Prologue
Ava
When I was younger, life was peonies and lilacs, an entire bed of roses for me to rest my bejeweled soul. Then quickly, after the proverbial fall, it was thistles and thorns, hatred where love once stood, rejection in lieu of acceptance. A horror had infiltrated my family and winnowed its way into my marrow. After that I was never who I was born to be, yet relegated to lesser titles. I used to despise it when people addressed me as Aubree and Owen’s little sister, but after the tragic circumstances that befell our family, I becameher, a part of the nefariousthem, rejected for my sheer proximity to the madness—I had a new name. I was the killer’s sister.
Now that I’ve landed at Whitney Briggs, I hear the echoes of those childhood taunts, although the lesser of them all. I’m back to being Owen Vincent’s little sister, a title I would gladly accept, but a part of me was hoping university life could wash the scourge from the backstreets of my existence. I still feel the weight of Aubree’s sins whenever I’m with Owen. A side-glance from a group of girls—a look of horror from startled eyes in the crowd. I thought maybe the university could wipe clean the grime from the windows of my past and set my feet on a solid ground where I could run fast and free, straight to the person I was meant to be all along—have some fun, maybe get in a little trouble to call my own along the way. It turns out I didn’t get very far after all. In fact, I ran straight into a boy with the biggest brown eyes, lashes that stretch for days, and the face and body of a living god. Lucky for me, Grant Jones is the exact kind of trouble I was hoping for.
Crash into You
Ava
Unlike my new roommate, I don’t believe the sole reason for existing on a college campus is found in the boxers of the male species. But, unfortunately, much like my new roommate, I have an annoying big brother who is hell-bent on squashing all prospects of me ever taking a peek at whatever is found in the boxers of the male species. If the obstinate knifelike wind weren’t enough to ruin both my hair and my day, the fact my brother has spent the last few weeks stalking me around campus just to “be sure I was safe” is enough to make me rethink my enrollment at this prestigious institute of higher learning. Sure, Owen attends Whitney Briggs University himself, but I never for one minute believed our shared matriculation would ensue into a comedy of errors as I struggle daily to hide myself from his superhuman line of vision.
Honest to God, that boy can see through walls the way he’s been tracking me down, bumping into me just when I thought I finally evaded his superpowers. And if he’s not descending upon me like an annoying gnat, his girlfriend, Piper, somehow magically appears before me. It’s as if they’re tag-teaming me—protecting me from any unseen penile forces attempting to penetrate me and steal my virginal standing. I don’t think Owen has much to worry about in that department. With the two of them draped over me like a wet coat, there’s not a man, boy, or dildo willing to have a conversation with me, let alone land me horizontal.
If I knew this would be the not-so-rosy picture of my freshman year, I would have never opted to graduate from high school early and commit myself to such familial terror. In fact, I would have run for higher academic ground—in Alaska perhaps.
Whitney Briggs University gleams under the late September sun with its tall cathedral-like buildings, its cobbled walkways offering an old world appeal. The campus itself is set on mountainous terrain with a smattering of pines strewn throughout the vicinity. The windstorm pushing through has blown the skies a clear blue and swept the walkways of this esteemed university leaving them to glitter. An entire herd of students spills out of the buildings as classes for the day let out—girls in expensive wool coats and boys so handsome it hurts to look them right in the eye. I do a quick sweep of the vicinity for either Lucky or Harper. Lucky is my new roommate and insta-best friend. Her brother, Jet, is good friends with my brother, Owen, thus the involuntary initiation in the big brother vaginal protection program. Our friend, Harper, lives down the hall and can’t stand her roomie, so she’s practically a third roommate in our tiny bathtub of a dorm. But neither Lucky nor Harper is anywhere to be seen at the moment.
Whitney Briggs is populated with a plethora of the abnormally beautiful as if a casting call for perfection went out and they all showed up in droves. Truth be told, I’ve never seen so many good-looking people in one congregation before. But then, I’ve never been around this many people in general. I attended a small boarding school for most of my life until one day my family suffered a trauma so cuttingly deep it forever changed the timeline of who we were and what school I attended. After my sister’s startling arrest, our lives were reduced to the much longed forbeforeand the much dreadedafter. A few years back, my older sister, Aubree, lost her mind over a boy—a stupidboy—and committed an atrocity that actually took another human being off this planet. Not that Bryson Edwards is stupid, but the idea in general is like nails on a chalkboard. He’s definitely not worth throwing your life away over, and for sure not worth ending someone else’s.
A group of rowdy girls steps in front of the building that Owen is currently scouting me from, and I take the opportunity to bolt to Hallowed Grounds, the campus coffee shop. I stashed my bike in front of the tiny café this morning. Just as I’m about to hop on Bessie—yes, my bicycle has a cute little nickname which might seem both foolish and immature, but, once your life gets flushed down the shitter, you opt for foolish and immature things to glue your sanity back together.
Before I can land on my seat, Owen strides over like a streak of determined lightning, and just as he’s about to come my way, one of his beefed-up buddies blocks his path and starts up a conversation. All of Owen’s friends are drop-your-panties gorgeous, and not surprisingly they’re all taken by someone more than willing to drop their panties.
Owen squints in my general direction, doing his best to pick me out of the crowd, just as I swoop into an empty seat outside the café and pick up a book to cover my face. Is it really too much to ask to have one Owen-free afternoon?
I blink up at the words currently blurring my vision, far too close for me to ever make them out, the tiny letters all dancing around the page like ants, and it occurs to me that I’ve sat down at a stranger’s table and stuck their book to my nose—way to make an impression on the student body. Nothing screams insanity more than acting erratic in public. Dear God, maybe Aubree’s mental disorder has finally infiltrated my brain. Of course, I can thank Owen and his anti-penile campaign for this latest bout of madness to strike our family.
“So, what type of dyslexia do you have?” a deep, decidedly male voice vibrates right through the spine of the heavy textbook I’m shielding myself with.
Great. Not only am I honing my superpower of humiliation, but I’m doing it in front of the very species my brother has declared war on. If my inexplicable desire to read a stranger’s lit book hasn’t frightened the poor guy sitting across from me, then my brother’s inexplicable desire to pluck his limbs off will.
Dropping the book and bolting seems like the only rational thing to do at this point, but there’s something warm about the way he asked the question, so I slowly inch the book to the bridge of my nose and gasp at the sun god before me. I’ve seen gorgeous boys before, the aforementioned brood of testosterone Owen surrounds himself withstanding, but this boy, this boy who still happens to be holding on to his summer tan, who has fields of gold for eyes, a sculpted version of perfection born on Mount Olympus has my throat locked up with something just this side of choking.
“Excuse me?” I blink a few good times in the event this male mirage decides to do a disappearing act.
“You know”—his brows knit together, but those eyes of his smile straight into my soul—“a reading disorder.” He motions to the oversized literature book I’m clutching on to for dear life. “It’s upside down. I just wondered if your doctor knows about your problem.” The golden god gives a dry chuckle, and a ray of sunlight gleams off his glossy white teeth. My stomach squeezes tight at the sight of him. I may have a slight obsession with sparkling white chompers, but again I relegate this odd preoccupation with the fact my sister stabbed a knife through my existence just under three years ago. I’ll admit to having a slight white knight fantasy that one day a stranger with a perfect smile would whisk me off on his horse and carry me far away from her earthly blunder.
“I d-d-don’t have a reading disorder.” It comes out far more defensive than it ever should. I flop the book down, and he promptly pulls it over. “Besides, that’s the least of my problems right now.” I glance over my shoulder and spot Owen still chatting up a storm with his beefy buddy. “My problem is—I can’t seem to shake—”
“Some guy?” he cuts me off, staring down the crowd behind me with a touch of morbid curiosity.
“Yes. Girl problems. You wouldn’t understand.”
“Don’t want to.”
Owen twitches in this direction, and I sink in my seat, swiping half a sandwich off the plate in front of me. The last place Owen will look for me is noshing on a sammy with a cute boy because my brother has successfully scared off all of the prospective cute boys—sans this one.
“PB and J.” I moan while taking a small bite. “My favorite.”
“Okay.” His brows rise. Those eyes of his glow like molten ambers and warm me from the inside out without even trying. Holy hell, it’s as if an alien race of stunning beings has infiltrated the campus. I’ll be the last to complain. And why the heck do I suddenly feel hideous in his presence? Lord knows I haven’t brushed my hair into submission since seven this morning.
“Help yourself.” He frowns as he scoots the plate to the middle of the table. “So, what’s your name? Or should I just call you the PB and J Thief?”
“PB and J suits me just fine. In fact, it’s my formal name.” The last thing I even remotely want to do is say my “formal” name. Owen is just as keyed into listening for it as I am. Even the faintest whisper could blow my cover.
The golden god rests his elbows onto the table and sheds that killer grin again. His dark hair curls around the back of his neck where it lightens to strawberry-blond. But those eyes. You don’t need a prospector to mine those golden flakes. I could stare at them all day long if he’d let me—correction, if Owen would let me. “So, I take it you’re not really interested in Homer’sOdyssey?” He holds the book up a moment before burying it into his backpack.
