Chapter 4
DELILAH
I take a slow sip of my drink, eyeing the pathetically empty Alpha Si living room. The “party” is currently six guys lounging on the couches, scrolling their phones, and Lacey making out with her boyfriend against the wall.
Thrilling.
I glance at Brianna and Chloe, who are sitting on the arm of the couch, watching the scene unfold with vague amusement.
“Why do we have to be here before the party even starts?” I mutter, swirling my cup.
Brianna hums, stretching her legs out like a cat. “Lacey wanted to see her man. We’re just collateral damage, babe.”
“Great. Love that for us.”
Lacey giggles loudly against Carter’s mouth, and I grimace, taking another sip.
I need this party to start already or I need to leave.
Since neither seems imminent, I turn to Brianna. “How’s life?”
She flips her long, dark hair over her shoulder, considering. “Busy. School is already hell. Clyde’s being clingy.”
“Clyde?” I arch a brow.
“The guy I’m seeing.” She tilts her head like it should be obvious. “You remember? Older. Resort manager. He drives an Audi.”
Oh. Right.
She’s been casually bragging about him in our group chat for weeks.
“Right. Clyde.” I nod.
“He’s good in bed, at least,” she continues. “Not Freddie Donovan good, but, you know. Acceptable.”
That gets my attention. Freddie Donovan. That name rings a bell.
And then it clicks.
I’m pretty sure Freddie is one of Troy Hawkins’ best friends.
And the last thing I need is Troy fucking Hawkins in my brain.
It’s only because I ran into him earlier, and he was—ugh. Predictably infuriating and obnoxious. Trying to charm some poor girl into choosing his hoodie and probably his bed. It’s what he does.
“I would love one more night with him.” She sighs.
I focus back on Brianna, who is checking her nails like she didn’t just say something messy as hell.
“Didn’t Freddie get a girlfriend?” I ask, vaguely remembering Lacey mentioning something about it last year.
Brianna shrugs, careless. “Yeah. Alex. Whatever.”
“So…?” I gesture at her. “You miss fucking him, but he’s dating someone? Door’s closed, Bri.”
Brianna smirks. “Doesn’t mean it can’t be opened.”
“Bri.” Chloe sighs beside her, half amused, half disapproving.
“What?” Brianna lifts a shoulder. “They’re cute, I guess. But things don’t last forever. And if they don’t… well, I’ll be around.”
Jesus.
“So is Freddie coming tonight?” I ask.
She tilts her head, thinking. “Not sure. He and his friends sometimes come to frat parties, but they have their big annual thing on Friday.”
That perks my interest. “Annual thing?”
Brianna grins like she knows a secret. “Their house throws this invite-only party every year. Huge event. Always super fun. Everyone wants to go.”
“You going?”
“Obviously.” She tosses her hair. “Freddie will be there, and like I said, there’s always a chance he and his little girlfriend won’t last.”
I frown.
“Don’t you feel kinda wrong to go after a guy with a girlfriend?”
Brianna waves a hand, like I just asked if water is wet. “Delilah, please. That’s life. People break up.”
“Yeah, but usually for reasons that aren’t ‘my ex is waiting in the wings like a vulture.’”
She laughs. “Well, aren’t you self-righteous tonight? I think you need to get laid.”
I roll my eyes.
I do not care about Freddie Donovan’s romantic choices—or Brianna’s, for that matter—but something about the way she talks about it rubs me the wrong way. Maybe because it’s just so calculated.
She doesn’t want Freddie now—she just wants the option, in case things fall apart.
I glance around the room. Chloe’s chatting with some guy in a backwards cap, perfectly relaxed, like she’s done this every weekend since birth.
Lacey’s practically glowing, hip pressed against Carter’s side as she laughs with someone I’ve never seen before.
Even Brianna, for all her craziness, belongs here. They all do.
They’re loose. At ease. Like their bodies don’t feel too sharp or too big or like they’re always in the wrong place.
I shift slightly, feeling the way my arms fold, my cup tilts, my breath catches on the edge of trying too hard.
I’m not uncomfortable, exactly. Just... aware of myself.
I take another sip of my drink. Not exactly because I want it, but because I know it helps. It smooths things out. Softens me at the edges. Makes me a little funnier, a little less prickly.
A little easier to be around.
“Ladies! Time for shots!” Lacey chirps, finally coming up for air from Carter’s lips.
Thank God.
I follow her to the kitchen, more than ready to drink until I stop thinking about where I should stand or how to turn off my resting bitch face.
The party is finally in full swing.
Bodies move to the music, the house is buzzing with voices and laughter, and the air is thick with sweat, alcohol, and that distinct frat-party smell of beer and overpriced cologne.
I’m tipsy, which is probably why I’m actually enjoying talking to Chloe.
Normally, she’s too hard to pin down—too neutral, too unreadable. But drunk Chloe?
Drunk Chloe is fun, fun.
We’re leaning against the kitchen counter, sipping our drinks, as people shout and spill liquor all around us.
“So —Chloe tilts her head at me, eyes slightly unfocused—“Did you get laid at camp?”
I snort, nearly choking on my drink. “Jesus. That’s abrupt.”
She shrugs, smirking. “You’ve been all mysterious about it. Spill.”
I roll my eyes but answer anyway.
“Once. It was…” I make a vague, wobbly motion with my hand.
Chloe raises a brow. “Underwhelming?”
“Incredibly.” I sigh.
“Damn. And here I thought those outdoorsy adventure guys knew how to use their hands.”
“You’d think.” I sigh. “Turns out confidence doesn’t equal competence.”
And just like that, I’m back in that creaky twin bed at camp.
Vinnie—sweet, sweaty, and somehow still smelling like bug spray—was trying so hard.
But it was like being fondled by a teenager.
I was bored halfway through. He couldn’t even meet my eye afterward.
Spent the rest of summer flinching every time we passed each other, which sucked. He was nice. We could’ve been friends.
Chloe laughs, bumping my hip. “See? This is why I keep telling you—you need to get out of your head and get some real, brain-melting sex.”
I snort again. “Yeah? Where exactly do I find that? Is there, like, a waiting list?”
She grins like she has a secret.
“You’re at a party. Full of hot, drunk frat guys. Pick one.”
I raise a skeptical brow.
“What?” Chloe gestures dramatically. “No offense, Delilah, but you are way too hot to be living like a celibate nun.”
I laugh, tipping my drink back.
“I just told you I got laid over summer.”
“Yeah, once! And it was terrible! Live a little, girl.”
The thought sticks.
I don’t know why—maybe it’s the alcohol, maybe it’s the way Chloe said it like it was the easiest thing in the world—but now the idea is lodged in my brain like a splinter I can’t stop picking at.
A good orgasm. Being touched. Wanted.
Not just out of convenience or proximity or boredom. But because someone sees me—wants me—and knows what the hell they’re doing.
I’m suddenly achingly aware of how long it’s been. Of the fact that I can’t remember the last time someone made me feel good without me overthinking every second of it.
I tap my fingers against my cup, the bass from the party vibrating up my spine. My skin feels too tight. My body wants something. Something real.
Not romance. Just a night where I’m not the one in control. Where I get to shut off my brain and let someone else take over. Make me feel something sharp and messy and alive. Isn’t that what college is all about?
“So what, you think I should just go up to someone and be like, ‘Hey, you down to get down?’” I joke, because joking is safer than confessing that I actually kind of want to.
Chloe shrugs. “Might work. You’re sorta scary sometimes, so they might be into that. Maybe they want a dominatrix? Have you ever worn a stiletto in bed?” She cocks her head.
“No, Chlo.” I laugh, half-exasperated. This girl always surprises me. I don’t ask her the same question back—I’m afraid of the answer.
But now the thought won’t go away.
Maybe I don’t want to be the girl who goes home early again. Alone. In my freezing apartment. Pretending I don’t want what other people seem to chase so easily.
And just as I’m entertaining the idea and looking around, a familiar voice cuts through the music.
“Holy shit. If it isn’t my favorite girl. How are you, Mittens?”
I freeze.
No fucking way.
Chloe’s eyes widen slightly.
Slowly, I turn—
And of course. Of course.
Leaning against the counter, smug as ever, wearing that stupid, cocky-ass grin…
Troy Hawkins.