There’s no way to ignore it, or the growl that emanates from my stomach, reminding me I missed dinner. So, with no other choice, I climb out of bed and tug on someshorts. Slipping my feet into slides and pulling my hair back into a messy bun, I grab my bag and head out in search of food. With any luck, Battle of the Bands will be over when I return.
I can feel my phone buzzing in my bag, but I can’t hear it. I can’t hear anything as I walk down the hall toward the stairwell. When I make it to the common area by the elevators, my questions are answered. Well, some of them, anyway. There are at least fifty people in the cramped space, and one of them is playing deejay. There’s so much happening in front of me that my eyes don’t know where to focus first. There’s a guy doing a Conga line all by himself, a couple girls sucking the face off the dudebro Mandi hooked up with last night, and a guy having a full conversation with the drapes hanging from one of the windows. In his defense, they’re pretty drapes.
There’s a line for the elevator and the stairwell is on the other side of the common area. It’s maybe fifteen feet away, but right now that journey is daunting. My headache is back with a vengeance and my stomach will soon begin to eat itself. My ears are ringing, and my head feels like it’s being squeezed by a vise. I’m a little woozy and a lot hangry. I have got to get out of here.
Taking a deep breath, I prepare myself for the arduous trek ahead. My eyes on the glorious exit sign above the door, I weave my way through the room, expertly dodging Conga guy and sidestepping a couple making out in the middle of the floor.
Thirty seconds later, my headache hasn’t waned, but I’m blissfully alone.
Until I get to the landing on the next floor.
A gaggle of college kids have set up camp right here on the steps. And they are taking up every inch of available space. They’ve got blankets and snacks and board gamesand it looks like the slumber party of some ten-year-old’s dream, but I am not in the mood.
And let’s be honest: I’m never in the mood. But tonight, I can’t even muster up the energy to pretend.
“This has to be against fire code,” I say, rubbing my temples.
A girl I vaguely recognize from the beach today stares up at me. “There’s no fire,” she says, as though I’m the asshole in this scenario.
“And it’s a good thing, too, or we’d all be burnt little marshmallows right now,” I snap back.
Eight sets of eyes glare at me, and once again, I want to point out that they are the ones who’ve decided to turn a freaking stairway into a game room. Instead, I sigh and try to play nice with others.
It’s not something I’ve ever done well, but there’s a first time for everything, right?
“Can you make some room so I can get through, please?” I ask. They grumble, but they all shift enough for me to play a game of hopscotch through their little camp. My prize is another set of stairs. Finally, I make it to the exit, and I have a momentary vision of pushing on the door handle only to find it locked. Thankfully, though, it’s wide open and I walk right through. I’m not sure why someone left it open, but?—
“Coming through!”
Plastering myself against the brick wall, I narrowly avoid being plowed over by a parade of frat boys carrying cases of beer.
What. The. Fuck.
It should not be this hard to leave my room and grab a bite to eat.
And this is a dry campus. That was expressly stated in the agreement we all signed.
It’s not that I’m against drinking. I can hold my own, thankyouverymuch. I’m not even against bending the rules for a little fun. But these rules aren’t bent. They’re twisted up like tiny little pretzels and smashed to a powdery dust.
My annoyance propels me down the path toward the little strip of shops and cafes where surely I can grab a slice of pizza or a burger. Scanning the buildings, it looks like my options are limited. Option number one is Manny’s Pizza and Beer. They get points for being straightforward. I like it when a restaurant’s name is also its menu. What you see is what you get. But it’s way too crowded, so I opt for the spot next door. It’s just called Smitty’s, but at this point, I can’t be picky.
I’m not sure what I was expecting, but a dimly lit bar wasn’t it. Bright lights are a headache trigger for me, though, so Smitty’s walnut paneling and burned out lightbulbs already hold a place in my heart. My heart’s a small, dark, abandoned little cave, but that’s not important.
What is important is that it smells like deep fried heaven in here. I take a seat at the bar and a big biker dude wipes the space in front of me before tossing a coaster down.
“What can I get you?”
“Water, please. Two glasses.”
Biker Dude blinks at me before walking off, presumably to get my water.
“Two glasses of water? You got a hot date joining you?”
“There is no way the universe hates me this much,” I say out loud. “Not after the floor sex people and the gamers and the frat brigade.”
“Floor sex?” Pete says, his brow quirking up. And dammit, he should look stupid. Idiotic. Ridiculous. Instead, he just looks sexy. And what is he doing in my bar?Granted, he got here first since his plate is empty, and I literally just found the place, but still.
If I weren’t hungry enough to gnaw on my own arm, and if I had a modicum of the patience required to make it through the maze of debauchery and back to my room, I’d walk right out of here.
