Chapter 1 #2
He has knighted me as his personal sober driver and refuses to shell out money to any cab services after we were almost mugged in one.
We never told our parents what happened.
Never explained to them how close we were to something horrible.
Mostly because we spent that afternoon at a bar with two fake IDs.
Lo guzzled more whiskey than a grown man.
And I had sex in a public bathroom for the very first time.
Our indecencies became our rituals, and our families didn’t need to know about them.
My black Escalade is parked on the curb of frat row. Multi-million dollar houses line up, each outdoing the next in column sizes. Red Solo cups litter the nearest yard, an overturned keg splaying sadly in the grass. Lo walks ahead of me.
“I didn’t think you were going to show,” I say and skirt past a puddle of barf in the road.
“I said I would.”
I snort. “That’s not always accurate.”
He halts by the car door, the windows too tinted to see Nola waiting in the driver’s seat. “Yeah, but this is Kappa Phi Delta. You screw one and they may all want a piece of your ass. I seriously had nightmares about it.”
I grimace. “About me getting raped?”
“That’s why they’re called nightmares , Lily. They’re not supposed to be pleasant.”
“Well this is probably my last expedition into a frat house for another decade or at least until I forget about this morning.”
The driver’s window rolls down. Nola’s deep black curls caress her heart-shaped face. “I have to pick up Miss Calloway from the airport in an hour. ”
“We’ll be ready in a minute,” I tell her. The window slides up, blocking her from view.
“Which Miss Calloway?” Lo asks.
“Daisy. Fashion Week just ended in Paris.” My little sister shot up overnight to a staggering five-foot-eleven inches, and with her rail-like frame she fit the mold for high fashion.
My mother capitalized on Daisy’s beauty in an instant.
Within the week of her fourteenth birthday, she was signed to IMG modeling agency.
Lo’s fingers twitch by his side. “She’s fifteen and probably surrounded by older models blowing lines in a bathroom.”
“I’m sure they sent someone with her.” I hate that I don’t know the details.
Since I arrived at the University of Pennsylvania, I acquired the rude hobby of dodging phone calls and visits.
Separating from the Calloway household became all too easy once I entered college.
I suppose that has always been written for me.
I used to push the boundaries of my curfew and spent little time in the company of my mother and father.
Lo says, “I’m glad I don’t have siblings. Frankly, you have enough for me.”
I never considered having three sisters to be a big brood, but a family of six does garner some unique attention.
He rubs his eyes wearily. “Okay, I need a drink and we need to go.”
I inhale a deep breath, about to ask a question we’ve both avoided thus far.
“Are we pretending today?” With Nola so close, it’s always a tossup.
On one hand, she’s never betrayed our trust. Not even in the tenth grade when I used the backseat of a limo to screw a senior soccer player.
The privacy screen was up, blocking Nola’s view, but he grunted a little too loud and I knocked into the door a little too hard.
Of course she heard, but she never ratted me out.
There’s always the risk that one day she’ll betray us. Cash loosens lips, and unfortunately, our fathers are swimming in it.
I shouldn’t care. I’m twenty. Free to have sex.
Free to party. You know, all the things expected of college-aged adults.
But my laundry list of dirty (like really dirty) secrets could create a scandal within my family’s circle of friends.
My father’s company would not appreciate that publicity one bit.
If my mother knew my serious problem, she’d send me away for rehab and counseling until I was fixed up nicely.
I don’t want to be fixed. I just want to live and feed my appetite.
It just so happens that my appetite is a sexual one.
Plus, my trust fund would magically vanish at the sight of my impropriety. I’m not ready to walk away from the money that pays my way through college. Lo’s family is equally unforgiving.
“We’ll pretend,” he tells me. “Come on, love.” He taps my ass. “Into the car.” I barely stumble on his frequent use of love . In middle school, I told him how I thought it was the sexiest term of endearment. And even though British guys have claimed stake to it, Lo took it as his own.
I scrutinize him, and he breaks into a wide smile.
“Has the walk of shame crippled you?” he asks. “Do I need to carry you into the threshold of the Escalade too?”
“That’s unnecessary.”
His crooked grin makes it hard not to smile back. Lo purposefully leans in close to tease me, and he slips a hand in the back pocket of my jeans. “If you don’t unfreeze yourself from this state, I’m going to spin you around. Hard.”
My chest collapses. Oh my…I bite my lip, imagining what sex would be like with Loren Hale. The first time was too long ago to remember well. I shake my head. Don’t go there. I turn around to open the door and climb in the Escalade, but a huge realization hits me.
“Nola drove to fraternity row…I’m dead. Ohmygod.
I’m dead.” I run two hands through my hair and begin to breathe like a beached whale.
I have no good excuse to be here other than I was searching for a guy to sleep with.
And that’s the answer I’m trying to avoid.
Especially since our parents think Lo and I are in a serious relationship—one that changed his da ngerous partying ways and reformed him into a young man that his father can be proud of.
This , picking me up from a frat party with the faint smell of whiskey on his breath, is not what his father has in mind for his son.
It is not something he’d condone or even accept.
In fact, he’d probably scream at Lo and threaten him with his trust fund.
Unless we want to say goodbye to our luxuries from our inherited wealth, we have to pretend to be together.
And pretend that we’re two perfectly functioning, perfectly well-kept human beings.
And we’re just not. We’re not. My arms shake.
“Whoa!” Lo places his hands on my shoulders. “Relax, Lil. I told Nola that your friend had a birthday brunch. You’re covered.”
My head still feels like it’ll float away, but at least that’s better than the truth.
Hey Nola, we need to pick up Lily from frat row where she had a one-night stand with some loser.
And then she’d look at Lo, waiting for him to explode in jealousy.
And he’d add: Oh yeah, I’m only her boyfriend when I need to be. Fooled you!
Lo senses my anxiety. “She’s not going to find out.” He squeezes my shoulders.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes,” he says impatiently. He slides in the car, and I follow behind. Nola puts the Escalade in gear.
“Back to the Drake, Miss Calloway?” After years of asking her to call me anything, even little girl (for some reason, I thought that would entice her to drop the whole act, but I think I only offended her instead), I gave up the attempt. I swear my dad pays her extra for the formality.
“Yes,” I say, and she heads towards the Drake apartment complex.
Lo nurses a coffee thermos, and even though he takes big gulps, I’m certain that the caffeinated beverage does not fill it. I find a can of Diet Fizz in the center cooler-console and snap it open. The dark carbonated liquid soothes my restless stomach .
Lo drapes an arm across my shoulder, and I lean into his hard chest a tiny bit.
Nola glances in the rearview mirror. “Was Mr. Hale not invited to the birthday brunch?” she asks, being friendly. Still, anytime Nola goes into question-mode, it jostles my nerves and triggers paranoia.
“I’m not as popular as Lily,” Lo answers for me. He has always been a much better liar. I blame it on the fact that he’s constantly inebriated. I’d be a far more confident, self-assured Lily if I was downing bourbon all day.
Nola laughs, her plump belly hitting the steering wheel with each chortle. “I’m sure you’re just as popular as Miss Calloway.”
Anyone (apparently Nola too) would assume that Lo has friends.
On an attractiveness scale, he ranges right between a lead singer from a rock band you’d like to fuck and a runway model for Burberry and Calvin Klein.
Although, he’s never been in a band, but a modeling agency did scout him once, wanting him for a Burberry campaign.
They retracted the offer after seeing him drink straight from a nearly empty bottle of whiskey. The fashion industry has standards too.
Lo should have lots of friends. Mostly of the female kind. And usually they do come flocking. But not for long.
The car travels along another street, and I count the minutes in my head.
Lo angles his body towards me while his fingers brush my bare shoulder, almost lovingly.
I make brief eye contact, my neck burning as his deep gaze enters mine.
I swallow hard and try not to break it. Since we’re supposed to be dating, I shouldn’t be afraid of his amber eyes like an awkward, insecure girl.
Lo says, “Charlie is playing sax tonight at Eight Ball. He invited us to go watch him.”
“I don’t have plans.” Lie. A new club opened up downtown called The Blue Room. Literally, everything is said to be blue. Even the drinks. I’m not missing the opportunity to hook up in a blue bathroom. Hopefully with blue toilet seats .
“It’s a date.”
Silence (of the awkward variety) thickens after his words die in the air. Normally, I’d be talking to him about The Blue Room and my nefarious intentions tonight, making plans since I am his DD. But in the censored car, it’s more difficult to start R-rated conversations.
“Is the fridge stocked? I’m starving.”