Текст книги "One Tiny Lie "

Автор книги: K. A. Tucker

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Текущая страница: 1 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

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To Lia and Sadie, your lives are always yours to live.

Paul, for daddy day care.

To Stacey, a true writer’s agent.

I walk away.

I walk away from the voices, the shouts, the disappointment.

I walk away from my deceptions, my mistakes, my regrets.

I walk away from all that I am supposed to be and all that I cannot be.

For all of it is a lie.

CHAPTER ONE

Too Perfect

June

“Livie, I think you’re completely fucked up.”

Chunks of cheesecake fly out of my mouth and splatter against the deck’s glass panel as I choke on my fork. My sister has a twisted sense of humor. I automatically attribute her declaration to that. “That’s not funny, Kacey.”

“You’re right. It’s not.”

The way she says it—her calm, gentle tone—sends a strange ripple through my stomach. Wiping off the gob of cheesecake from my bottom lip, I turn to search her face, looking for a tell—something to expose her game. I see none. “You’re not serious, are you?”

“As a heart attack.”

A bubble of panic rises into my throat. “Are you on drugs again?”

She answers with a flat glare.

I don’t take that as truth, though. I lean forward and peer into her face, looking for the signs—the dilated pupils, the bloodshot whites—the traits of a user that I came to recognize when I was twelve. Nothing. Nothing but crystal-clear blue eyes staring back at me. I allow myself a small sigh of relief. At least we’re not heading back down that road.

With a nervous giggle and no clue how to respond, I bide my time with another mouthful of cake. Only now the mocha flavor has turned bitter and the texture is gritty. I force it down with a hard swallow.

“You’re too perfect, Livie. Everything you do, everything you say. You can do no wrong. If someone slapped you across the face, you’d apologize to them. I can’t believe you don’t deck me for some of the stuff I say. It’s like you’re not capable of getting angry. You could be the love child of Mother Teresa and Gandhi. You’re . . .” Kacey pauses as if searching for the right word. She settles with, “Too fucking perfect!”

I cringe. Kacey tosses F-bombs around like some people toss pennies. I got used to it years ago, and yet each one of them feels like a punch to the nose right now.

“One of these days, I think you’re going to crack and go all Amelia Dyer on me.”

“Who?” I frown as my tongue works the last bits of mealy cake off the roof of my mouth.

She waves a dismissive hand at me. “Oh, that woman in London who murdered hundreds of babies—”

“Kacey!” I glare at her.

With an eye roll, she mutters, “Anyway, that’s not the point. The point is that Stayner has agreed to speak to you.”

This is getting more ridiculous by the second. “What? Bu . . . I . . . but . . . Dr. Stayner?” I sputter out. Her PTSD therapist? My hands are starting to shake. I place my plate down on a side table before I drop it. When Kacey handed it to me and suggested that we watch the Miami Beach sunset from our deck, I thought she was being sweet. Now I see she was masterminding a crazed intervention that I don’t need. “I’m not suffering from PTSD, Kacey.”

“I didn’t say you were.”

“Well, then, where is all of this coming from?”

She doesn’t give me a reason. She gives me the mother lode of guilt trips instead. “You owe me, Livie,” she says in an even tone. “When you asked me to go into inpatient therapy three years ago, I did it. For you. I didn’t want to, but—”

“You needed it! You were a mess!” That’s putting it lightly. The drunk driving accident that killed our parents seven years ago sent Kacey spiraling down into a rock-bottom haze of drugs, one-night stands, and violence. Then, three years ago, even rock bottom fell out from under her. I was sure I’d lost her.

But Dr. Stayner brought her back to me.

“I did need it,” she admits, pursing her lips. “And I’m not asking you to commit yourself to inpatient therapy. I’m asking you to pick up the phone when Stayner calls. That’s all. For me, Livie.”

This is completely irrational—downright insane—and yet I can see by the way Kacey’s fists are balled by her side and she chews her bottom lip that she’s not messing around. She’s genuinely concerned about me. I bite my tongue and turn to stare out at the setting sun’s last rays dancing over the water. And I consider it.

What on earth could Dr. Stayner have to say? I’m a straight-A student on her way to Princeton and, after that, med school. I love children and animals and old people. I’ve never had the urge to pull wings off insects or fry them with a magnifying glass. Sure, I’m not big on attention. And I tend to sweat profusely around attractive guys. And I’ll probably stroke out on my first date. If I don’t melt into a puddle of sweat before someone even has a chance to ask me out.

All that hardly means I’m two steps away from becoming the next mass-murdering psycho. Still, I do like and respect Dr. Stayner, despite his peculiarities. Talking to him wouldn’t be unpleasant. It would be a quick conversation . . .

“I suppose one phone call won’t hurt,” I mumble, adding, “and then we need to talk about this psychology degree you’re working on. If you see red flags waving around my head, then I’m beginning to doubt your long-term career success.”

Kacey’s shoulders sag with relief as she settles back against her lounge chair, a contented smile touching her lips.

And I know I’ve made the right choice.

September

Sometimes in life you make a decision and you find yourself questioning it. A lot. You don’t regret it, exactly. You know that you probably made the right choice and that you’re probably better off for it. But you do spend a lot of time wondering what the hell you were thinking.

I still wonder why I ever agreed to that one phone call. I wonder it daily. I’m definitely wondering it right now.

“I’m not suggesting you star in a Girls Gone Wild video, Livie.” He’s already switched to that smooth, authoritative tone that he uses for coercion.

“How would I know? Three months ago, you suggested I have a conversation with an orangutan.” True story.

“Has it been three months already? How is old Jimmy doing?”

I bite my tongue and take a deep breath before I say something snippy. “Now’s not a good time, Dr. Stayner.” And it’s not. Truly. The sun is shining, the air is warm, and I’m carting my pink suitcase and a cactus through a picturesque setting toward my dorm along with a thousand other confused students and flustered parents. It’s move-in day and I may still vomit from the bumpy plane ride. One of Dr. Stayner’s guerilla-tactic calls is definitely not what I want to be having right now.

And yet, here we are.

“No, Livie. Probably not. Maybe you should have rescheduled your therapy session with me, knowing you’d be on a plane to New Jersey this morning. But you didn’t,” Dr. Stayner calmly points out.

Looking from left to right to ensure no one overhears this conversation, my shoulders hunch in and my voice drops as I whisper, “There’s nothing to reschedule because I’m not in therapy.”

Okay. So that’s not entirely true.

It hasn’t been entirely true since the pleasant June evening when my sister ambushed me with cheesecake. Dr. Stayner phoned me the very next morning. In typical Stayner fashion, his first words to me weren’t “hello,” or “nice to talk to you again.” He simply said, “So I hear you’re a ticking time bomb.”

The rest of the conversation had gone smoothly. We chatted about my flawless academic career, my lack of love life, my hopes and dreams, my future plans. We spent a bit of time talking about my parents, but he didn’t dwell on it.

After I hung up, I remember smiling, sure that he would tell Kacey that I was fine and well adjusted and she could continue her witch hunt for the mentally unstable elsewhere.

When that same Chicago number appeared on my phone the following Saturday morning at ten o’clock sharp, I was more than surprised. But I picked up. And I’ve been picking up every Saturday at ten a.m. ever since. I’ve never seen a bill or a patient record or the inside of a psychiatrist’s office. Both of us have danced around the word “therapy,” but we have never used it before this conversation. Perhaps that’s why I refuse to acknowledge Dr. Stayner for what he is.

My therapist.

“Fine, Livie. I’ll let you go. We’ll resume our chat next Saturday.”

I roll my eyes but don’t say anything. There’s no point. I’d get farther dragging a mule through a hay field.

“Make sure to have a shot of tequila. Break dance. Whatever it is you youngsters do nowadays during frosh week. It’ll be good for you.”

“You’re recommending addiction and life-threatening dance moves for my well-being?” It was pretty obvious from that second phone call that Dr. Stayner had decided to take on the task of “treating” my awkward shyness with a weekly course of absurd, often embarrassing, but ultimately harmless assignments. He’s never admitted to what he was doing, never explained himself. He just expects me to comply.

And I always do.

Maybe that’s why I should be in therapy.

The surprising thing is that it has worked. Three months of harebrained tasks has actually helped calm my nerves around crowds, free my inner thoughts, and arm me with enough confidence that sweat doesn’t instantaneously erupt from my pores when an attractive man walks into the room.

“I suggested tequila, Livie. Not crystal meth . . . And no, I’m not recommending tequila because you are only eighteen and I am a doctor. That would be highly unprofessional. I’m recommending that you go and have fun!”

I heave a resigned sigh but smile as I say, “You know, I was normal. I think that you’ve turned me into a head case.”

My ear gets a blast of laughter. “‘Normal’ is boring. Tequila, Livie. It makes wallflowers into butterflies. Maybe you’ll even meet”—he gasps for dramatic effect—“a boy!”

“I really have to go,” I say, feeling my cheeks flush as I climb the concrete steps to my stunning Hogwarts-style residence hall.

“Go! Make memories. This is a happy day for you. A victory.” Dr. Stayner’s voice loses that playful lilt, suddenly turning gruff. “You should be proud.”

I smile into the phone, happy for the moment of seriousness. “I am, Dr. Stayner. But . . . thank you.” He doesn’t say the words but I hear them. Your father would be proud.

“And remember—” The lilt is back.

I roll my eyes at the phone. “I got it. ‘Girls Gone Reasonably Frisky.’ I’ll do my best.” I can hear his chuckling as I press “End” on the call.

CHAPTER TWO

Jell-O Shots

This must be what Cinderella felt like.

If, instead of gliding gracefully around the dance floor of the royal ball, she was flattened against a wall at a college house party, getting jostled by drunks from all angles.

And, instead of dazzling everyone in a glamorous ball gown, she was furtively tugging on her toga to ensure all vital body parts were covered.

And, instead of a fairy godmother granting her every wish, she had an obnoxious older sister forcing Jell-O shots down her throat.

I’m just like Cinderella.

“A deal’s a deal!” Kacey yells over the DJ as she hands me a tiny cup. I accept it without a word and tip my head back, letting the slippery orange substance slide down my throat. I’m actually enjoying these things. A lot. Of course, I won’t admit that to my sister. I’m still bitter that she blackmailed me into making my first night at college also my first night to get drunk. Ever. It was this or have her walk into my residence hall wearing a T-shirt with my face on it and a slogan that reads, “Liberate Livie’s Libido.” She was serious. She actually had the damn thing printed.

“Stop being such a sourpuss, Livie. You have to admit, this is fun,” Kacey shouts, handing me two more shots. “Even though we’re wearing bedsheets. I mean, seriously. Who throws toga parties anymore?”

She keeps on talking but I tune her out, sucking both shots back in quick succession. That’s how many in the last hour? I’m feeling fine right now. Relaxed, even. But I’ve never been drunk before, so what do I know? These can’t be too potent. It’s not like it’s tequila.

Freaking Stayner! I should have known he would enlist Kacey in his dirty work. He’s been doing it all summer. Of course, I have no solid proof for tonight’s escapade. But if Kacey busts out a bottle of Patrón, I have my answer.

With a sigh, I lean back against the cool wall and let my gaze drift over the sea of heads. I’m not exactly sure where we are, aside from the spacious basement of a booming house party just outside campus grounds. A well-planned one, too, complete with a DJ catering to a crowd of people—some dancing, most stumbling—in the center of the big open space. Regular house lights have been replaced with colored, flashing ones and a strobe, making the place look more like a club than a home. I’m assuming the owners normally have furniture in here. Tonight, every single piece has vanished. All except for a bunch of tables lining the perimeter, supplying red plastic cups for the kegs of beer tucked underneath and holding trays of these delicious shots that I can’t seem to get enough of. There must be hundreds. Thousands. Millions!

Okay. I might actually be drunk.

A short, curvy body sails past me with a fluttering wave, instantly making me smile. That’s Reagan, my new roommate, and the only other person here besides my sister whom I’ve talked to. Each year, students are entered into a draw and assigned dorms. Freshmen get the added bonus of random roommates. Even though we only met today, I’m pretty sure I’m going to love Reagan. She’s bubbly and outgoing and talks a mile a minute. She’s also very artistic. After we moved our stuff into our room, she made a sign for the door with our names in calligraphy, surrounded by hearts and flowers and x’s and o’s. I think it’s really sweet. Kacey thinks it screams “lesbian couple.”

The second we stepped through the doors, Reagan was gone, chatting up a group of guys. Considering she’s a freshman, she seems to know a lot of people. Mostly male. She’s the one who suggested we come tonight; otherwise we would have ended up at one of the many campus-organized events that I had every intention of going to until Kacey hijacked my plans. Apparently, Princeton students living off-campus is rare, and therefore these house parties should never be missed.

“All right, Princess. Drink this,” Kacey says, producing a bottle of water out of thin air, adding, “I don’t want you puking tonight.”

I take the bottle and let the fresh, cold liquid pour into my mouth. And I imagine projectile-vomiting my fajita dinner all over Kacey. It would serve her right.

“Oh, come on, Livie! Stop being mad at me.” Kacey’s voice is getting that whiny twang to it, a sign that she is sincerely feeling guilty. And then I start feeling guilty for making her feel guilty . . .

I heave a sigh. “I’m not mad. I just don’t get why you’re on a mission to get me drunk.” It was drunk driving that killed our parents. I think that’s one of the main reasons I’ve avoided anything to do with alcohol up until now. Kacey barely touches the stuff too. Though she seems to be making up for it tonight.

“I’m on a mission to make sure you have fun and meet people. It’s frosh week of your first year of college. It’s a once-in-a-lifetime thing. It should involve copious amounts of alcohol and at least one morning with your head in the toilet.” I answer her with an eye roll, but that doesn’t dissuade her. Turning to face me, she throws her arms over my shoulders. “Livie. You’re my little sister and I love you. Nothing about your life has been normal these past seven years. Tonight, you are going to live like a normal, irresponsible eighteen-year-old.”

Licking my lips, I counter with, “It’s illegal for an eighteen-year-old to drink.” I know my argument is futile against my sister, but I don’t care.

“Ah yes. You are right.” Sliding a hand under her toga to reach into the pocket of her shorts, she pulls out what looks like a driver’s license. “And that’s why you are twenty-one-year-old Patricia from Oklahoma if the cops show up.”

I should have known my sister would have all her bases covered.

The music begins to pick up tempo, and my knees move along with the beat. “You’re going to dance with me soon!” Kacey shouts as she hands me two more shots. How many is that now? I’ve lost count but my tongue feels funny. Wrapping her arm around my neck, my sister pulls me down so we’re cheek-to-cheek. Okay, ready?” she says, holding her phone out in front of us. I hear, “Smile!” as the flash goes off. “For Stayner.”

Aha! Proof!

“Cheers!” Kacey taps her Dixie cup into mine and then tips her head and sucks it back, quickly followed by the other. “Oh, blue ones! I’ll be back in a sec!” Like a golden retriever chasing a squirrel, Kacey tears off after a guy balancing a large round tray on his shoulder, oblivious to the heads turning as she passes. Between her fierce red hair, striking face, and muscular curves, my sister always turns heads. I doubt she even notices it. She definitely isn’t uncomfortable about it.

I sigh as I watch her. I know what she’s doing. Aside from getting me drunk, of course. She’s trying to distract me from the sad part about today. That my dad is not here on the one day that he should be. On the day that I start at Princeton. This was always his dream, after all. He was a proud graduate and he wanted both of his girls to go here. Kacey’s declining grades after the accident didn’t allow for that possibility, leaving it to me. So I’m living his dream—my dream, too—and he’s not here to see me do it.

I take a deep breath and silently accept whatever fate—and by fate I mean Jell-O shots—has in store for me tonight. I’m certainly less nervous than I was when I first stepped through those doors. And the buzzing atmosphere is pretty cool. I’m at my first college party. There’s nothing wrong with it or with me being here and enjoying it, I remind myself.

With a shooter in my hand, I close my eyes and let my body just feel the throbbing beat of the music. Let loose, have fun. That’s what Stayner always tells me. Tipping my head back, I squish the bottom of the Dixie cup and bring it to my lips, sliding my tongue out to accept the wiggly mess into my mouth. I feel like a pro.

Except for one amateur mistake—I should never have closed my eyes.

If I hadn’t, I wouldn’t have looked like an easy drunk chick. And I would have seen him coming.

The tangy orange flavor has just touched my taste buds when a strong arm hooks around my waist from the front and pulls me away from the safety of my wall. My eyes fly open wide as my back presses against someone’s chest, one muscular arm snaking around my body. In the next heartbeat—not mine, because mine has stopped beating altogether—a hand seizes both my chin and the Dixie cup against my lips and tilts my head back so it’s facing up and at an angle. I catch a whiff of musky cologne a split second before a guy leans over and his tongue slips against mine, twirling around and coaxing it a little before drawing the Jell-O away. It all happens so fast that I have no chance to think or react or put my tongue back in my mouth. Or bite the intruding tongue off.

It’s all over in a second, leaving me shooterless, breathless, and gripping the wall for support as my knees shake. It takes me a few seconds to regain composure, and when I do, my brain processes the loud roar of approval behind me. I spin around to find a group of tall, brawny guys—all in togas strategically wrapped to show off well-defined chests—cheering and slapping the guy on the back as if he’s just won a race. I can’t see his face. All I can see is a mess of wavy dark brown—almost black—hair and the solid ridges of his back.

I’m not sure how long I’m standing there with my mouth hanging open, staring, but one of the guys in the group finally notices. He casts a furtive look at the Jell-O thief, jutting his head in my direction.

What the hell am I going to say? Without being too obvious, I frantically search the room for my sister’s fiery red hair. Where is she? Gone, leaving me here to deal with . . . My breath catches as I watch the Jell-O thief turn with slow, leisurely movement to face me dead on.

This guy’s tongue was in my mouth? This guy . . .this tall, giant Adonis with dark wavy hair, tanned skin, and a body to tempt a blind nun . . . had his tongue in my mouth.

Oh God. The sweat is back! All those weeks of speed-dating for nothing! I feel the trickles—multiple ones—run down between my shoulder blades as his coffee-colored eyes do a quick scan down and up my body before settling on my face. And then one side of his mouth curves up and he offers me an arrogant smirk. “Not bad.”

I’m still not sure what my first words would have been to him. But then he had to go and say those two little words with that cocky little grin . . .

So I haul back and punch him in the jaw.

I’ve only punched one other person before. My sister’s boyfriend, Trent, and that was because he broke Kacey’s heart. It took weeks for my hand to heal. Since then, Trent taught me how to throw a punch, with my thumb wrapped around the outside of my knuckles and my wrist tilted downward.

I really love Trent right now.

I hear the howls of laughter from around us as the Jell-O thief rubs his jaw, wincing and adjusting it this way and that to test it out. That’s how I know that it hurt. If I weren’t so rattled by the fact that this guy had just forcefully French-kissed me, I’d probably have a giant grin on my face. He deserved it. He didn’t just steal my shooter. He stole my first kiss.

He takes a step toward me and I instinctively retreat, only to find my back pressed up against the wall once again. A sly smile creeps over his mouth, as if knowing that I’m cornered and pleased by it. Closing the distance, his arms stretch out, his hands pressing up against the wall on either side of my face, his broad body, his towering height, his entire presence effectively boxing me in. And I suddenly can’t breathe. This is suffocating. I try peering around him, looking for my sister, but I can’t see anything past flesh and muscle. And I don’t know where to look because no matter where I do, he’s there. Finally, I hazard a glance up. Heated eyes as dark as midnight bore into my face. I swallow, my stomach doing several full somersaults.

“That’s one hell of a swing for someone so . . .” He moves one hand down and closer to my arm. I feel a thumb graze along my bicep. “Female.” I shiver responsively and a visual flashes through my mind—a shaking rabbit, cornered by a wolf. He cocks his head and I catch curiosity flitter past. “So you’re shy . . .but not too shy to punch me across the face.” There’s a pause, and then he offers me another crooked smile laced with arrogance. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t help myself. You looked like you were really enjoying that shooter. I had to taste it for myself.”

Swallowing, I manage to pull my arms up and across my chest in an attempt to force some barrier between his chest and mine. My voice decidedly shaky, I say, “And?”

The grins widens, his eyes dropping to stare at my mouth for so long that I don’t think I’m going to get an answer out of him. But I finally do. One that comes after he licks his bottom lip. “And I could go for another one. You game?”

My body instinctively presses against the wall as I try to meld into it, to get away from this guy and whatever lewd intentions he has.

“All right, that’s enough!” A wave of relief sweeps over me as a delicate hand slips between us, landing against the Jell-O thief’s bare chest and pushing him back. He submits, slowly retreating, arms raised as if in surrender. He turns to rejoin his friends.

“Way to start off, Livie. I think that should keep Stayner off your back for a while,” Kacey says, barely able to get the words out through her laughter. She’s laughing!

“It’s not funny, Kacey!” I hiss. “That guy forced himself on me!”

She rolls her eyes but then, after a long pause, she sighs. “Yeah, you’re right.” Reaching over, she pinches the guy’s arm without hesitation. “Hey, buddy!”

He turns back toward us with a scowl, mouthing “fuck” as he rubs his arm. The scowl lasts only a second before he sees Kacey’s glare. Or rather, her face and her body. And then that stupid grin is back. Huge surprise.

“You do that to her again and I’ll sneak into your room and rip your balls off while you sleep, capisce?” she warns with a pointed finger. Most times my sister’s threats involve the mutilation of testicles.

The Jell-O thief doesn’t respond at first. He simply stares at her and my sister levels him with her own stare, completely unfazed. But then his gaze flickers back and forth between the two of us. “You guys sisters? You look alike.” We get that a lot so I’m not surprised, though I don’t see it. We both have the same light blue eyes and pale skin. But my hair is jet black and I’m taller than Kacey.

“Pretty and smart. You’ve got a real winner on your hands, Livie!” Kacey shouts extra loud so both of us can hear.

He shrugs and the cocky grin is back. “I’ve never had two sisters. . . . ” he begins with a suggestive arched brow.

Oh. My. God.

“And you never will. Not these two sisters, anyway.”

He shrugs. “Not at the same time, maybe.”

“Don’t worry. When my baby sister gets laid for the first time, it won’t be with you.”

“Kacey!” I gasp, my eyes darting to his face, praying that the loud music drowned out her words. By the flash of surprise I detect there, I know that it didn’t.

I grab hold of her arm and tug her away. She’s already sputtering apologies. “Jeez, Livie. I’m sorry. I guess I’m drunk. Loose lips . . .”

“Do you know what you just did?”

“Painted a big virginal bull’s-eye on your back?” Kacey confirms with a scrunched-up face.

With a cautious glance over my shoulder, I find him back with a group of guys, chuckling as he sips on his beer. But those piercing eyes stay on me. When he catches me looking, he reaches over to take one of his friend’s Dixie cups. He holds it up, making a show of his tongue sliding over the top before quirking his brow and mouthing, “Your turn?”

My head whips back around and glare at my sister. I snap, “I should have just let you wear that damn T-shirt!” I may be inexperienced and naïve in some manners, but I know full well that a guy like that discovering an eighteen-year-old virgin is his idea of finding that ever illusive pot of gold at the end of a rainbow.

“I’m sorry . . .” She shrugs, glancing back at him. “Gotta admit he’s hot, though, Livie. He looks like a Mediterranean underwear model. There’d be no coyote-ugly situation in the morning there.”

I sigh. I don’t know why Kacey seems hell-bent on getting me to trade in my “V-card.” For years, she never cared. In fact, she seemed happy that I didn’t date in high school. But lately she’s been driven by this notion that I’m sexually repressed. I swear I’m beginning to loathe her choice to go into psychology.

“Just look at him!”

“No,” I refuse stubbornly.

“Fine,” she mutters, grabbing four shooters off a platter that a stocky guy in a kilt—a kilt, at a toga party?—carries past. “But if you were planning on giving it up anytime, I’ll bet that would be a memorable way to do it. I’m sure he’d quickly get you up to speed on all that you’ve missed these past few years.”

“Including gonorrhea and crabs?” I mumble, staring at the two blue shooter cups in my hand. I’m thankful for the dark as I feel my cheeks flush deeply. Bringing the one to my mouth as I had before, I let my tongue skate across the top of it, mentally reliving the seconds of that—I refuse to acknowledge that as my first kiss—that thing he did to me.

“Bottoms up!” Kacey sucks hers back in rapid succession.

I follow her lead with the first. With the second one at my mouth, I stupidly hazard a sideways glance, assuming he’s moved on to another unsuspecting victim. But he hasn’t. He’s there, surrounded by a few girls, one with her hand against the tattoo on his chest. But he’s still watching me. Still smiling. Except now it’s this strange, dark smile, as if he has a secret.

I guess he does. My secret.

A nervous thrill fires through me as my cup sits frozen at my lips.

“That’s Ashton Henley!” someone yells into my ear. With a start, I turn to find Reagan next to me, a beer in one hand and a shooter in the other. She’s so short that she needs to be on tiptoes to reach my ear.

“How do you know who he is?” I ask, embarrassed to be caught ogling.

“He’s the captain of the Princeton Heavyweight rowing team. My dad is the coach,” she explains, her speech slurring slightly. Her hand waves around the room in a wide spiral. “I know a lot of these guys.” That explains her social ease, I guess. “And I think you’ve caught his attention, roomie,” she adds with a sly wink.

I shrug and give her a tight smile, wanting to change subjects before we give him the satisfaction of figuring out we’re talking about him. But as I glance around the room at the little pockets of females and see the glances in his direction—some furtive, some downright obvious—I’m sure there’s no shortage of attention on this Ashton guy.

Reagan confirms that a second later. “And he’s pretty much the hottest guy at this school.” She takes a sip of her beer. “And also, a giant ass.”

“That much, I gathered,” I murmur, more to myself than to her. I suck back my shooter, intentionally turning my back to him, hoping he’ll redirect his predatory stare to a willing recipient.

“And a bit of a man whore.”

This just keeps getting better and better. “I’m sure he’ll have no trouble finding someone to . . . whore it up with.” Someone who isn’t me.

I’m not sure if I’m officially drunk or Kacey is a magician, but she does a twirl and two more shooters land in my hand. The music has picked up tempo and volume and now I feel it vibrating through my entire body, making my hips sway of their own accord to the beat.