Chapter 2
Rhea
"You know what happens to good girls who never let loose?" Nat calls, her voice a little muffled as she wades through every piece of clothing I own. "They snap one day and end up on the evening news."
I lean against the doorframe of my bedroom, arms crossed over my chest as I watch Hurricane Natalie tear through my closet. Our tiny apartment feels even smaller with most of my wardrobe strewn across every available surface.
"That's not helping your case," I point out with a bemused chuckle. "If anything, you're giving me more reasons to stay home and study."
"Oh please." She emerges from the depths of my closet dangling a powder blue cardigan off the end of her finger like it personally offends her. "When did you even buy this? 1952?"
"It's cozy!"
"It's a crime against fashion is what it is. Look at where we live, for fuck’s sake. Cozy shouldn’t be in your vocabulary." She tosses it onto the growing 'absolutely not' pile with dramatic flair. "We're seniors now, babe. Time is running out. This year is your last chance to make some truly questionable decisions before real life kicks in."
I chew on my lip, already knowing I'm fighting a losing battle. "I make plenty of questionable decisions."
"Reading research papers on a Friday night doesn't count." Nat dives back into the closet. "Neither does swooning over Professor Dreamboat in class."
I roll my eyes so forcefully they almost get stuck in the back of my skull. "You managed to go a whole two days without bringing that up."
"Two days too long," she snorts. "It’s my favorite topic." Her voice drops an octave in what I assume is meant to be an impression of Professor Shaw. "Miss Foster, would you care to elaborate?"
I huff. "I hate you."
"You love me. Now strip, you're trying this on for me." She makes a brief exit to her own bedroom before returning triumphant with a scrap of black fabric I've never seen before.
"That's not happening."
"You bet your ass it’s happening. It's your size, and it's perfect." She dangles the dress in front of me. "Come on, those legs deserve a night out."
Twenty minutes later, I'm tugging uselessly at the hem of the miniscule bodycon dress while Nat attacks my face with various brushes and powders. The fabric barely skims mid-thigh, and I swear I can feel a draft in places I'd rather not think about.
"Stop fidgeting," Nat commands, flicking a golden curl over her shoulder and wielding an eyeliner pencil like a weapon. "You look hot as fuck."
"I look like I'm charging by the hour."
"You look like a college senior who's ready to have some fun." She steps back to survey her work, nodding approvingly as if she just painted the Mona Lisa. "Now hold still, I have to do your lips."
By the time we step out of our Uber, my feet are already protesting in the heels Nat insisted would 'complete the look.' Of course, she trots around in her own sky-high stilettos with all the grace of a gazelle-come-supermodel. The frat house looms before us like an ominous gauntlet, music pulsing through its walls hard enough to rattle the windows. Red cups litter the front lawn, and the porch is crowded with people taking smoke breaks or making out against the railing.
"This is a terrible idea," I mutter as Nat drags me toward the door.
"This is the best idea. Now come on, I need a drink."
The interior of the house is a mass of writhing bodies, the air thick with the scent of sweat and cheap beer. Nat immediately starts weaving through the crowd toward what I assume is the kitchen, but I lose sight of her hot pink mini dress in seconds.
Great.
I press myself against the nearest wall, trying to become one with the tacky wallpaper as I survey the room without drawing attention to myself. There's a beer pong tournament happening in one corner, a dance floor that's really just a cleared area in the middle of the room, and various couples testing the structural integrity of the furniture in every direction.
And that's when I feel it—the weight of someone's stare heavy on my skin like a physical touch. My eyes scan the space again for the source and soon lock with a pair of steel blue ones. The owner of those eyes is surrounded by what can only be described as a gaggle of obvious frat bros, red cup in one hand while the other braces against the wall beside him. Everything about his stance screams arrogance, from the way his muscled arms flex beneath his rolled-up sleeves to the predatory tilt of his head.
He whispers something to his friends, and they all turn to look at me. My skin crawls under their collective gaze, especially when one of them elbows the blue-eyed one and whispers something behind his hand.
I need to find Nat. Now.
But before I can peel myself away from the wall, Blue Eyes pushes off from his perch. His friends whoop and holler as he starts making his way through the crowd toward me, prowling like he already knows I'm cornered prey.
My heart leaps into my throat.
Oh shit.
The crowd seems to part for him like he owns the place—which, given the Greek letters on his shirt, he might actually. Each loping step brings him closer, until I can smell his cologne cutting through the stale beer air.
He plants one hand on the wall beside my head, effectively caging me in. "Well, well… What do we have here?"
The smirk playing across his lips makes my stomach flip, though whether from fierce attraction or pure revulsion, I'm not quite sure. Up close, he's devastating with a sharp jawline, perfectly messy dark hair, and those icy eyes dancing with mischief.
It takes me an entire minute to realize I haven’t given him a response, though he doesn’t seem deterred.
"Want a tour of the house, Red?" His voice is pure, deep sin wrapped in saccharine charm as he twirls a lock of my auburn hair around his finger.
I lift my chin, refusing to appear as intimidated as I feel. "No thanks. I’m good."
"Come on, baby." He leans closer, his breath hot against my ear. "I don't bite...unless you're into that."
My pulse quickens traitorously. I try to step around him, but he mirrors my movement, still wearing that insufferable grin.
"Why so jumpy?" he drawls. "You’re scanning the room like you’ve never seen a party before. A little out of your depth?"
"I've been to plenty." The lie tastes bitter on my tongue. "Now if you'll excuse me?—"
"See, I don't think you have." His eyes rake down my body, lingering on the hem of Nat's borrowed dress. "I'd remember seeing you around. A pretty little thing like you doesn't just slip under my radar."
"Maybe you're not as observant as you think."
His eyebrows shoot up, amusement flickering across his features. Before he can respond, a voice calls out from behind him.
"Yo, Dean! She giving you trouble?"
Oh, joy. His audience is gathering.
Three more frat guys sidle up, forming a loose circle around us. My back presses harder against the wall as my escape routes dwindle.
"Nah, I’m good, Brett," Dean says, never taking his eyes off me. "Red here's just playing hard to get."
"I'm not playing anything," I snap. "I'm genuinely not interested."
Another one of his buddies whistles low. "Damn, she's got claws."
"I like 'em feisty," Dean grins. He braces his other hand on the wall, completely boxing me in now. "Bet you're the type who's never let loose in your life. All that tension just waiting to explode."
I press my lips together in a thin line, willing away the heat creeping up my neck. "You don't know anything about me."
"I know your type." His voice drops lower, meant just for me despite his friends hanging on every word. "Lemme guess… Straight-A student, always following the rules, probably never done anything crazy in your life, and you’ve definitely never worn a dress like that before. Borrowed from a friend, right? Am I getting warm?"
His audience snickers. I want to sink through the floor.
"What's wrong with getting good grades?" I squeak, betraying my confidence.
"Nothing at all, sweetheart." Dean smirks, the endearment dripping with condescension. "But there's more to college than books and lectures. When's the last time you had some fun?"
"This is fun for you?" I gesture at our little tableau, my embarrassment shifting to anger. "Cornering girls at parties like pack animals?"
"Only the pretty ones who look like they need saving from themselves."
The douche named Brett pipes up, "Careful Dean, she probably doesn't even know what to do with a guy like you."
"Virgin alert!" another one crows.
My cheeks flame hotter as their laughter echoes off the walls. Dean's eyes narrow, studying my reaction with newfound interest.
"That true, Red? Never been touched?"
"That's none of your business."
"Oh damn," he chuckles darkly. "That blush says it all."
It feels like the group is closing in now, like sharks scenting blood in the water. Each snide comment lands like a physical blow.
"No wonder she looks so uptight."
"Probably saving herself for marriage."
"Bet she's never even been kissed."
Dean leans impossibly closer again, his cologne making my head spin. "Nothing wrong with being innocent, baby. I'd be happy to show you a thing or two. I’m sure I could blow your mind."
Something snaps inside me. All the humiliation and anger crystallize into a sharp edge of defiance. I meet his gaze head-on, voice steady despite my racing heart.
"I’m not innocent," I grit out. "And I am definitely not a virgin."
His eyes flash with challenge. "No? Could've fooled me."
"I don't care what you think."
"Then prove it." He's moved so close now I can feel the heat radiating off his broad body. "Show me what you can do."
The chant behind him starts low but quickly builds: "Virgin! Virgin! Virgin!"
My vision blurs with angry tears. This is exactly why I hate parties, and why I prefer the safety of home and my books. At least research literature doesn't try to humiliate you for sport.
"I am not a virgin!" The words explode from me before I can stop them, echoing in the sudden quiet. Even the music seems to have dimmed, or maybe that's just the blood rushing in my ears. "You're all disgusting," I spit out. "Why would I have any interest in entitled jerks like you who think public humiliation is a fun Friday night activity?"
Something morphs then in Dean's expression, and it softens slightly—a crack in his arrogant facade. For just a moment, I catch a glimpse of something else beyond the bravado. Regret maybe. But then his friends whoop and holler at my outburst, and the mask slides back into place.
I don't wait to hear what else he has to say. Ducking under his arm, I shove through the crowd, not caring who I bump into. Someone's drink sloshes over my arm, but I barely notice. I just need to get out.
The night air hits me like a slap when I burst through the front door. My lungs burn as I gulp it down, trying to steady myself though I haven’t had even a drop of alcohol. The porch is mercifully empty now. I try not to convince myself that everyone must have migrated inside to watch my humiliation.
That’s what I get for simply just walking in? Unbelievable. I’m never going out again.
Stumbling a little down the steps, I catch my reflection in a parked car's window. Nat's careful makeup job is ruined, black streaks painting my cheeks where I didn't even realize I'd started crying. I look exactly like what I am…
A girl who doesn't belong here.
My hands shake as I pull out my phone, typing out a quick text to Nat.
Me: I'm going home. Stay if you want.
The message sends just as I hear the front door open behind me. I don't turn around, but I can feel his presence on the porch. The weight of Dean's stare burns between my shoulder blades.
For a moment, the only sound is the muffled bass from inside and the chirp of crickets. I wait for another taunt, another jab, but nothing comes. When I finally risk a glance over my shoulder, I catch his expression in the porch light. His brows are furrowed, and lips parted like he wants to say something.
But his friends appear behind him, clapping him on the back and drawing him into their orbit again. Whatever he might have said dies on his tongue.
I kick off Nat's torture devices masquerading as shoes, letting the rough sidewalk scratch against my bare feet as I start the long walk home. The dress that felt maybe a little sexy an hour ago now feels like a grotesque costume I can't wait to shed.
My phone buzzes—probably Nat asking what happened, or insisting I come back—but I ignore it. The street is eerily quiet this late, streetlights casting long shadows that seem to reach for me like grasping fingers. The shiver that wracks my bones has nothing to do with the mild temperature.
Every car that passes makes my heart jump, wondering if it's Dean or his friends coming to continue their fun. But they never do. I'm left alone with my thoughts and my shame, heels dangling from one hand while the other wraps around my middle like I can physically hold myself together.
By the time I reach our apartment, my feet are filthy and probably scraped up, but I barely feel it. I just want to shower off this night, crawl into bed, and pretend none of it ever happened.
But as I fumble with my keys, Dean's face flashes in my mind again. It’s not the cruel smirk or the predatory grin, but that last glimpse of something else. Something that looked almost like he wanted to apologize.
I shake it off. It doesn't matter what he might have wanted to say. Guys like him don't apologize. They just move on to their next target, leaving destruction in their wake without a second thought.
I’ll be happy to never see him again.