Chapter 3
THREE
DYLAN
THE MOMENT WE cross the threshold into Beta Phi, we’re squirted with toy guns filled with paint.
The black lights inside the house make the colors glow against my white shirt and stain my jeans.
I toss an irritated look at Kian, who forgot to mention this was a neon party.
To no one’s surprise, Kian pulls his T-shirt over his head and motions for the girls to cover him with more paint.
His tattoos are on full display, and he’s loving the attention they get him.
He’s glowing in hot pink and green by the time they’re finished, and when they come to me, I have no choice but to take my shirt off too. The splatter of paint is instant.
The girls are dressed in tiny white skirts and tops, their exposed skin stroked with paint.
I vaguely recognize one of them from a party where we found ourselves in a bathroom, and now she paints my hands and places them right on her chest. My two large handprints stamp her bikini top, and she plants her hands on the back of my jeans.
In the kitchen, there’s a line of Jell-O shots, also glowing. A heat of recklessness follows me like a swarm of bees. And I know why it’s there tonight, and it’s not only because of the captaincy news or the drug test; it’s because I opened the envelope from my parents.
Turns out, it was an invitation to their vow renewal in a few months, which means it’s been planned for a while.
My dad knew I would have talked my mom out of it.
I would have had a chance to question her and remove whatever veil he’s put over her eyes again.
So the same people who I was sure were finally getting divorced a few months ago are getting married. Again. Fucking unbelievable.
Someone yells, “Shotgun!” and hands me a drink, but the instinct to pierce, crack, and chug doesn’t kick in, because I spot Vik Chopra across the room. When our eyes meet, he gives me a look that twists something in my gut.
“I’ll be back,” I tell Kian, who’s barely paying attention because he’s trading friendship bracelets with the Beta Phi girls.
“Any news?” I whisper, pulling Vik back into the dark of the party. Neon green hearts are painted on his cheeks, and he’s got a pink glow stick around his neck.
He shakes his head. “No luck, man. That shit’s secure. I was hoping you’d be here so I could warn you.”
His words act as a poison to my stomach.
“The results are going out tomorrow. I’m sorry, D.”
The physical weight of my life falling apart comes down on me. “Don’t worry about it. I appreciate you for trying.”
Never in my life have I feared consequences.
Why would I? When you’re the guy everyone on campus wants to either be with or be like, the rules don’t apply.
People look the other way, make excuses, smooth things over for you.
But I have a feeling this won’t go away easily.
Not without taking everything it can from me.
I need some fucking air.
Someone calls my name, but I don’t turn.
Instead, I move into the hallway. My tendency to disappear during parties is far from out of the ordinary.
I often get pulled into a bedroom or a bathroom, only to reappear disheveled hours later.
I take the stairs two at a time and yank open the first door.
The pink bedroom has a Twilight tapestry hanging over the bed and a phallic-shaped lava lamp plugged into the wall.
I’m about to close the door, when I hear my name.
“Dylan! Baby!” The girl who painted me barrels past the half-shut door. She pushes me up against a foreign wall, and her lips find my neck. It’s the only spot she manages to reach in heels. “I was hoping you’d be here.”
“Yeah?” I try to get that part of me to kick in.
The one that can whisper dirty things, lift her with one arm, and pin her against the wall until she’s begging.
But I need out, and that’s not what the Dylan she wants would say.
I don’t know if I’m willing to part with him just yet. “Let’s get a drink.”
“Or …” She pops open a pink tin with freshly rolled joints. “You liked it last time.”
“Last time?”
She giggles. “Yeah, at Yale. You don’t remember?”
“Right,” I mutter. Clearly it all went downhill after I met her there. The open tin she waves in my face is the last thing I need right now. I pull her off and back away slowly.
I descend the steps, rushing through the house without a second of hesitation. When I’m finally in the hallway leading to the front door, Tyler Sampson stops me with a hand on my chest.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Where are you headed, Captain?” he says.
I knew that damn title would haunt me.
Sampson puts a beer in my hand. “Drink up, man. Some of the girls are doing body art.”
Any other night, I’d be all over that. Hell, yesterday I’d have been all over that, but tonight it feels like I’m being tortured by shit I can’t remember.
“I’m gonna head out,” I say, placing the beer on a table.
Sampson checks his watch. “It’s barely midnight. What’s up with you?”
Before I can give him a half-assed excuse, the front door opens, and it feels like everything stops. The music—Pink Floyd’s “In the Flesh?”—muffles in my ears, and my eagerness to leave dissipates momentarily.
Every head in my vicinity turns when she crosses the threshold into the party and the light above the door illuminates her. The guys from the basketball team who were playing Ping-Pong let the ball fall aimlessly to where it rolls across the hardwood to land by her white shoes.
Silky black hair, fair skin, and red lips make everything about her face stand out. Her white skirt hugs her curves, drawing my gaze to trail the smooth skin of her toned legs. When I look up, her emerald eyes pierce mine. Fucking smoke show.
That’s when I recognize her as the girl from outside the rink earlier today, the one whispering to herself as I held open the door. She seemed so … lost then. Now she’s all fucking fire.
I think I had said something to her, something about biting. She must be thinking the same thing, because her eyes flicker, until her red-haired friend pulls her into the next room.
Trouble.
The warning in my head is usually my sign to follow her right to where she disappeared, but tonight, I’m on my best behavior.
“Oh, come on. You are not leaving. I know that look,” says Sampson, blocking my exit.
Ignoring him, I walk away but not before I hear him shout, “Booo!” in my direction. I signal Kian that I’m leaving, because if I ditched him, I’d hear about it for days.
“Nooooo,” Kian whines. “Don’t leave. We’re going to play drunk Jenga.”
“You play. I’ll see you at home.” He hugs me then, his sticky abdomen rubbing against mine. If I was hammered, I wouldn’t give a shit, but right now I’m desperate for a shower.
Just when I think I can sneak out the back without bumping into anyone else, the stoner girl from upstairs stops me.
Being known is all good and well until people can’t leave you alone.
She blows smoke in my face, then places the joint between my lips.
The warnings in my head are blaring, ones I’ve never bothered to listen to until right now.
It’s new and fucking annoying.
Without taking a puff, I slip it from my lips and hand it back to her. She watches me, surprised I didn’t indulge. Not even when I suddenly remember exactly who she is—blindfold, gag, and a whole lot of rope. Great, even the good memories are starting to sour.
I push past the people blocking the stairs of the porch and charge down, my eyes locked on the side gate. In my haste, I bump into someone, not slowing down as I rush by. The late August air is still warm, so my messily painted, shirtless state doesn’t bother me.
“Hey, asshole!” someone shouts behind me. I don’t turn to see which poor fucker is getting chewed out.
Is there a lock on the gate? Do I have to hop over the rotting fence to get this night over with? I’m halfway across the Solo cup–littered lawn, when a small hand grips my biceps and yanks me back.
“Hey! I’m talking to you.” The voice is slightly raspy, and much too confident for the weak attempt at stopping me.
I turn to see dark hair, green eyes, and red lips. Trouble. “Me?”
The girl glares at me with her hands planted on her hips, like she could take me. Like she’s the one who’s six foot four.
“You just knocked into my friend and spilled her drink all over her,” she accuses.
“Friend?” I make a show of looking around her. “Are you one of those people who have imaginary friends? Sorry, I’m not drunk enough to pretend they’re real tonight.”
I’m enjoying this too much for someone who should be leaving this party. Green, angry eyes dart to the porch to find nothing but people drinking and a couple making out dangerously close to the firepit.
“Fine,” I sigh and look to the empty spot beside her. “Hello, my name is—”
She slaps my extended hand out of the way before I can introduce myself to her friend. “I’m not crazy. You bumped into my real-life friend back there.”
“As opposed to the fake one standing beside you? I think she’s thirsty; you should get her a drink.”
She deadpans, “I assume they don’t teach manners at frat school.”
I tilt my head. “If you wanted to talk to me, you didn’t need to make up an excuse. You’re hot enough.” Enough doesn’t even cut it, but fuck do I like the way the comment makes her eyes blaze.
Focus. I need to get out of here.
She scoffs. “I’m not here to talk to you. I could find at least ten of your kind inside.”
“My kind? You’re the one who ran across the lawn just to get my attention.”
“So you could apologize.” She tucks her hair behind her ear. “But clearly your ego’s too big for that.”
When she turns to leave, I can’t help myself. “I’m sorry.”
She nails me with a skeptical gaze, running from head to toe, lingering on my paint-covered abs and the waistband of my boxers that peeks out of my jeans.
For some reason, the space between us feels impossible to resist, so I step closer until my shoes are touching the tips of hers. She smells sweet, like cherries.
“How can I make it up to her?” I ask.
She tilts her head. “You wanna make it up to her?”
“Dying to.”
She runs her tongue along the inside of her cheek. “I think she’d rather hold on to this.”
I furrow my brows. “Hold on to what?”
“You owe her now,” she says. “Can’t hurt to have an IOU from a jock. I think it’ll come in handy for me.”
“You?”
“Her,” she corrects.
“Right.” My smirk grows to immeasurable levels. I don’t even mind that she called me a jock. “Let me know when she wants to cash that in.”
“I will.” She stands firmly with her arms crossed.
“Shouldn’t I know your name? You’re in possession of a very powerful IOU after all,” I call after her when she’s already halfway across the lawn to the porch.
She doesn’t turn around, but she says, “If you’re lucky.”
“Don’t you want to know mine?”
She looks over her shoulder this time. “I think asshole fits.”
She disappears past the sliding glass doors. There’s a smile on my face when I finally get past the unlocked gate, but it drops the moment I spot my car boxed in the driveway.
Rookie mistake.