My face flushes with embarrassment.She can’t possibly know how rude she’s being, right?Maybe she’s just one of those people who have no filter– but if she’s trying to make me feel like a freak, it’s working.
Just because I’m homeschooled doesn’t mean I’m not well-educated. Gideon footed the bill for private tutors withimpressive credentials, arguing that it was evenbetterthan the education I’d receive in one of NYC’s fancy private schools. In truth, he just preferred to keep my mother and me hidden away all those years to avoid his dirty little secret getting out, but Ididpass all my courses with flying colors.
“You need more help than I thought,” Richelle tuts, folding her arms over her chest with a sigh. “But don’t worry, I’ve totally got you.”
She darts back over to my closet with renewed enthusiasm, like she’s eager to take me on as a project.
The whole situation is a little humiliating, but I shove that feeling aside in favor of establishing a connection. I’ll need as many as I can get if I’m going to survive in this place, especially after that ugly run-in with my new stepbrother yesterday. I’ve tried calling my mom several times to tell her about it– and to ask if she knows anything about this wholeKingsdynamic– but her phone keeps going straight to voicemail. I’m trying not to read into that or freak out. They must be traveling abroad, and I’m sure she’ll call when she can, as promised.
Richelle finds aLBDin my closet that she deems acceptable, and I force back a cringe when she shoves it at me and tells me to put it on. It’s a simple tank style bodycon dress, but the low neckline and short hem show more skin than I’m comfortable with. I feel a little better when she puts on something just as skimpy, and even more so when she pulls out a bottle of wine and we get a bit tipsy as we do our hair and makeup.
The more Richelle drinks, the chattier she becomes. I learn that she’s the oldest of five children and her father is some sort of genius scientist who heads up a pharmaceutical company. Her family has a chihuahua named Rocco, who apparently pisses all over Richelle’s stuff when she comes home to visit, and she considers herself more of a cat person, though she’s not a huge fan of pets in general. She likes to travel– Italy is her favoritevacation spot, Greece a close second– and she has relatives in Thailand that the whole family visits annually.
Richelle doesn’t ask a lot of questions about me, and I’m content with not sharing too much. It’s clear that we’ve had very different upbringings. We do find some common ground in 90’s grunge music and a love of reading, though, and for the first time since arriving here, I’m hopeful that this whole college experience might not suck.
I startle when there’s a loud knock at our door, Richelle springing up and running over to answer it as if she’s been expecting someone. When she pulls it open and greets the brunette on the other side with an exasperated “about time!” it’s apparent she was.
“This is Lesley,” Richelle tells me as she ushers the other girl into our room, waving me over to join them.
I’ve already pegged my roommate as a little standoffish and borderline rude, but her friend Lesley is the polar opposite, aggressively friendly from the jump. She pulls me in for a hug right away, beaming a smile when she lets me go.
“So nice to meet you!” she gushes, her green eyes trailing down my body as she sizes me up. “Dang, I can totally see the family resemblance.”
My brows draw together in confusion as Richelle nudges her friend, correcting her. “They’restepsiblings, Les.Notblood related.”
“Oh, right,” Lesley replies with a blush, flashing me another smile. “Well, you’re just as pretty as Raf.”
I cringe inwardly at the mention of my stepbrother, still reeling over our interaction yesterday.
“She’s prettier,” Richelle declares, slinging an arm over my shoulders. “You ready to go, Aves?”
So I guess we’ve sufficiently bonded enough that I’ve earned a nickname.
“Yeah,” I breathe, my stomach flip-flopping in nervous anticipation. “Let’s do this.”
I’mthankful I opted to wear my suede ankle boots rather than the stilettos Richelle was trying to talk me into, because the walk to the boat house isn’t a short one. Lesley complains about her feet hurting no less than ten times before we finally arrive, and when we do, walking inside feels a lot like stepping into a scene from a movie.
It’s the picture of a quintessential college party with music bumping, people dancing, and red solo cups clutched in everyone’s grasp. The interior of the boathouse itself is one big open room with a vaulted ceiling and a wall of windows along the back end. Upon closer inspection, I realize that the lower half of the wall is completely open, the multi-pane sliding glass doors pulled wide so that people can freely stream outside onto the large deck overlooking the lake. The girls and I stick close to one another as we weave through the crowd in that direction, bound for the fully stocked bar out on the patio.
There are ample choices of libations laid out– beer, bottles of pricy champagne, and top shelf liquor– but of course, the girls go for the suspicious looking red punch, passing a cup of it back to me. I take a sniff as I raise it to my lips, cringing at the offensive scent. It smells like fruit punch mixed with rubbing alcohol, but I still hazard a sip, pleasantly surprised to find it tastes a whole lot better than it smells.
We hang out on the deck for a little while, Lesley and Richelle gossiping about fellow students I don’t yet know as I people-watch, searching the sea of faces for Wes. I don’t find him, but I do spot Hailey, the redhead from the Registrar’s office,and another guy approaches me to attempt casual conversation, separating me from the girls.
Ryan something.
He’s cute, but he’s no Wes– and I hate how the whole time we make small talk I find myself glancing over his shoulder, hoping to catch a glimpse of the blonde-haired Adonis.
I should be sticking to my plan and avoiding hot guys at all costs, but I can’t help feeling a little bad that I initially pegged Wes all wrong. From the way he acted when we first met, I assumed he was just another arrogant fuckboy, angling to get in my pants. I’ve since decided that he actually seems like a decent guy, and I was wrong to pass judgment so quickly.
There’s no reason we can’t be platonic friends. And there’s nothing wrong with engaging in some harmless flirting from time to time so long as I don’t allow it to distract me from my goals, right?
Ryan is in the middle of bragging about being a beer pong champion when Wes finds me, my dark eyes meeting his gray ones as he steps out onto the patio from inside.
Damn he’s attractive,and that’s not just the alcohol talking. I thought Ryan was cute when he first approached me, but now he looks like an ogre in comparison to the golden god walking our way.
Wes is dressed in dark jeans that hug his thighs and a heather gray t-shirt that matches his eyes and clings to his muscular form beneath like a second skin. I’ve never seen someone so effortlessly make casual attire look like high fashion. His light hair is deliciously disheveled, he’s traded his glasses for contact lenses, and I try my best not to drool as he makes his way over.
Ryan picks up on my obvious distraction, following my gaze to see Wes approaching. He abruptly snaps his mouth shut, turning on a heel and walking away before he even got to the end of his story.
