The Charlie Method (Campus Diaries #3)

Chapter One Charlotte

CHAPTER ONE

CHARLOTTE

Some might say I lead a double life

N EVER HOOK UP IN CARS WITH FOOTBALL PLAYERS .

That’s what my mother always told me.

Fine, I’m lying. Mom never said that. But I can say with absolute certainty that my mother would not approve of what I’m doing right now.

Or rather who I’m about to do.

Isaac Grant is six foot six, muscular, and barely fits in the front seat of his own car. It’s a sports car, of course. A silver Porsche 911 coupe that made me lick my lips when I pulled into the lot behind the Hastings seniors’ center and saw it parked there. This car is so sexy it makes me shiver.

Or maybe it’s Isaac who’s making me shiver, on account of his tongue exploring my mouth, teasing mine with slow, skillful strokes. He’s a good kisser. Meanwhile, his fingers are moving inside me. He’s good at that too. He curls those two fingers to find my sweet spot, and the resulting torrent of pleasure has me clenching around his hand.

“Mmm, baby,” he groans against my lips. “I can’t wait to feel you squeezing my cock.”

A bolt of desire shoots through me. Dirty talk is such a turn-on. My inner muscles do indeed squeeze at his wicked words, as if trying to capture his fingers inside me. Isaac releases another strangled sound of need. I’m shameless as I grind against him, but he doesn’t seem to mind my total lack of control.

He starts kissing my neck. Goose bumps rise along my flesh, transforming into a flurry of shivers when I feel him against my thigh. A long, hard ridge that seems to never end, confirming my best friend Faith’s theory that the size of a man’s hands correlates to the size of the D.

Speaking of Faith, I’m about ten seconds from a raging orgasm when her ringtone slices through the fog of heavy breathing in the front seat.

“Shit,” I mumble, the movements of my hips stilling.

“Don’t answer it,” Isaac mumbles back.

“I have to.”

With great regret, I lean toward the passenger side, where I left my phone.

Faith Grierson is the only person aware of my current location. The only person privy to the clandestine hookups I occasionally like to engage in. Sure, I could’ve met Isaac tonight without alerting a single soul and saved myself the good-natured jabs I’ll receive later, but on the off chance that the star wide receiver of the football team also masquerades as a murderer, it’s better to let Faith know where I’m going to be. She won’t judge me.

“Nooo,” Isaac complains when my fingers close around my phone.

“I’m sorry. Could be an emergency.” I lift the phone to my ear. “Hey, what’s up?”

“Sorry to interrupt, but apparently we’ve got a Presidents’ Gala meeting tonight.”

“No, we don’t. It’s tomorrow.”

“Well, you see, Charlotte,” Faith answers in her trademark dry inflection, “ I know it’s tomorrow, and you know it’s tomorrow, but you know who doesn’t know it’s tomorrow and has decided to gaslight the entire house into believing we’re in the wrong?”

“Fuckin’ Agatha,” I grumble.

“Fuckin’ Agatha,” she confirms. Her laughter tickles my ear. “I told her you’re on your way, so you’d better book it over here if you don’t want a two-hour scolding session tomorrow.”

“Ugh. I’ll be there soon. Thanks for the heads-up.”

I end the call and curse under my breath. Agatha Buckley-Ellis does this shit on a regular basis. The president of Delta Pi, Briar University chapter, is incapable of admitting when she’s wrong or if she’s made a mistake. Instead, she’ll dig herself into a hole so deep, it’s a wonder she doesn’t wind up in another state.

The meeting was 100 percent, unequivocally, tomorrow. My calendar is not the Wild West—not a single item makes it on there without proper confirmation. It’s probably not something I should brag about, but I’m a straight up anal-retentive psycho when it comes to my calendar.

Besides, we never hold meetings on Friday nights. Everyone knows Agatha’s right-hand woman, Sherise, has a standing Friday night appointment at the salon in Hastings to touch up her grays. Sherise claims she started going gray at the temples in the tenth grade—supposedly early female graying runs in her family—but Faith and I like to think it’s on account of Agatha. Our sorority president is capable of inflicting a staggering amount of stress.

“I’m so sorry,” I tell Isaac. “I totally forgot about an important meeting.”

“What are you, some high-powered businesswoman?”

“No, but I’m on the Delta Pi exec board, so I need to be there.”

He stares at me. A glance south reveals that his erection is deflating, though even in its semisolid state of matter, it remains impressive.

“Are you okay?” I ask as I climb off his lap. The passenger seat doesn’t provide much room either, but I manage to wiggle back into my lacy white underwear and smooth my pleated skirt over my thighs.

The football player beside me continues to stare. “I need you to be honest with me.”

“Okay?” I finger-comb my hair before tucking it behind my ears.

“Do I repel you?”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“Do I repel you?” he repeats through clenched teeth. The veins in his forearm bulge as he rubs the bridge of his nose. This is clearly painful for him.

“Isaac…you just had your fingers inside me,” I remind him.

“Yeah, and now you’re running away. Is it because I didn’t make you come?”

Oh my God. I know laughter is not the appropriate response in this situation, but it’s getting more and more difficult to contain mine. It bubbles deep in my throat, demanding to be free.

“Is that it?” he pushes.

“No.” I inject as much reassurance into my tone as I can. “I was seconds away from coming, I promise.”

“Really.”

“Dead serious. I just forgot I have a house meeting tonight.”

As if I hadn’t even spoken, he says, “Am I undesirable?”

I gape at him. “You’re Isaac Grant.”

“Well, yeah, I thought I was. Usually I can pull chicks without even trying. I walk into a room, and there’s, like, five thousand women ready to go home with me, and all of a sudden, one of them isn’t into me? Suddenly someone is, like, wait, are you flirting with me? Sorry, I have plans, see you later .” He moans in outrage. “I thought I was Isaac Grant!”

“Oh, sweetie. Is someone making you doubt who you are?”

“No.”

He’s obviously lying. The example he gave was very specific.

I reach over the center console and pat his huge bicep. “Whoever she is, she’s not worth this turmoil.” I wave my hand to gesture at his broad, muscular frame. “You’re a god. Your body is…” My eyes glaze over for a second, and I find myself leaning in as if to kiss him before realizing what I’m doing and snapping myself out of it. “Trust me. You’re gorgeous. And your finger game is stellar. Forget this girl.”

His lips curve into a hopeful smile. “Do I have to forget you too?”

“Huh?”

“That’s what you said outside the Coffee Hut yesterday, remember? That you’d meet up with me tonight and then we’d forget it ever happened.”

“ Pretend it never happened,” I correct.

It’s the standard line I offer my hookups. If you see me on campus again, pretend we don’t know each other. I don’t need a gaggle of smitten men waddling up to me raving about our one-night stand when I’m with my prissy Delta Pi sisters.

Although to be honest, the last person I expected to arrange a hookup with was Isaac Grant. When he started flirting with me at the campus coffee shop yesterday, I was prepared to brush him off. Instead, he won me over. I’m still confused about how he did it. The guy has nothing to worry about in the charm department, that’s for sure.

“Technically, this doesn’t count as a proper meetup,” he tells me, waggling his eyebrows. “On account of neither of us finishing.”

“Maybe, but this was my only free night for the next few weeks, so…” I lean in and kiss him on the cheek. “To be continued. And if not, it was nice meeting you. But I really have to go now.”

“Drive safe,” he says.

“I will.”

I hop out of his Porsche and dart toward the hand-me-down sedan I got from my sister Ava when she graduated from Briar four years ago. Everyone in my family has attended this university. My mom is a legacy at Delta Pi, which is why I had no choice but to pledge freshman year. If it were up to me, I wouldn’t have joined a sorority. Or at least I’d have picked a more fun one. Instead, I’m forced to race home from Hastings because our president is a tyrant.

Only ten minutes from the Briar campus, Hastings is a quintessential East Coast small town complete with an idyllic main street, one-of-a-kind shops, and a historic town square. Isaac and I met behind the senior center tonight, since the parking lot there turns into a ghost town the moment the clock strikes four p.m. and Hastings’s elderly flock to the diner for their early-bird dinners. He lives nearby on one of the tree-lined residential streets, but I didn’t want to go to the house he shares with three other football players, because I don’t need that kind of visibility.

Some might say I lead a double life.

Fine. Faith says that.

But my best friend is only half-correct. It’s not a double life so much as an extremely private one. There are activities I like to partake in, risks I sometimes take, that aren’t in line with the image I’m expected to maintain.

To my family, I’m hardworking, responsible Charlotte. I’m their perfect daughter, their darling sister.

To my sorority sisters, I’m a legacy who’s strong but demure, confident but chaste.

I’m supposed to make my parents proud and serve as a role model for my freshman sisters. And I’m pretty sure banging a hot football player in a deserted parking lot isn’t role-model material.

I guess when it comes down to it, though, I hate disappointing people. The mere notion almost makes me break out in hives. So really, if I’m to avoid the crushing sensation of seeing deep disappointment in my family’s and friends’ eyes, then keeping my less-than-respectable extracurriculars under wraps is critical.

I make the quick drive back to Briar, slowing the car when I turn onto the broad streets that make up Greek Row. Most of the houses here only offer permitted street parking, but Delta Pi sits on the end of the street and has its own parking area for our members’ cars.

The Delta Pi house is also undeniably the most impressive of Greek Row. It’s a stately three-story mansion with white columns framing the entrance and ivy climbing up one side of the brick exterior. The ivy isn’t green anymore, no longer the vibrant full bloom of spring and summer, but the browned strands refuse to relinquish their grip on the brick exterior, stubbornly clinging to the walls.

I grab my laptop bag from the passenger seat, then hurry up the wide steps toward double doors adorned with gleaming brass knockers. The knockers are deceptive—to get inside, you need to enter a passcode into the far more modern keypad affixed to the frame. Above the front doors, our Greek letters are proudly displayed in gold.

Everything about Delta Pi exudes an air of elegance and exclusivity. We are not a party sorority. We’re the sorority of senators’ wives and First Ladies. Sometime in the last few decades, it was decided we could be politicians and careerwomen ourselves, but don’t go too hard on the feminism, girls. We’re still expected to submit to the patriarchy. Agatha literally said those exact words to our pledges back in September.

Ugh. I can practically hear her condescending voice. It makes me want to turn around and run back to my car.

But I draw a breath and accept my fate, entering the code to unlock the front door. The moment I step inside, I hear the loud chatter of female voices drifting out of the dining room.

I can’t deny that living in a house full of girls cramps my style. There is zero privacy. Nil. Which means zero shot of bringing my hookups home. In fact, men aren’t even allowed upstairs. The patriarchy doesn’t condone sleepovers. Can’t have all these future wives banging horny frat boys and hipster art majors. We don’t throw parties either, except those of the dinner variety, which our house hosts twice a year. I’m talking fine china, full catering, and cocktail attire.

At our last dinner, Faith committed a severe infraction by sneaking her date upstairs. They fooled around until one of Agatha’s minions narced on her, and Faith had to attend a meeting with the executive board to determine her punishment for such a heinous act.

As vice president of finance, I was part of the grueling deliberations. I voted against logging a warning in Faith’s file but was outvoted by the others. I sit on an exec board that thirsts for blood.

My ballet flats snap against the hardwood floor in the foyer as I race past the sweeping staircase that spirals up to the second floor. A crystal chandelier hangs from the ceiling, casting a silvery glow over the space. The interior of the house is as pristine as its exterior. Agatha runs a tight ship, so our chore schedule is nonnegotiable.

The dining room features a long mahogany table that can seat up to thirty members for formal dinners and weekly meetings. More chandeliers hang overhead, and across the room are two sets of french doors that open out onto a large back porch with wicker furniture. Everything about this place screams East Coast wealth.

When I enter, everyone is already seated around the table. Our chapter has about a hundred members, but only thirty live in the house, and there are never more than fifty who attend any given meeting.

Everyone’s gazes shift toward me. Agatha, our illustrious president, raises an impeccably plucked eyebrow.

“Look who decided to grace us with her presence.” Her voice drips with faux sweetness.

“I’m so sorry,” I tell her. “I had this on my calendar for tomorrow.”

I paste on my most apologetic smile as I rush toward my usual seat next to our VP, Sherise, a gorgeous Black girl with dark, studious eyes and lips that curl in disapproval at my tardiness. The members of our exec board take these posts very seriously.

The girls who don’t have chairs, mostly pledges and underclassmen, stand against the walls during these meetings like they’re toddlers on a time-out.

The moment my butt hits the chair, I bend over to pull my laptop out of my bag. I can feel Agatha’s gaze boring into me the entire time.

When I look up, she tilts her head and examines me like I’m a bug she’s debating on squashing. “Punctuality is a key virtue of a Delta Pi sister, Charlotte. Particularly for our VPF, who we’re supposed to trust above all others.”

Above all others? Why? Am I the pope?

I’m just the money man. I prepare the annual chapter budget. I monitor all revenue and expenses. If I’m lucky, sometimes I get to audit the books, but even I know that my role in this sorority could be performed by anybody who knows how to do basic math.

Hell, I didn’t care about the post in the first place and probably wouldn’t have leaned into the whole “Asians are good at math” stereotype if not for the fact that my mom was VPF when she was a member here. And she really wanted me to be on the exec board. I mean, she didn’t say that, but I knew it would mean a lot to her if I followed in her footsteps, especially since my older sister wanted no part of the sorority experience.

“Understood. I’ll do better at managing my calendar,” I say while avoiding Faith’s eyes. I can feel them gleaming with humor.

Agatha squints slightly as if she’s trying to figure out if I’m being sarcastic. She’s obviously disappointed I didn’t grovel more, but the entire dining room is waiting on us, so she nods and says, “Let’s get started.”

She takes her seat at the head of the table and clasps her hands on the gleaming tabletop, her French-tipped fingers lacing together. She’s wearing a strand of pearls around her neck.

I swear, only Agatha Buckley-Ellis would wear pearls to a house meeting. Her entire life revolves around maintaining an impeccable image. Her wardrobe is a curated collection of designer clothes, all perfectly coordinated in pastels or preppy patterns, and she never leaves her bedroom without flawless makeup and perfectly styled hair.

We’re discussing the Presidents’ Gala tonight, an annual event we hold in January to celebrate former Delta Pi presidents. Normally I would tune out Samantha, our VP of programming, who oversees the planning of all chapter events, but it just so happens that one of the two honorees at this year’s gala is my mother. But as Samantha drones on about guest lists and potential venues, inside I’m rolling my eyes so hard I’m at risk of spraining my optic nerve. She always speaks in this deeply serious tone, as if planning charity events and mixers is on par with brain surgery.

For the next hour, I take notes, speaking only when someone asks whether we can afford something. When the meeting finally adjourns, I’m one of the first people out of my chair.

Faith grabs my arm in the hall and brings her head close to mine, her dark curls bouncing and sending a whiff of strawberry shampoo into my nostrils.

“Please tell me you were at least able to have one orgasm before I interrupted,” she whispers in my ear.

I glumly rest my head on her shoulder. “Nope.”

“I’m sorry. I felt so bad bothering you.”

“No, it’s fine. I never would’ve heard the end of it if I missed the meeting.”

I catch sight of Blake Logan in the spacious foyer, waiting for me. I lift my hand in a quick wave, then glance at Faith. “I need to talk to Blake. Wanna chill in my room afterward and watch something?”

“Can’t. I’m going to Fairview House to hang out with some friends from class. You’re welcome to join.”

“Thanks, but I don’t feel like going back out.”

“Are you still going to see your family tomorrow?”

I nod. “Heading out in the morning.”

She gives me a pointed look. “And this time you’re going to tell them?”

“That’s the plan,” I say lightly.

It was also the plan last weekend. Instead, I made the two-and-a-half-hour drive to Connecticut only to chicken out and not share the real reason for my visit. I simply ate lunch with my parents and then drove all the way back to Briar. A five-hour commute for an hour-long lunch. And people think I’m intelligent.

“Okay, well, if you need the moral support, secretly put me on speakerphone, and I’ll send you waves of encouragement through the phone,” Faith promises.

“Deal.”

After she hugs me goodbye and darts off, I join Blake in the foyer. The pretty, freckle-faced brunette is my Little this year. I’ve always disliked that term—she’s a freshman, not a preschooler. Alas, you can’t fight tradition. Delta Pi even holds an entire ceremony for the Big-Little reveal after pledge week. It’s nauseatingly sweet, involving themed gifts and an elaborate unveiling like we’re new parents popping balloons to see if the glitter inside is pink or blue.

I don’t mind the mentoring element of it. My job this year is to guide her, and we try to meet once a week to talk through her goals, academics, or whatever else might be on her mind.

“Hey,” I say, squeezing her arm in greeting.

I notice the bracelet around her wrist—it’s the one I gave her at the Big-Little party—and I’m touched to see her wearing it. The smooth teal stones are meant to help you find clarity, or at least that’s what the lady at the holistic boutique in Hastings claimed. It seemed fitting for Blake because she admitted during rush that she has no idea what she wants to do with her life. She still hasn’t picked a major, which is normal for most freshmen, but Agatha is very strict about the Delta Pi sisters having purpose, structure, and a Plan, capital P.

“How was your week?” I ask her.

Blake doesn’t live at the house—Briar freshmen are required to live in the dorms—but it’s mandatory for new sisters to attend all meetings. They pretty much must be dead or dying to skip one.

“It was good. I wanted to talk to you about my broadcasting class, though. Maybe we can meet for breakfast on Sunday—” She jerks abruptly, reaching into her pocket. “Sorry. Vibrate mode. That scared the crap out of me.”

I grin, watching as she pulls out her phone. She checks the screen, rolls her eyes, and slides the sleek black device back in her pocket.

“Who was that?”

“Nobody important. Well, someone who wants to be important,” she amends. Before I can question her further, she says, “Anyway, Sunday breakfast? I could come here, or we could meet at Carver Hall. I heard their omelet station slays.”

“Let’s do Carver. Should I bring my laptop? Do we require any in-depth list writing?”

She presses her lips together as if stifling a laugh. “I just need you to know that the orgasmic look you get when you talk about making lists is a bit…scary.”

“I know,” I sigh. “I’ll try to contain my arousal.”

Blake snorts.

“C’mon, I’ll walk you out,” I tell her.

We reach the front doors at the same time as Noelle and Veda, who thought they were being stealthy about sneaking out.

“Going somewhere?” I ask in amusement.

They both spin around, guilt etched into their fair faces. I note that neither of them is wearing Agatha-approved attire.

“There’s a party at Sigma.” Noelle lowers her voice, glancing over her shoulder to make sure the warden isn’t in earshot.

Fun fact: some Ivy League colleges discourage or explicitly restrict participation in Greek life. At Briar’s Delta Pi chapter? The sorority itself restricts it.

Delta Pi is considered one of the top sororities for philanthropy, leadership development, academic excellence—and sheer tedium. But while we’re discouraged from attending Greek Row parties, not even Agatha can stop college girls from wanting to enjoy themselves at college.

“Wanna come?” Noelle is practically whispering now, while sharp-eyed Veda runs point by scanning the staircase to make sure Agatha doesn’t make a surprise descent.

“We’re good,” I answer, and the two girls flee the house like fugitives.

I say goodbye to Blake, lingering in the doorway to make sure she gets into her Uber safely, then head upstairs to my bedroom. Everyone on the third floor shares a room, but upperclassmen and board members have priority and get dibs on the solo rooms on the second floor. Including yours truly.

In the hall, I pass Jia, the other Korean American sister in the house. We’re not the only Asians, though. For all Agatha’s obnoxious flaws, she’s happy to welcome BIPOC members into Delta Pi…so long as they come from means. Our esteemed leader isn’t racist. Nope, she’s classist. Your family isn’t well-off? Forget about pledging here.

I kick off my flats and lock the door—at least we’re allowed to have locks. Although Agatha did once try to propose a new house rule banning them. It happened after Fareeda’s boyfriend locked himself in her room and wouldn’t come out until she agreed not to break up with him. We had to call the fire department to pry the door open and get the dumbass out.

Everyone laughed at Agatha when she suggested getting rid of our locks. It was nice to see my Delta Pi sisters are capable of rebelling against the queen’s wishes, at least when our privacy is threatened.

After changing into pj’s, I slide under my thick white duvet and scroll on my phone. It’s barely nine thirty, but I have to wake up early tomorrow to drive to Hamden.

A few notifications pop up while I’m scrolling, all from my dating app.

Fine. It’s a sexting app. Dating? Who has time to date? My workload is intense, which is what happens when you’re in STEM. Besides, I don’t want a boyfriend right now. They require way too much work, if we’re going by my last relationship.

Mitch required constant reassurances and an inordinate amount of ego stroking. He had issues, which I don’t judge because everyone has their shit, myself included. But Mitch deserved someone who could give him a lot more than I could give. Someone more patient. Someone who didn’t accidentally blow him off because she was working late nights at the lab and lost track of time. Someone whose stress-induced libido wasn’t on constant overdrive, causing them to show up at his dorm and jump on his dick often without even saying hello.

These days, I’m happy to settle for casual sex, but it’s a fine line because I do have a reputation to uphold. A Delta Pi girl can’t be going around banging her way through campus.

Luckily, sometimes sexy texting is all you need to scratch the itch.

I open the app and enter my inbox. There’s this one guy I was talking to for a while, but his dirty talk is abysmal. I check his most recent message and have to swallow a giggle.

I’m fully engorged and throbbing for you.

How on earth is anyone supposed to get aroused by that?

Clearly, it’s time to find a new chat buddy.

I spend the next ten minutes on a swiping journey that brings a few potentials, but we’re not matches. At least not right now. I’d probably match a lot more often if I uploaded a photo with my face on it. Faith says most guys think the cute-body-no-face pics are bot accounts.

But there’s no way I’m advertising my face on a hookup app. My profile features two photos: a headless bikini shot from last summer’s family vacation to the Bahamas and me lying on my bed in a purple lace camisole and skimpy matching panties.

The latter photo is risqué, but I ensured there was nothing identifiable about it before uploading. If it does wind up online, it’s just a faceless girl on a nondescript bed. Very minimal risk of someone tracing it back to me. Or at least that was the ultimate conclusion determined by the Method, and I trust my method explicitly.

Faith makes fun of me for it, but she honestly shouldn’t knock it till she tries it. The Method has never failed me. And yes, there’s an entire document on my laptop full of Method write-ups, including whether to post sexy pictures of my body on a dating app.

I am and will forever be an obsessive nerd.

Yet I also hook up with football players in parking lots.

I’m a hot onion, as Faith once said. Layers upon layers.

I swipe through more profiles. I’m inundated with several tempting bare chests, but none of the faces are doing it for me. I’m swiping on autopilot until the app throws me a curveball: not one but two bare chests in the same photo.

The name on the profile reads LARS ) So if you’re the kinky type, let’s chat.

Let’s chat, huh?

I mean, I guess I am the kinky type. But…

But nothing. It’s not like I’m signing a blood oath to meet these guys. There’s no obligation here other than to chat with them on the app and delete them if I don’t want to keep chatting. We’re not entering into a digital marriage contract.

My finger hovers over the heart icon. I lick my lips and…tap.

Nothing happens.

All that buildup, and we’re not even a match.