?”
I blink. “Seriously?”
He grins, swaying slightly. “I mean, I couldbeyour destiny. Or at least your mistake?”
I smile sweetly. “I need, like, three more drinks before I make a mistake like you.”
He laughs, loud and sloppy, clearly not understanding sarcasm. One heavy arm drops over my shoulder like we’ve known each other for years, and he yells into the chaos of the house, “Yo! Someone get this girl, like, six shots—stat!”
“Whoa,” I giggle, tapping his chest twice with two fingers and sliding from underneath his sweaty ass arm. “Let’s start with two.”
Then I step around him without another glance, letting the throb of bass swallow his disappointed “Damn.”
A beat later, I hear him hoot like I just made his whole night and shout back into the house, “We got new blood!”
The door swings shut behind me, and I step into what can only be described as a live-action fever dream.
This party looks like it crawled straight out of a 2000s frat comedy and injected itself with twice the testosterone. Shirtless guys in cowboy hats and cut-off jeans are hanging from exposed wooden beams like monkeys on Red Bull. There’s a slip-and-slide running through theliving room—lined with beer cans and what might be baby oil—and a girl in denim shorts and glittery cowboy boots is riding an inflatable bull in the middle of the hallway, screaming, “I am the storm!” like her life depends on it.
A terrible B-side remix of a pop song that should have stayed dead blasts through the speakers and everyone’s shrieking along off-key like it’s the national anthem.
A naked guy—completelynaked—streaks past me with toilet paper tied around his head like a warband. I leap back instinctively and crash into some guy who smells like cinnamon schnapps and body spray. He leans in, way too close, and sniffs my neck like a bloodhound.
“You smellsogood,” he slurs, eyes glassy and dilated. “Wanna make out?”
I blink. “Yeah, no.”
I shove past him before he can offer me anything else, weaving through a mass of tangled limbs and spilled drinks as I make my way deeper into the chaos.
Yeah. This is definitely the kind of college experience I’d be missing if it weren’t for the Italian mob, my loyalty to Willow, and a British stalker who thinks he owns me.
