Chapter 1 #2
Amelia. My full name. Tristan always calls me anything but Amy. Sometimes even nicknames like Ames, as if we’re buddies. It’s just another way to taunt me.
“You should read some literature,” I say. “It would make conversations with you less tedious. Should I explain ‘tedious’ for you? It means boring. You’re boring to talk to, Tristan.”
His smile fades. He stares at me for a long moment before his eyes flash and his nostrils flare. This is his cruel look, and a chill skitters down my spine.
It’s dangerous to make fun of Tristan. Usually, he brushes my insults off like dust, but you never know when you’re going to hit a nerve.
I need to change the subject. Fast.
“Explain this,” I say, lifting the envelope. “I know you’re the reason for it.”
He smiles slowly. “What makes you say that?”
I slap the envelope across his chest. “Because I didn’t apply. I would never apply.” I grimace. “I knew you were going to be the homecoming king.”
When I say the last part, his jaw clenches. “I just thought a shy little virgin like you could use an exciting new experience.” He smiles. “You can act out your fanfic in real life. I’ll be your Mr. Darcy.”
Heat washes over my face. I want to slap that smug smile off his face. “You’re more of a Mr. Wickham,” I say.
He chuckles. “Either way, I’d be happy to pop your cherry for you.”
I grimace. What a disgusting euphemism, if it can even be called that. And I’m not a virgin, goddammit. I’ve had sex.
A few times. With my boyfriend during freshman year.
Each time was fast and awkward and a little painful, and we broke up before we had the chance for it to get better.
I’m not a virgin, but I know exactly what Tristan is implying.
You must be a virgin because who would want you? Who would want a short, chubby girl who spends all her free time writing Jane Austen erotic fanfiction?
The anger pulsing through my veins is as heady as a drug.
He might be a fatphobic narcissist, but I’m not ashamed of my body.
I feel almost like I’m in a dream as I step forward until my chest brushes against Tristan’s.
I grab his shoulders and look up at him from under my lashes.
I slide my hands down his chest and lean up on my tiptoes so my lips brush along his prominent jaw.
Damn, he smells good. Clean and musky at the same time. Isn’t scent supposed to be the root of attraction? If it is, I should be repulsed by him right now.
I want to be repulsed by him right now.
Maybe there is some magic to Tristan that I didn’t see before. Maybe I should be more forgiving of Harper.
I strain to keep what I think is a sultry expression. “I’m not as innocent as you think,” I whisper.
His body stiffens, and his eyes widen. For the briefest moment, triumph sizzles over my skin.
He didn’t expect that. He knows I’m sassy, but he never thought I’d have the audacity to call him out on his taunt this brazenly.
I’m somehow able to stay in place even as his wide blue eyes roam my face as if he’s never seen me before. Is it just my imagination, or is his body trembling beneath my touch?
I don’t get to contemplate that further, because he wrenches away, sending me tumbling to the floor.
“Hey,” I shout, and Tristan hesitates and then steps forward, his eyes wide and dazed.
“Are you okay?” he clips out.
“Yeah, I’m fine, but—”
He doesn’t wait for me to finish. His tall form disappears into the crowd as fast as a comet.
“Fuck you,” I mutter before pushing myself up off the floor.
Clearly, all the drunk people here think it’s perfectly normal for a partygoer to fall on their ass since no one even blinked when I did.
My cheeks burn as I weave through the crowd. Why did I even come here? I didn’t need to confront Tristan. I could have just waited until tomorrow and gone to the administration office to withdraw my application.
I don’t want to do that now. Certainly not after what just happened between me and Tristan.
I want him to pay.
The problem is, I have no idea how to do that. What could I possibly do to make him suffer for his prank?
I need air. Space. A chance to breathe without inhaling the stench of cheap beer and vodka from a plastic bottle.
The hallway opens up ahead, and I quicken my pace, slipping past a couple locked in a sloppy kiss. I’m almost to the back of this stinky frat house.
Freedom.
I’m about to reach the back door when a strange noise catches my attention. Was that a moan? It didn’t sound like a sexual moan. It sounded like someone’s hurt. I halt in place, glancing around the area. A strip of light peeks under the bathroom door.
That’s where it came from.
I walk toward the bathroom door. “Is everything okay in there?”
Again, that moan, and this one sounded even more pained than the first. A chill ripples over my skin.
The knob twists, which means it isn’t locked, but I don’t push it open. What if I walk in on a couple having sex? That moan didn’t sound like pleasure, but what do I know? I’ve had three unsatisfactory sexual encounters.
And then there’s an even more mortifying possibility. What if someone is pooping in there? I’d never get over the trauma of bursting in on something like that.
But what if someone is hurt? What if they’re badly hurt, and I made the choice to ignore them? This is a frat party full of drunk assholes, after all. There could be a woman in there. I’d never forgive myself if I ignored someone in trouble.
I twist the knob again, pushing the door open slowly. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to—”
The words freeze in my throat as the door swings wide. A deep groan echoes through the room, and it takes a moment for my brain to process the scene before me.
Tristan is standing with one hand pressing against the counter. His head is thrown back, his expression languid and glazed. His hand moves furiously between his legs as he strokes that huge, thick, veiny…
Holy fucking Jesus Christ.
That’s Tristan’s penis.
Am I dreaming, or did I really just walk in on Tristan masturbating?