Chapter 1
Ty
My house smells like beer and sex.
And possibly the dried tears of broken-hearted sorority girls, but I haven’t had my coffee yet, so my senses aren’t as keen as usual.
Sidestepping a tower of cans and what is possibly a sleeping couple right in the middle of my damn living room, I head into the kitchen to brew some coffee and grab a few garbage bags.
I’m only a junior at Bainbridge University, but this shit is starting to get old. My roommates still love it, though. And they’re more than roommates, really. They’re my brothers. For the most part, we’re all each other has. Knox Gallagher, Caleb Whitman, Booker Zabek, and I are family.
And though I love them, I’m in full dad mode now, and beyond annoyed about cleaning up their fucking messes. A-fucking-gain.
I can’t bitch too much, though. Last night’s festivities were in honor of my twenty-first birthday. My mother did not mark the occasion in any way, so I should be grateful my friends thought to celebrate. And I have no doubt we’ll party again in five days when Whit turns twenty-one.
I make some toast and slather it with peanut butter while my coffee brews. The sun shines through the wall of windows to my left and I realize it’s later than I thought. Though I didn’t stay up doing keg stands until 3 a.m., I was up pretty late. I hung out with my boys and the fifty strangers they invited to our house, had a few drinks, and then headed to my room to read and relax.
And yes, those noise-cancelling headphones are worth every damn penny I paid for them.
It’s not that I hate parties. It’s just that, well, let’s just say I have some issues with them. I don’t begrudge anyone a few drinks or some dancing. I’m definitely not averse to a casual fuck. But I know better than most how quickly things can get out of control.
Taking a sip of the scalding coffee, I survey the damage. My three best friends and I live in an old restored Victorian mansion on the edge of campus. Back when Bainbridge U was established in the late 1890s, this house functioned as the chapel and the parish house. It’s a beautiful place, complete with a wraparound porch, a winding staircase, and even a tower. The wood is almost all oak, and the fireplace still has the original marble tiles. Objectively, this house is cool as shit, especially when you take in the fact that it’s been totally renovated and updated inside. So, yea, we have a giant-ass stained-glass window, and a secret stairway, but we also have waterfall showers.
The house and surrounding property is owned by Booker’s family. His great-great-great grandfather founded the original college in the late 19th century as a seminary. It’s steeped in religion, history, and tradition, which is just the way Booker’s family likes it.
Over a hundred years later, the curriculum has definitely evolved, even if Booker’s family’s values and perceptions haven’t.
Booker, Whit and I moved in two years ago, as freshmen, and Knox joined us last year, since he’s the youngest of all of us. It didn’t take long for us to develop a reputation as a bunch of rich assholes up on the hill.
And honestly? Reputations are earned for a reason.
We’re lucky fucks, in a lot of ways. But definitely not so lucky in others. We each got dealt shit hands in the family department, which is why we’ve basically made our own. Money’s not an issue for any of us, which certainly makes life easier, unless you add up the potential therapy bills we’ll all have someday.
I take a look around, surveying the damage. It’s been worse, I decide, noting that the house is pretty quiet. I pop in my earbuds, turn on some tunes, and start tidying up. After all, I’ve got shit to do today, and I can’t be late.
Twenty minutes into my cleaning spree, I’ve filled three garbage bags and used the mop twice. Ok, it’s not a mop. It’s one of those Swiffer things. I’m beginning to think we need an actual mop. Or a cleaning service. Yep. That’s exactly what we need--someone to come in once a week and pick up after our messy asses.
My thoughts are interrupted by a pair of voices. I look over the breakfast bar to see two girls descending the stairs.
The brunette is damn near fanning herself. “Oh my god, Cass. The rumors are true. He’s hung like a damn elephant. I’m not even kidding. Like literally.”
I have to hold in my chuckle. And also my scold at her incorrect use of the word literally.
“Lucky bitch,” grumbles the blonde. “I’d have had a better night if I tagged along with you to Whitman’s room. Don’t get me wrong, Booker’s hot as hell, but he passed out about two seconds after we got into his bed.”
“Morning,” I salute them from my post at the counter. I’m sure I look like an asshole, standing here in only sweats and slides, holding a broom and drinking coffee. But my roommates and I have a reputation for being a bit broody and grumbly, so I’m not surprised when they roll their eyes.
“Morning, Ty,” says the brunette. I think her name is Brooklyn? Braelyn? Something with a B.
“Hey, Ty,” coos the blonde, walking up to me and trailing a manicured talon down my chest and over my abs. “We can stay for breakfast, if you want?” she says, her lips pouty and inviting.
“Nah. I just ate,” I tell her, stepping away and taking an uncharitable amount of joy in the look on her face.
I don’t offer coffee or start up a conversation; instead, I ignore them, hoping they’ll find their way to the door. I’m not as much of an ass as Knox, but I can be a jerk when the situation calls for it.
And speaking of Knox, I spot him out on the back patio, sprawled across a chaise lounge. As if he feels the weight of my stare, he rolls over, sits up, and stumbles through the patio doors.
“Who’re you?” he asks the girls as they awkwardly linger in the kitchen.
