7. Ava
CHAPTER 7
AVA
My first day of classes goes about as well as I expect. I’m late to almost every one, still struggling to navigate the layout of the campus, and I’m woefully behind in my coursework already. Surprisingly enough, the highlight of my day is running into Wes at the student union when I stop to grab a coffee. He invites me to a party tonight, and though I try to decline, the man refuses to take no for an answer. He cites our burgeoning ‘friendship’ as the reason my attendance is mandatory, and since I’m desperately in need of a friend, I reluctantly agree to meet him there.
Then drown in anxiety for the remainder of the day.
“Are you going to this thing at the boat house tonight?” I ask Richelle when I get back to our dorm room, hoping she’ll say yes because I don’t want to fly solo.
“Obvi,” she replies with an eye roll, as if I just asked the stupidest question on the planet. “The Kings may be horrible people, but they know how to throw a good party. Plus, skipping one would be social suicide. Everyone who’s anyone goes.”
Richelle isn’t the friendliest, but she’s all I’ve got at this point. So, I blow past her rudeness, searching for something we may be able to bond over. Given the designer labels I’ve seen her sporting, I settle on clothes.
“Wanna help me figure out what to wear?” I ask cheerfully, stepping over to my closet and pulling the door open.
Richelle’s dark eyes spark with interest as she takes the bait, coming over to join me at my closet and peeking inside curiously. “Ew,” she comments, wrinkling her nose. “What’s with all the schoolgirl skirts?”
My cheeks heat. “It’s kinda my signature look.”
Her brows lift as she gives me a judgmental once-over. “Wow. The guys must love you. You’re like a walking porno fantasy.”
I grimace, resenting her assumption. I don’t wear the skirts to attract male attention. I wear them because when I was a kid, I was obsessed with the movie Clueless , and the first time I put one on I felt like Cher Horowitz in her yellow plaid, full of confidence and ready to conquer the world.
Too bad she fell for a stupid guy and forgot all about her own dreams.
“Right,” I chuckle uncomfortably, tucking my hair behind my ears. “So, is it more of a jeans occasion, then?”
She shakes her head, lip curling in disgust. “Oh no, dress to impress, girl.”
I stare at Richelle blankly, totally at a loss here. “So…”
She heaves a sigh, giving me a pitying look that just screams I’m a lost cause. “Alright, let’s start from the ground up, shall we?” she asks, her expression shifting to one of determination as she steps over to my dresser and pulls open my top drawer.
My roommate’s eyes nearly bug out of her head when she takes in the horde of lace and silk inside. “Holy shit , this is a lot of lingerie,” she remarks, incredulous eyes pinging between me and the overstuffed drawer.
“Yeah, uh, my mom’s a big fan,” I reply, chuckling uncomfortably. “It’s kinda her thing. She made a big deal about taking me shopping for underwear on my fifteenth birthday, and now it’s a birthday tradition, underwear shopping spree.”
“Weird,” Richelle says, making a face.
A wave of defensiveness courses through me at her judgment.
Yeah, it’s weird . I can admit that. But my mom has always preached about how women should own their sexuality and feel beautiful and empowered in their own skin. Sure, her profession may have played a role in that, but she tried her best to connect with me and I love her for it, even if I prefer a simple pair of cotton briefs over the frilly stuff.
I decide to skip telling Richelle that for my sixteenth birthday, my mom took me to get a birth control implant in my arm– because you can never be too prepared, right?
My roommate fishes around in my drawer, awkwardly picking through my undergarments until she selects a matching set in black lace, handing them over to me. “Let’s keep it simple. Have you got a classic LBD?”
I wrinkle my nose. “Huh?”
“Little black dress,” she rattles off, as if that acronym should be common knowledge. “Jeez, were you homeschooled or something?”
“Actually, yeah…”
Her brows shoot up. “Seriously?! Okay, wow . That explains a lot.”
My face flushes with embarrassment. She can’t possibly know how rude she’s being, right? Maybe she’s just one of those people who have no filter– but if she’s trying to make me feel like a freak, it’s working.
Just because I’m homeschooled doesn’t mean I’m not well-educated. Gideon footed the bill for private tutors with impressive credentials, arguing that it was even better than the education I’d receive in one of NYC’s fancy private schools. In truth, he just preferred to keep my mother and me hidden away all those years to avoid his dirty little secret getting out, but I did pass all my courses with flying colors.
“You need more help than I thought,” Richelle tuts, folding her arms over her chest with a sigh. “But don’t worry, I’ve totally got you.”
She darts back over to my closet with renewed enthusiasm, like she’s eager to take me on as a project.
The whole situation is a little humiliating, but I shove that feeling aside in favor of establishing a connection. I’ll need as many as I can get if I’m going to survive in this place, especially after that ugly run-in with my new stepbrother yesterday. I’ve tried calling my mom several times to tell her about it– and to ask if she knows anything about this whole Kings dynamic– but her phone keeps going straight to voicemail. I’m trying not to read into that or freak out. They must be traveling abroad, and I’m sure she’ll call when she can, as promised.
Richelle finds a LBD in my closet that she deems acceptable, and I force back a cringe when she shoves it at me and tells me to put it on. It’s a simple tank style bodycon dress, but the low neckline and short hem show more skin than I’m comfortable with. I feel a little better when she puts on something just as skimpy, and even more so when she pulls out a bottle of wine and we get a bit tipsy as we do our hair and makeup.
The more Richelle drinks, the chattier she becomes. I learn that she’s the oldest of five children and her father is some sort of genius scientist who heads up a pharmaceutical company. Her family has a chihuahua named Rocco, who apparently pisses all over Richelle’s stuff when she comes home to visit, and she considers herself more of a cat person, though she’s not a huge fan of pets in general. She likes to travel– Italy is her favorite vacation spot, Greece a close second– and she has relatives in Thailand that the whole family visits annually.
Richelle doesn’t ask a lot of questions about me, and I’m content with not sharing too much. It’s clear that we’ve had very different upbringings. We do find some common ground in 90’s grunge music and a love of reading, though, and for the first time since arriving here, I’m hopeful that this whole college experience might not suck.
I startle when there’s a loud knock at our door, Richelle springing up and running over to answer it as if she’s been expecting someone. When she pulls it open and greets the brunette on the other side with an exasperated “about time!” it’s apparent she was.
“This is Lesley,” Richelle tells me as she ushers the other girl into our room, waving me over to join them.
I’ve already pegged my roommate as a little standoffish and borderline rude, but her friend Lesley is the polar opposite, aggressively friendly from the jump. She pulls me in for a hug right away, beaming a smile when she lets me go.
“So nice to meet you!” she gushes, her green eyes trailing down my body as she sizes me up. “Dang, I can totally see the family resemblance.”
My brows draw together in confusion as Richelle nudges her friend, correcting her. “They’re step siblings, Les. Not blood related.”
“Oh, right,” Lesley replies with a blush, flashing me another smile. “Well, you’re just as pretty as Raf.”
I cringe inwardly at the mention of my stepbrother, still reeling over our interaction yesterday.
“She’s prettier,” Richelle declares, slinging an arm over my shoulders. “You ready to go, Aves?”
So I guess we’ve sufficiently bonded enough that I’ve earned a nickname.
“Yeah,” I breathe, my stomach flip-flopping in nervous anticipation. “Let’s do this.”
I’m thankful I opted to wear my suede ankle boots rather than the stilettos Richelle was trying to talk me into, because the walk to the boat house isn’t a short one. Lesley complains about her feet hurting no less than ten times before we finally arrive, and when we do, walking inside feels a lot like stepping into a scene from a movie.
It’s the picture of a quintessential college party with music bumping, people dancing, and red solo cups clutched in everyone’s grasp. The interior of the boathouse itself is one big open room with a vaulted ceiling and a wall of windows along the back end. Upon closer inspection, I realize that the lower half of the wall is completely open, the multi-pane sliding glass doors pulled wide so that people can freely stream outside onto the large deck overlooking the lake. The girls and I stick close to one another as we weave through the crowd in that direction, bound for the fully stocked bar out on the patio.
There are ample choices of libations laid out– beer, bottles of pricy champagne, and top shelf liquor– but of course, the girls go for the suspicious looking red punch, passing a cup of it back to me. I take a sniff as I raise it to my lips, cringing at the offensive scent. It smells like fruit punch mixed with rubbing alcohol, but I still hazard a sip, pleasantly surprised to find it tastes a whole lot better than it smells.
We hang out on the deck for a little while, Lesley and Richelle gossiping about fellow students I don’t yet know as I people-watch, searching the sea of faces for Wes. I don’t find him, but I do spot Hailey, the redhead from the Registrar’s office, and another guy approaches me to attempt casual conversation, separating me from the girls.
Ryan something.
He’s cute, but he’s no Wes– and I hate how the whole time we make small talk I find myself glancing over his shoulder, hoping to catch a glimpse of the blonde-haired Adonis.
I should be sticking to my plan and avoiding hot guys at all costs, but I can’t help feeling a little bad that I initially pegged Wes all wrong. From the way he acted when we first met, I assumed he was just another arrogant fuckboy, angling to get in my pants. I’ve since decided that he actually seems like a decent guy, and I was wrong to pass judgment so quickly.
There’s no reason we can’t be platonic friends. And there’s nothing wrong with engaging in some harmless flirting from time to time so long as I don’t allow it to distract me from my goals, right?
Ryan is in the middle of bragging about being a beer pong champion when Wes finds me, my dark eyes meeting his gray ones as he steps out onto the patio from inside.
Damn he’s attractive, and that’s not just the alcohol talking. I thought Ryan was cute when he first approached me, but now he looks like an ogre in comparison to the golden god walking our way.
Wes is dressed in dark jeans that hug his thighs and a heather gray t-shirt that matches his eyes and clings to his muscular form beneath like a second skin. I’ve never seen someone so effortlessly make casual attire look like high fashion. His light hair is deliciously disheveled, he’s traded his glasses for contact lenses, and I try my best not to drool as he makes his way over.
Ryan picks up on my obvious distraction, following my gaze to see Wes approaching. He abruptly snaps his mouth shut, turning on a heel and walking away before he even got to the end of his story.
Bummer.
Wes slides right in, flashing me a sexy grin as he claims the spot Ryan just vacated at the deck railing beside me. “Hey, you made it,” he drawls.
“I did,” I reply, suddenly unable to keep the smile from my own face. “I was beginning to wonder if you were standing me up.”
“Never.” He licks his lips, gaze dropping to roam my form. “You look incredible.”
“Thanks.”
The corner of his mouth kicks up in a smirk, a dimple sinking into his left cheek. “Though I’m not gonna lie, I was digging the schoolgirl look.”
“Thank you!” I sigh exasperatedly, throwing up my hands and almost knocking my plastic cup off the railing and into the lake below. Guess that punch is more potent than it tastes. “My roommate was just giving me shit about my plaid skirts earlier.”
“Who’s your roommate?”
“Richelle Colburn.”
A spark of recognition flares in his gray irises. “Ah, the ice queen herself,” he replies with a wink. “Lucky you.”
I don’t ask why he calls her that, choosing instead to file that tidbit of information away for later.
“Wanna dance?” he asks nonchalantly, tipping his head toward the open doors in invitation.
I cast a hesitant glance inside at the sea of bodies writhing to the music, then back to him, worrying my lower lip between my teeth.
Okay, so flirting is harmless, but dancing? Maybe not so much . If I was sober, I wouldn’t even entertain the thought, but the mystery punch is hitting hard right now and I’m suddenly finding it difficult to come up with reasons why I shouldn’t.
“C’mon,” he urges, the intoxicating scent of his cologne wafting toward me as he moves in a little closer. “How am I supposed to win you over with my dance moves if you don’t give me a chance to show them off?”
I snatch my cup off the railing and bring it to my lips, trying to hide my blush behind it. Draining the rest of my drink, I work to calm my frantic pulse as I swallow it down and lick the fruity residue from my lips.
“Okay, sure,” I finally agree. “Why not?”
Sober Ava would have a laundry list of reasons why not, but buzzed Ava is clearly a tramp.
He hits me with another disarming grin as he takes the empty cup from my hand, his fingers brushing mine. That brief touch already gives me the shivers, but then he tosses the cup into a nearby trash can and grabs onto my hand, resulting in full body chills.
Yeah, I’ve got a serious crush.
In the back of my mind, I know I should check myself right now. The last thing I should be doing is following him inside. But the feeling of my small hand engulfed in his large one has butterflies taking flight in my belly, drowning out all rationality as we step over the threshold into the boathouse. The crowd seems to part for Wes as he leads me into the fray, my cheeks flaming as co-eds gawk at the two of us together.
The first red flag I miss through my alcohol-induced haze.
Wes obviously has a lot of admirers, if the looks from the other people in the room are anything to go by, and I feel more than a little awkward on his arm. But I also feel… special . Like I’m lucky that out of all the pretty girls here tonight, he’s choosing to spend his time with me . Not that I’m devoid of self-confidence, but it’s a good kind of attention; the type I don’t mind basking in, however brief it may be.
He brings me to the center of the room and twirls me around, artfully looping our arms together so that his own wrap around me from behind. Pulling my back against the sculpted planes of his chest, he starts to move his body to the beat of the music. I can barely hear it over the loud thumping of my own pulse in my ears. Having Wes this close is turning my insides to mush, rapidly demolishing my defenses.
He holds me against him, guiding my movements in our dance. I’m acutely aware of the heat of his body behind me and his warm breath tickling my ear while we grind to the sultry beat of a Dua Lipa song, his hard, broad chest like a stone wall at my back– and that’s not the only thing that’s hard. There’s no denying the sizable bulge in the front of his jeans as he grinds it against my ass with intentional thrusts of his hips.
I drag my hands through my hair, throwing my head back against his shoulder as I get lost in the music and the boozy haze. His hands explore my hips, waist, and belly as we dance, his touch firm and commanding, guiding my body to move with his in perfect synchronicity. When they dip lower to skate across the hem of my short dress, it’s impossible to ignore the dull throb between my thighs. It only builds as we continue dancing together, song after song, until I’m grinding against him unabashedly and practically panting with need.
Wes must realize what he’s doing to me, because he leans down, lips tickling the shell of my ear as he asks, “Wanna go somewhere quieter?”
My heart races. I swear it’s the alcohol talking when I answer with a breathy, “Yes.”