Chapter 7
seven
CASS
The walk to South Campus feels like I’m crossing into occupied territory.
The air here is different from the Music Building, which is hidden in the oldest building in the furthest away corner of North Campus, and generally populated by a ragtag mix of bohemians, rockers, posh kids, and preppy kids. It’s a weird mix, and even amongst that lot, I’m an outcast.
But here?
It smells like money, and the students I pass look like they stepped out of a recruiting brochure—pristine PBU hoodies, hair that’s been washed today, and brand-name backpacks that aren’t held together with duct tape and safety pins.
Here, I’m the “before” picture in one of those college teen movie makeover montages, except nobody’s coming to fix me.
A cluster of sorority girls near the fountain do the thing where they don’t quite look at me, but they absolutely see me. Their eyes pass over my combat boots, my ripped fishnets, the battered leather jacket that’s held together by sheer force of will and a lot of strategically placed patches.
As one of them whispers something to her friend, and they both laugh, I keep my chin up and my stride steady, my jaw locked in what I hope reads as confidence and not the defensive anger it actually is, because I’ve been getting those looks my whole life.
From the guidance counselor in high school who tried to talk me out of applying to college, insisting that Camden Community College would be “more realistic” for someone with my “background,” to the financial aid officer who acted like my scholarship was a clerical error.
But I force myself to ignore the stares, because today I’ve got a job to do.
His name is Ben Kellerman.
The guy who’ll help me keep the gig at Frank’s bar.
Because if I lose that gig, we can’t afford to practice. If we can’t practice, Joel’s going to bail for a cover band that plays weddings, Milo will shrug and say he saw it coming, and Pinebox will be over. And if Pinebox is over, then what the hell am I even doing here?
What was the point of clawing my way out of Camden, of spending four years pretending I belong in music theory seminars where everyone else can sight-read a Brahms score like it’s a fucking grocery list, if it all collapses because some assholes started swinging punches?
The South Campus Library appears ahead, all glass and steel and the kind of architectural arrogance that screams we have an endowment the size of a small nation’s GDP. I push through the heavy doors, immediately hearing the low, industrious murmur of people who have their shit together.
I head up to the study lounges on the second floor, which are tucked into rows of cubicles and long tables where students hunker down with color-coded notes and laptops.
It’s foreign territory to me, totally new despite the fact I’ve been at Pine Barren for years, but I’m reliably informed that this is where I’ll find him.
And like that, I do.
He’s folded into a small carrel near the back, his long legs bent at an angle that looks uncomfortable, his broad shoulders hunched over a textbook. His curls fall into his eyes, and he’s chewing on the end of a pencil, his brow furrowed in concentration.
He’s completely absorbed in whatever he’s reading, oblivious to the rest of the world. He looks nothing like the panicked, stammering mess I met at the bar. Here, in this quiet corner of the library, he looks competent and calm, like he’s comfortable in his own skin.
As I inch closer, building up the courage to drop my proposal on him, my eyes catch the title of the textbook in front of him, and the name embossed in gold on the spine—Signal Processing and Linear Systems, 3rd Edition—shocks me as much as if he’d been reading an alien artifact.
Electrical engineering?
The image I’d built in my head—big, sweet, harmless jock who probably majored in something easy like communications or sports management—shatters. Because electrical engineering isn’t the kind of program where you show up hungover to multiple-choice exams.
That’s classes at eight in the morning and labs where one miscalculation makes something explode. That’s a major where half the freshman class drops out after the first exam because they thought being good at high school math was going to be enough.
“A guy who can handle that shouldn’t fall apart just because a girl asks him to have a drink,” I whisper to myself. “What’s your deal, Kellerman?”
Time to find out…
I walk toward him, and he doesn’t notice me at first. But the moment I’m close enough to cast a shadow over his desk, his head snaps up, and his green eyes go comically, almost cartoonishly wide. I watch as panic floods his face like someone just pulled a fire alarm inside his skull.
It’s the same look he had at the bar.
Pure, unfiltered terror.
“Hey,” I say, in the same tone I’d use to approach a skittish dog.
He doesn’t say anything. He just stares at me, frozen, and I see the exact moment his brain decides to run. His long legs start to untangle from under the desk, his hands gripping the edge of the table like he’s about to launch himself out of the chair and bolt for the nearest exit.
Oh, no you don’t.
I move fast, sliding in front of his only escape route and bracing my shoulder against the cubicle wall, my arms crossed over my chest. I’m blocking him with my body, which is absolutely absurd considering he’s got nearly a foot and probably a hundred pounds on me.
He could pick me up and move me if he wanted to. But he stops. He actually stops. He doesn’t push past me. Doesn’t tell me to move. He just stands there, halfway out of his chair, looking at me with those wide, anxious eyes like I’m holding him hostage with nothing but my presence.
Jesus, you really are a six-foot-four golden retriever who probably apologizes to furniture when he bumps into it.
“Sit,” I say.
And to my utter shock, he does.
He sinks back into the chair like I just pulled his string, his hands gripping the armrests like he’s bracing for a crash landing. And I realize that this boy is harmless. Not in a weak way. Not in a way that makes me think less of him. But in a way that’s… sweet.
He’s six-foot-four of muscle, and he’s terrified of me.
I pull out the chair across from him and sit down. “We need to talk, big guy,” I say.
His throat works. “About… about the bar?”
“Yeah.” I settle back in the chair, crossing my legs and trying to project a calm I don’t entirely feel. “And about a solution to a problem we both have.”
He just stares at me, his expression so confused I almost feel bad for ambushing him like this. “I don’t—” he starts, then stops. “What problem?”
I let the silence stretch just long enough to make him squirm, then I go for the throat. “You got a girlfriend, Kellerman?”
He blinks, a flicker of something defensive sparking in his eyes before the panic takes over. “Who asks that?” he says, his voice tight. “Why?”
Then the flush starts at his neck and spreading up to his hairline in a matter of seconds, and his mouth opens and closes like a fish gasping for air. “No. I—”
“Relax,” I say, holding up a hand. “I’m not asking you out. I’m proposing a mutually beneficial arrangement.”
He puzzles over that. “A… what?”
“For dating.”
“Is that a thing?”
“It is now,” I say. “I saw how your buddies treat you, and I’m guessing that’s just a sample of the shit you take. I’m assuming you’re tired of it, but judging by how you bolted when I offered to buy you a drink, the chances of landing a girl and getting them off your back are slim…”
His face somehow gets redder, but he nods.
“And I’ve got a problem too,” I continue, not giving him time to retreat. “A guy jumped on stage last night and grabbed me, and there was a massive fight. The venue has security, but the owner says if I don’t ‘control my crowd,’ we’re done, and I can’t lose that gig.”
Ben’s eyes snap up to mine, and for the first time since I sat down, he looks genuinely focused. His whole posture shifts, his shoulders squaring, and there’s something in his expression—something sharp and protective—that catches me completely off guard.
“He grabbed you?” he says, and there’s an edge in his voice I didn’t expect.
“Yeah,” I say, keeping my tone flat, factual. “I handled it. But Frank doesn’t care. He just wants the chaos to stop, and he’s putting that on me.”
Ben’s jaw tightens, and I can see him working through everything I’ve just told him behind those green eyes. He’s not just listening. He’s thinking. Analyzing. It’s the same look he had when he was staring at that textbook, like he’s running through possible solutions to a complex problem.
“So here’s my proposal,” I say, pressing my advantage. “You need to get your teammates off your back, and I need a visible deterrent, a ‘human scarecrow’ who looks intimidating enough that drunk assholes think twice before they try anything.”
He just stares at me, his expression caught somewhere between disbelief and dawning comprehension. “You want me to be your… scarecrow?”
I shrug. “I guess we could call it ‘fake boyfriend’ if you want it to sound less agricultural… Frank won’t pay for extra security, and I can’t afford a bodyguard. You’re free.”
The silence stretches, and I keep my eyes locked on him as he keeps his eyes looking anywhere but at me. Then, finally, he speaks. “This is insane.”
“Yep.”
“You want to fake date me.”
“Also yes.”
A laugh escapes him—short, sharp, bitter—and he gives his head a slight shake. “Why me? You don’t think I’m a disaster, like everyone else?”
It’s a good question. And I realize, sitting here in the library with this boy who looks like he’s one wrong word away from bolting, that I need to answer it honestly. I get comfortable in my chair, studying him, the kind green eyes and the barely contained nervous energy.