Chapter Four
Four
Scarlett
This has to be a bad omen. It’s the first party of the semester, and I’m covered in beer.
After some guy bumped into me, spilling my beer onto my top, I considered calling it quits and pretending this semester doesn’t exist. I had a solid run. Maybe it’s time to retire from college parties altogether.
But then I saw Sierra beside me, her eyes darting and fists tight.
I’m the reason she’s here. I’m the one who swore that people had moved on.
Except now, I can’t tell who the eyes in the room are focusing on, her or me.
Sierra, with the near-fatal fall that benched her for a year and the partner who bailed right after.
Or me, with the shiny reputation of having slept with half the guys in this house.
Two very different scandals. One very captivated audience.
That would all be fine, if I hadn’t lost Sierra.
When I headed inside to get rid of the sticky beer covering my torso, and making my shirt see-through, I hadn’t realized she wasn’t following me.
The guy who bumped into me and caused the mess didn’t bother looking back, he just barreled toward the backyard.
So now I’m standing at the kitchen sink, holding my shirt away from my chest, when a girl from the sorority notices my predicament and finds me a spare shirt. She even brought me a vodka cran.
But with things going so well, it was only a matter of time before some douchebag showed up to ruin my peace.
I try ignoring him, giving him one-word answers, but the closer he gets, the more I tense.
He grabs my arm so hard I’m sure it’s going to bruise, and all I can think about is kneeing him in the crotch.
Still, the urge to do what I want stays buried under the need to appear polite. It’s like being trapped in an endless improv, forced to repeat “Yes, and” into eternity.
“Been a while,” he says, and my heart plummets into the acid in my stomach.
I don’t recognize the voice, but I know the insinuation it holds. What I’ve avoided all night is now so close, with his sweaty skin pressed against my arm.
I swallow. “Has it?”
He chuckles. “Maybe if you look at me, you’d know who I am. I bet it’s hard for you to keep track.”
Don’t react.
I glance at him, my hands still under the warm water streaming from the faucet. He’s watching me with hooded gray eyes, a drunk smile lifting his lips.
He leans in, and I let him. Because apparently my brain loses any coherent thought when I’m faced with any type of confrontation, especially to do with my past.
“I texted you. I never text first.”
Get this man an award.
His other hand snakes into my space, fingers curling around a strand of my hair, twisting it slowly. Possessively. My stomach is in knots.
I’ve changed my hair color a lot. But since I got to Dalton, I’ve stuck to one that felt the most like me. The tattoos, the hair, the piercings, they all feel the most like me. I always followed the rules growing up, so when I turned eighteen, I wanted to break them.
But a lot happened last year, namely my best friend’s accident.
After that, the thrill of the hookups wore off.
The distraction faded. I could hardly go home and face my dad.
He’d been steady and loving for my mom, yet even the thought of someone being that for me made me sick.
So I let it all go and stopped answering these guys—though that wasn’t hard when I dropped out of my sorority and took classes online.
I don’t want to be remembered for any of that. I want to be remembered for me. For the things I care about. Not my body.
“You’re doing that thing again,” he says. “Overthinking.”
He says it like he knows me, and I hate it.
I still can’t remember his name, and somehow, that hits harder than I expected. This whole year, I convinced myself it wasn’t that bad. But reality sinks in, breaking through me like a cinder block.
“You just gonna stand there?” His voice drips with irritation. “You weren’t this quiet when my dick was in your mouth.”
My cheeks burn, heat rushing under my skin like shame blooming in full color. I curse myself for not choosing better men to have sex with. But this way, I never lingered, never found out what it felt like to be held for a little while after.
I glance around and a few people look our way, watching this drunk asshole put my business out there.
More than it already is. It’s not even about the sex or the obsession with body count anymore; it’s that they think I owe them something because I offered it once.
Like I’ve given them some sort of blanket consent.
“Look, I’m sorry about not texting, but I just want to focus on school right now.” I can’t make eye contact with him, and that makes me even angrier with myself.
He scoffs. “Since when did you become such a prude? Look at me.”
And stupidly, I do.
“So obedient,” he murmurs, and the words slide under my skin like oil. “Let’s go upstairs.”
There’s a roar of laughter from the living room as a couple of frat guys charge in, spraying alcohol into open mouths with water guns. That’s when I see him.
Kian Ishida, cracking open another can, head tipped back as he chugs it. Without thinking, I feel my own lips twitch at the edges.
Then there’s a touch skimming down my arm, slow and seductive. “Do you have a thing for him or something? He can join.”
My body locks up. Our study group interaction has been at the forefront of my mind for hours. If I had seen his name on that sign-up sheet I would’ve canceled the whole thing.
Kian Ishida isn’t your typical college guy.
He’s not just a hockey player or even a party animal.
He’s kind and polite with a squeaky-clean reputation.
Always listening intently when anyone speaks.
He’s got tattoos on his body that I’ve wanted to replicate, if it wouldn’t make me a total creep.
His music taste is unreal. I’m pretty sure I’ve seen him reading all kinds of books.
Romance included. The guy is eclectic, and I’ve witnessed the way people flock to him. I’ve wanted to flock to him.
My stupid crush started four years ago at a freshman kegger.
We had a short conversation—something about the band T-shirt he had on—before he was pulled away by his friends.
But I’ve never felt that way before, like for that entire ten minutes, I was the most important person in the room to him.
Because that’s what Kian does: He sheds his light on everyone he meets.
I shake my head. “N-no. I don’t want that.”
“Don’t act like you didn’t love it last time.”
That’s when I remember who he is.
Mac McCormack. Football tight end. The only thing the reminder of that night does is make me laugh at how pathetic this all is. I’m such an idiot.
I thought I could come back to campus and be whoever I wanted to be. But she’s there, that earlier version, staring at me, a smug little grin on her face as she clings to me like a stain.
Tears blur my vision before I can stop them, and the second Mac sees them, his expression darkens, twisting into something crueler. I remember that about him too.
“How is it that someone so confident in the bedroom is so shy out here?” he asks.
I stand a little straighter. “I’m not shy. I just prefer to keep my personal life private.”
He snorts. “You blew that the minute you got with the football team.”
“That—” I stop. I didn’t actually do that. It was a rumor the linebacker started when I turned him down. But when you’re a girl like me, the details don’t matter.
There’s so much I should do right now. Tell him off. Turn around. Find Sierra. Anything but just stand here.
I can only force back my tears with slow blinks.
“Don’t fucking cry and make me look like the asshole. You’re the slut—”
“McCormack.” A deep voice rattles the space between us.
My heart pounds in my ears. Then I see all six foot two inches of Dalton’s star right-winger towering over us.
Kian Ishida is shirtless, a lei around his neck, tattoos on display, paint covering most of his torso, and jeans hanging so low I can see the waistband of his boxers.
Even with clothes on, he’s unavoidable. In study group, not one second went by without me thinking about the fact that he was right there.
Mac lets out an irritated sigh. “What do you want, Ishida?”
“Can you get me a beer?” Kian asks.
He frowns. “Why?”
Kian shrugs. “Because I asked you to.”
McCormack laughs. “Are you fucking with me? Get your own beer.”
“I want you to get it,” he insists. “Or get out.”
He looks thoroughly confused, but so am I. “What?”
“If you’re going to call a girl a slut, you better not do it in front of me,” Kian says. “Now get the fuck out of this house.”
“Ishida, you good?” a frat guy calls, watching the interaction with a curious look. He’s got a sorority girl on his arm—the president of Beta Phi, I realize.
Mac drops my arm and steps back. He shoots Kian a scathing glare and mutters something under his breath as he walks away.
“Hey, you okay?” Kian asks. It’s so soft, that it forces me to hold back another swell of tears. “That guy was a dick.”
I nod, because if I spoke, my voice would crack. He must realize that because he smiles.
“By the way, I’m sorry about study group. I didn’t mean to disrupt your flow.”
“You’re new to group, so I get it. I’m sorry if I came off bitchy.”
He watches me for a minute before speaking again.
“Do you want a drink?” he asks, then scratches the back of his neck. “I don’t really know what the move is here. It’s my first time partying with my tutor.”
“Well, then, it’s a good thing I’m not your tutor.”
“Right.” He nods to himself, and I’m barely fighting a smile. “And you’re sure about that?”
I twist off the faucet, giving up on the beer stain. “Yes, Kian. I’m sure.”
“Is there something you need? I can help. I’ll help you with whatever. I scratch my back, you scratch yours.”
“You mean you scratch my back, and I scratch yours,” I correct automatically.
His grin spreads fast. “Sick! So you’re in?”