by K. A. Tucker
I sigh as I watch her. I know what she’s doing. Aside from getting me drunk, of course. She’s trying to distract me from the sad part about today. That my dad is not here on the one day that he should be. On the day that I start at Princeton. This was always his dream, after all. He was a proud graduate and he wanted both of his girls to go here. Kacey’s declining grades after the accident didn’t allow for that possibility, leaving it to me. So I’m living his dream—my dream, too—and he’s not here to see me do it.
I take a deep breath and silently accept whatever fate—and by fate I mean Jell-O shots—has in store for me tonight. I’m certainly less nervous than I was when I first stepped through those doors. And the buzzing atmosphere is pretty cool. I’m at my first college party. There’s nothing wrong with it or with me being here and enjoying it, I remind myself.
With a shooter in my hand, I close my eyes and let my body just feel the throbbing beat of the music. Let loose, have fun. That’s what Stayner always tells me. Tipping my head back, I squish the bottom of the Dixie cup and bring it to my lips, sliding my tongue out to accept the wiggly mess into my mouth. I feel like a pro.
Except for one amateur mistake—I should never have closed my eyes.
If I hadn’t, I wouldn’t have looked like an easy drunk chick. And I would have seen him coming.
The tangy orange flavor has just touched my taste buds when a strong arm hooks around my waist from the front and pulls me away from the safety of my wall. My eyes fly open wide as my back presses against someone’s chest, one muscular arm snaking around my body. In the next heartbeat—not mine, because mine has stopped beating altogether—a hand seizes both my chin and the Dixie cup against my lips and tilts my head back so it’s facing up and at an angle. I catch a whiff of musky cologne a split second before a guy leans over and his tongue slips against mine, twirling around and coaxing it a little before drawing the Jell-O away. It all happens so fast that I have no chance to think or react or put my tongue back in my mouth. Or bite the intruding tongue off.
It’s all over in a second, leaving me shooterless, breathless, and gripping the wall for support as my knees shake. It takes me a few seconds to regain composure, and when I do, my brain processes the loud roar of approval behind me. I spin around to find a group of tall, brawny guys—all in togas strategically wrapped to show off well-defined chests—cheering and slapping the guy on the back as if he’s just won a race. I can’t see his face. All I can see is a mess of wavy dark brown—almost black—hair and the solid ridges of his back.
I’m not sure how long I’m standing there with my mouth hanging open, staring, but one of the guys in the group finally notices. He casts a furtive look at the Jell-O thief, jutting his head in my direction.
What the hell am I going to say? Without being too obvious, I frantically search the room for my sister’s fiery red hair. Where is she? Gone, leaving me here to deal with . . . My breath catches as I watch the Jell-O thief turn with slow, leisurely movement to face me dead on.
This guy’s tongue was in my mouth? This guy . . .this tall, giant Adonis with dark wavy hair, tanned skin, and a body to tempt a blind nun . . . had his tongue in my mouth.
Oh God. The sweat is back! All those weeks of speed-dating for nothing! I feel the trickles—multiple ones—run down between my shoulder blades as his coffee-colored eyes do a quick scan down and up my body before settling on my face. And then one side of his mouth curves up and he offers me an arrogant smirk. “Not bad.”
I’m still not sure what my first words would have been to him. But then he had to go and say those two little words with that cocky little grin . . .
So I haul back and punch him in the jaw.
I’ve only punched one other person before. My sister’s boyfriend, Trent, and that was because he broke Kacey’s heart. It took weeks for my hand to heal. Since then, Trent taught me how to throw a punch, with my thumb wrapped around the outside of my knuckles and my wrist tilted downward.
I really love Trent right now.
I hear the howls of laughter from around us as the Jell-O thief rubs his jaw, wincing and adjusting it this way and that to test it out. That’s how I know that it hurt. If I weren’t so rattled by the fact that this guy had just forcefully French-kissed me, I’d probably have a giant grin on my face. He deserved it. He didn’t just steal my shooter. He stole my first kiss.
He takes a step toward me and I instinctively retreat, only to find my back pressed up against the wall once again. A sly smile creeps over his mouth, as if knowing that I’m cornered and pleased by it. Closing the distance, his arms stretch out, his hands pressing up against the wall on either side of my face, his broad body, his towering height, his entire presence effectively boxing me in. And I suddenly can’t breathe. This is suffocating. I try peering around him, looking for my sister, but I can’t see anything past flesh and muscle. And I don’t know where to look because no matter where I do, he’s there. Finally, I hazard a glance up. Heated eyes as dark as midnight bore into my face. I swallow, my stomach doing several full somersaults.
“That’s one hell of a swing for someone so . . .” He moves one hand down and closer to my arm. I feel a thumb graze along my bicep. “Female.” I shiver responsively and a visual flashes through my mind—a shaking rabbit, cornered by a wolf. He cocks his head and I catch curiosity flitter past. “So you’re shy . . .but not too shy to punch me across the face.” There’s a pause, and then he offers me another crooked smile laced with arrogance. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t help myself. You looked like you were really enjoying that shooter. I had to taste it for myself.”
Swallowing, I manage to pull my arms up and across my chest in an attempt to force some barrier between his chest and mine. My voice decidedly shaky, I say, “And?”
The grins widens, his eyes dropping to stare at my mouth for so long that I don’t think I’m going to get an answer out of him. But I finally do. One that comes after he licks his bottom lip. “And I could go for another one. You game?”
My body instinctively presses against the wall as I try to meld into it, to get away from this guy and whatever lewd intentions he has.
“All right, that’s enough!” A wave of relief sweeps over me as a delicate hand slips between us, landing against the Jell-O thief’s bare chest and pushing him back. He submits, slowly retreating, arms raised as if in surrender. He turns to rejoin his friends.
“Way to start off, Livie. I think that should keep Stayner off your back for a while,” Kacey says, barely able to get the words out through her laughter. She’s laughing!
“It’s not funny, Kacey!” I hiss. “That guy forced himself on me!”
She rolls her eyes but then, after a long pause, she sighs. “Yeah, you’re right.” Reaching over, she pinches the guy’s arm without hesitation. “Hey, buddy!”
He turns back toward us with a scowl, mouthing “fuck” as he rubs his arm. The scowl lasts only a second before he sees Kacey’s glare. Or rather, her face and her body. And then that stupid grin is back. Huge surprise.
“You do that to her again and I’ll sneak into your room and rip your balls off while you sleep, capisce?” she warns with a pointed finger. Most times my sister’s threats involve the mutilation of testicles.
The Jell-O thief doesn’t respond at first. He simply stares at her and my sister levels him with her own stare, completely unfazed. But then his gaze flickers back and forth between the two of us. “You guys sisters? You look alike.” We get that a lot so I’m not surprised, though I don’t see it. We both have the same light blue eyes and pale skin. But my hair is jet black and I’m taller than Kacey.
“Pretty and smart. You’ve got a real winner on your hands, Livie!” Kacey shouts extra loud so both of us can hear.
He shrugs and the cocky grin is back. “I’ve never had two sisters. . . . ” he begins with a suggestive arched brow.
Oh. My. G
od.
“And you never will. Not these two sisters, anyway.”
He shrugs. “Not at the same time, maybe.”
“Don’t worry. When my baby sister gets laid for the first time, it won’t be with you.”
“Kacey!” I gasp, my eyes darting to his face, praying that the loud music drowned out her words. By the flash of surprise I detect there, I know that it didn’t.
I grab hold of her arm and tug her away. She’s already sputtering apologies. “Jeez, Livie. I’m sorry. I guess I’m drunk. Loose lips . . .”
“Do you know what you just did?”
“Painted a big virginal bull’s-eye on your back?” Kacey confirms with a scrunched-up face.
With a cautious glance over my shoulder, I find him back with a group of guys, chuckling as he sips on his beer. But those piercing eyes stay on me. When he catches me looking, he reaches over to take one of his friend’s Dixie cups. He holds it up, making a show of his tongue sliding over the top before quirking his brow and mouthing, “Your turn?”
My head whips back around and glare at my sister. I snap, “I should have just let you wear that damn T-shirt!” I may be inexperienced and naïve in some manners, but I know full well that a guy like that discovering an eighteen-year-old virgin is his idea of finding that ever illusive pot of gold at the end of a rainbow.
“I’m sorry . . .” She shrugs, glancing back at him. “Gotta admit he’s hot, though, Livie. He looks like a Mediterranean underwear model. There’d be no coyote-ugly situation in the morning there.”
I sigh. I don’t know why Kacey seems hell-bent on getting me to trade in my “V-card.” For years, she never cared. In fact, she seemed happy that I didn’t date in high school. But lately she’s been driven by this notion that I’m sexually repressed. I swear I’m beginning to loathe her choice to go into psychology.
“Just look at him!”
“No,” I refuse stubbornly.
“Fine,” she mutters, grabbing four shooters off a platter that a stocky guy in a kilt—a kilt, at a toga party?—carries past. “But if you were planning on giving it up anytime, I’ll bet that would be a memorable way to do it. I’m sure he’d quickly get you up to speed on all that you’ve missed these past few years.”
“Including gonorrhea and crabs?” I mumble, staring at the two blue shooter cups in my hand. I’m thankful for the dark as I feel my cheeks flush deeply. Bringing the one to my mouth as I had before, I let my tongue skate across the top of it, mentally reliving the seconds of that—I refuse to acknowledge that as my first kiss—that thing he did to me.
“Bottoms up!” Kacey sucks hers back in rapid succession.
I follow her lead with the first. With the second one at my mouth, I stupidly hazard a sideways glance, assuming he’s moved on to another unsuspecting victim. But he hasn’t. He’s there, surrounded by a few girls, one with her hand against the tattoo on his chest. But he’s still watching me. Still smiling. Except now it’s this strange, dark smile, as if he has a secret.
I guess he does. My secret.
A nervous thrill fires through me as my cup sits frozen at my lips.
“That’s Ashton Henley!” someone yells into my ear. With a start, I turn to find Reagan next to me, a beer in one hand and a shooter in the other. She’s so short that she needs to be on tiptoes to reach my ear.
“How do you know who he is?” I ask, embarrassed to be caught ogling.
“He’s the captain of the Princeton Heavyweight rowing team. My dad is the coach,” she explains, her speech slurring slightly. Her hand waves around the room in a wide spiral. “I know a lot of these guys.” That explains her social ease, I guess. “And I think you’ve caught his attention, roomie,” she adds with a sly wink.
I shrug and give her a tight smile, wanting to change subjects before we give him the satisfaction of figuring out we’re talking about him. But as I glance around the room at the little pockets of females and see the glances in his direction—some furtive, some downright obvious—I’m sure there’s no shortage of attention on this Ashton guy.
Reagan confirms that a second later. “And he’s pretty much the hottest guy at this school.” She takes a sip of her beer. “And also, a giant ass.”
“That much, I gathered,” I murmur, more to myself than to her. I suck back my shooter, intentionally turning my back to him, hoping he’ll redirect his predatory stare to a willing recipient.
“And a bit of a man whore.”
This just keeps getting better and better. “I’m sure he’ll have no trouble finding someone to . . . whore it up with.” Someone who isn’t me.
I’m not sure if I’m officially drunk or Kacey is a magician, but she does a twirl and two more shooters land in my hand. The music has picked up tempo and volume and now I feel it vibrating through my entire body, making my hips sway of their own accord to the beat.
“It’s fun here, isn’t it?” Reagan shouts, her straight honey-blond hair flipping around as she jumps, throwing her arms in the air and screeching, “Wooh!” She has a ton of energy. Like one of those kids who gets dosed with Ritalin. “All these people, the excitement, the music. I love it!”
I smile and nod as I look around again. And I have to admit, this is fun. “I’m glad I came!” I yell, bumping shoulders with Kacey. “Keep me out of any more trouble tonight, though. Please,” I warn as I suck both shots back.
Kacey answers with a laugh, hooking an arm around mine and throwing the other arm around Reagan, who happily joins in the revelry. “Of course, baby sis. Tonight, Princeton is going to party Cleary style.”
I giggle, my sister’s giddiness temporarily pushing everything else away. “I don’t even know what that means.”
With one of my sister’s notorious evil grins, she says, “You’re about to find out.”
CHAPTER THREE
The Beast
There are about five seconds of calm and blissful ignorance after I crack my eyes open. Five seconds when I stare at the white ceiling looming not far from my face, as my eyes adjust to the dim light, as my brain just sits idly, waiting for the neurons to start firing.
And then the avalanche of confusion hits.
Where am I?
How did I get here?
What the hell happened?
I roll my head and find my sister’s face only a few inches away. “Kacey?” I whisper.
She moans, and my nostrils catch her rank breath. I cringe and turn away. Too quickly, it would seem, as a sharp, stabbing pain pierces my brain. I cringe a second time.
We’re in my dorm room. That much, I can quickly deduce by the cramped space and a few personal belongings. But I don’t remember coming home.
What do I remember?
My hand slides feebly up to my face to give it a good rub while I pick through my foggy memory, trying to piece together the night . . . Bits of blurry images flicker so faintly that I’m not sure they’re real. Shot after shot. After shot. Orange, blue, green . . . Kacey and me doing the robot on the dance floor? I groan and immediately wince at another throb of pain in my head. God, I hope not. From there . . . nothing. I remember nothing. How can I not remember anything?
Kacey moans again and I’m assaulted with another wave of that foulness. Swallowing several times, I accept that my breath can’t be much better and that I would kill for a bottle of water. I push my sheets off my body with slow, uncoordinated kicks.
And I frown as I take in my exposed flesh. Why am I . . . Oh, right. I was wearing that stupid toga last night. That doesn’t explain why I’m in nothing but panties now, but my head hurts too much to think about tha . . . Whatever. It’s only my sister. And Reagan, but she’s a girl.
I struggle to sit up, groaning as I push my hands back through a mess of knotted hair, squeezing my temples to relieve some of the pressure. And why does my head feel ready to burst! I think if
someone walked in here with an axe, I’d stretch my neck out for a clean cut.
There’s already a vile taste in my mouth when a surge of nausea hits me. I need water. Now. With shaky arms and legs, I rock my body around and down, not wasting time with the ladder and hoping I don’t step on Reagan’s head. If I can just make it to the mini fridge and chug a bottle of cold water, I’ll feel better. I know it . . .
A second later, as my feet hit Reagan’s plush white shag rug by the bed, I get my second shock of the morning.
An ass. A male ass. And it’s not just an ass. It’s everything. There’s a very large, very naked guy sprawled out on Reagan’s bed, his legs and one arm hanging off the edge. By the mess of honey-blond hair poking out from beneath the covers in the corner, I can see that Reagan is buried somewhere in there.
I can’t stop staring. I’m standing there in nothing but underwear, the room is spinning, my mouth tastes like I drank sewer water, and I’m frozen, focused on this naked man in front of me. Partly because he’s the last thing I ever expected to see when I climbed down. Partly because he’s the first naked man I’ve ever seen. Partly because I’m wondering what the hell he’s doing here.
And . . . what is that on the top of his left ass cheek? My curiosity overtakes my shock as I step forward cautiously, hesitant to get too close. It looks like . . . a tattoo. It’s red and puffy. I’ve seen pictures of fresh tattoos and that’s what they look like. Like, really fresh. It’s a fancy scroll font and it reads “Irish.” Irish? I frown. Why is that word jogging my memory . . . ?
The floor creaks as my weight shifts, startling me. I abruptly back away. The sudden movement makes the crammed room spin. Water. Right. Now. With wobbly legs, I stumble toward the fridge and my robe that hangs on a hook by the door. Unfortunately, our dorm rooms are tiny and, let’s face it—I’m an ox in a closet when I’m nervous. My back slams into Reagan’s dresser, hitting it hard enough to knock over an array of her glass perfume bottles. I hold my breath, hoping the loud noise isn’t enough to wake up the naked giant.