Chapter 9
nine
BEN
I’m standing at Cass’s dorm door and my pulse is in overdrive.
I was two minutes early, and I spent that time staring at the chipped wood of her door like it’s going to offer me last-minute tactical advice. The paint is peeling in one corner, and there’s posters and a faded sticker near the peephole that says, “Kill All The Fascists”.
And now, right on time, I knock.
My phone is still in my hand, the Devils’ group chat open on the screen. I’ve read through the messages three times in the last five minutes, trying to use them to boost my confidence, but they just reminded me that tonight is my first public appearance with Cass.
Tonight the lie turns into a live performance.
I’ll need to walk into a packed bar, holding her hand, acting like it’s the most natural thing in the world instead of a high-wire act without a net. And I know that if I freeze in front of the guys—if I execute the Kellerman Retreat in front of her crowd—it’s over.
I almost turn and run at the thought, but then the door opens.
And every single coherent thought I possess evaporates.
Because Cass is wrapped in a single, slightly too small floral towel.
Her choppy blonde hair is damp, clinging to her forehead in dark, wet streaks that make the platinum ends look almost gray. A delicate tattoo of a songbird is just visible on her collarbone, its wings stretching toward her shoulder in fine black lines.
“Hey,” she says, her voice casual, like she answers the door to strangers in a towel all the time. “Sorry, I’m running late.”
My mouth opens, but no sound comes out. My eyes lock on her face—don’t look down, for the love of God, Kellerman, do not look down—but my peripheral vision is a minefield of bare shoulders, collarbones, and the dangerous hint of cleavage disappearing beneath that towel.
“Uh.” The sound that comes out of my mouth is a strangled noise, like my vocal cords forgot their primary function. “Hi.”
Amusement registers in her blue eyes, and a small smirk tugs at the corner of her mouth. It’s like she knows exactly what she’s doing to me, and she’s standing there like a scientist observing a particularly entertaining lab rat short-circuit in real time.
“I can—I should—” I swallow. “I should wait. Out here. In the hall.”
Cass lets out a short laugh, genuinely amused. “And have my brand-new fake boyfriend wait in the hallway like some kind of Jehovah’s Witness?” She steps back, holding the door open wider with one hand, the other clutching the towel at her chest. “Get in here.”
She turns and walks back into her room, leaving the door wide open.
The towel barely covers the tops of her thighs.
Oh, fuck.
I hesitate for a split second, frozen in the doorway, every instinct screaming at me to run. But deep down, I know this is a test, deliberate or not. If I bail now, the deal will be off before it even begins, and the shit I’d take from the guys would be biblical.
You can do this. It’s just a room. She’s just a person. Just… don’t be weird.
I step inside.
The room is pure Cass—band posters layered over each other in a collage of rebellion, including a Ramones classic half-buried under something called Dead Kennedys. Clothes are draped over every surface, including the bed, which is unmade and has a her-sized gap to sleep in.
I stand near the door, my back practically pressed against it, as she crosses the small room to a beat-up dresser. Her back is to me, the towel barely covering anything. The muscles of her shoulders shift as she pulls open a drawer, and then, without a shred of ceremony, the towel drops.
Oh, Jesus Christ.
She’s standing in nothing but a plain black bra and boy-short panties.
All the blood drains from my head in a single, catastrophic rush. In its place, heat floods my face, and I’m suddenly, painfully aware of the tightness in my jeans. I spin around so fast I almost trip over my own feet, turning to face the wall and study the band posters.
Don’t think about it. Don’t think about the black fabric against her skin. Don’t think about—
“So, O’Neil’s is pretty low-key, right?” she says, her voice casual and conversational, as if she’s not standing half-naked three feet behind me. “I don’t usually hang there—too many preppy assholes—but we need to make an impression for your sake…”
The sheer normalcy of the statement—the jarring disconnect between her tone and the situation—momentarily breaks through my panic. She’s talking about the bar like this is nothing, like she’s not currently in her underwear, and I’m not currently having a full-scale meltdown.
I hear her moving around behind me, even as her commentary continues, shifting seamlessly to a low-stakes question about my classes. I barely even register the questions, or my answers, and then a thought clicks into place like the final solder that completes the circuit.
She’s doing this on purpose.
She’s not oblivious. She’s not just casually getting dressed.
She’s testing me.
She’s training me.
“You can breathe, Kellerman,” she says, her tone amused but not unkind. “It’s just underwear. Joel’s seen me in less, so you can turn around if you like.”
Just underwear.
Right. Just the single most arousing, terrifying moment of my entire life, but sure, just underwear. But not wanting to be weird, I risk a glance over my shoulder and see she’s pulling a plaid skirt on. And for a frozen, heart-stopping second, I see everything.
The stark black fabric of her panties against the pale skin of her hips.
The sharp jut of one hip bone, marked by an intricate tattoo of a constellation I don’t recognize.
The toned muscle of her thighs, lean and strong in a way that makes it clear she spends hours on stage, commanding space, refusing to be ignored.
There’s a small scar on her left knee, a faint white line that looks like it came from a hard fall on pavement. There’s another tattoo, just visible above the waistband of her panties before the skirt covers it—a few bars of sheet music, the notes blurred like they’ve been there for years.
And then I realize I’m staring, and she’s watching me.
Her face is pure, unadulterated amusement. She caught me, and she knows I’m on the verge of a complete system meltdown, and she’s enjoying every second of my suffering. I snap my head back to the wall, my ears hot enough to melt steel, cursing myself silently.
Oh my God. This is how I die. Death by mortification.
Her chatter continues, shifting to a dryly funny story about her bandmates’ terrible taste in road trip snacks. “Joel swears by gas station hot dogs, which is disgusting on every conceivable level. Milo, on the other hand, lives on energy drinks and those beef jerky sticks.”
Despite the fact that I’m currently dying, a strangled laugh escapes me. “Nash and Stiles eat those things. I doubt they’d get along with your band, though…”
“Relax,” she says, her voice closer now. “I’m dressed.”
I finally dare to turn and see she’s fully dressed now, sitting on the floor and yanking on her heavy combat boots.
She’s wearing a ripped band shirt—some group I don’t recognize—and the plaid mini-skirt that barely reaches mid-thigh.
Fishnet tights cover her legs, deliberately torn, exposing small patches of skin.
She’s sexy as hell.
“I promise you didn’t see anything my bandmates haven’t seen a hundred times,” she says, her tone matter-of-fact. “Sharing a van for six weeks does that.”
She catches my wide-eyed expression and lets out a small sigh.
“Two guys, one minivan, six weeks on the road last summer playing dive bars. Modesty dies somewhere around Flagstaff, right around the time you realize the rest stop bathroom is out of order and you’ve got ten minutes to change before sound check.” She shrugs. “So relax, OK?”
She stands, grabbing the battered leather jacket that’s draped over the back of her desk chair, then shrugging it on with a practiced motion. The jacket settles onto her shoulders like armor, and she adjusts the collar with one sharp tug, completing the look.
Her eyes meet mine. “Guys are either assholes who stare and make it weird,” she says, her voice quiet and even, “or they’re like Joel and Milo, who are more concerned I’m going to fall asleep and drool on the van’s upholstery during a long drive than the fact that I’m in my underwear.”
She pauses, her gaze steady on mine.
“You’re… different.”
My mind spins.
Good different?
Bad different?
Does “different” mean I passed some test I didn’t know I was taking?
But before I can demand clarification—before I can make her define the term so I know where I stand—she smirks. It’s a small, knowing curl of her lips, the kind that says she knows exactly how much she just scrambled my brain and she’s enjoying every second of it.
“Ready to convince a bar full of assholes that you’re madly in love with me, Kellerman?”
The moment we walk into O’Neil’s, every head in the place swivels toward us.
Oh God. Oh God. This is it. This is the actual nightmare.
Suddenly, any confidence I had fooled myself into on the walk over here, in which we’d made small talk and Cass had clearly been trying to calm me down, is gone. My mind starts mapping the fastest route to the bathroom and calculating if I can fit through the window.
But before I can even think about fleeing, a voice cuts across the room like a foghorn. “Kellerman! Get your ass over here!”
It’s Rook.
I scan the room, and there he is, crammed into a corner booth with Nash, Stiles, and Leo Cooper.
Rook’s face is split wide with a grin, Nash’s eyes are already cataloging Cass with the kind of lazy, entitled appraisal that makes my stomach twist, and Stiles is practically vibrating with barely contained glee.
And suddenly any thought of escape vanishes.