It’s that easy for them. They’ve probably never had a problem that couldn’t be solved by throwing money at it.
“Don’t tell us you’re afraid of heights,” one of the drunk Sigs taunts.
“I’m not afraid of anything,” I bite out, too low for them to hear.
Rich pricks. If Coop wasn’t a member of the frat, I’d never show my face on Greek Row. Not that it matters, because no way in hell am I backing down. The evolved part of my brain tells me I have nothing to prove, but the caveman part, the part that drives me to grind and hustle every day, tells me to get my ass up there and make those assholes eat their words.
The two drunk idiots start laughing and there’s a quiet thump followed by muttered curses. I don’t know what’s going on down there, but I’d like to believe Coop slapped one of those jackasses in the back of the head.
“Your friend is right,” Red calls, words high and tight. Maybe it makes me an asshole too, but my chest warms at the concern in her voice. “My shoe is not worth it.”
I pause my drainpipe inspection and glance down at Red, drinking in the miles of creamy skin and the way her blue eyes sparkle in the moonlight. “No worries. I’ve played so much Donkey Kong, I’m like a spider monkey. I’ll be up and back in no time.”
“And we’ll all be down here looking up your skirt,” Coop hollers.
I give him the finger and start my climb, gritting my teeth as my knuckles scrape against the house’s brick exterior.
Worth it if I get Red’s number.
Shimmying up the drainpipe is harder than I expected, but I inch my way up, ignoring the comments from below. Someone’s got their phone out, recording the whole thing, and the blinding light is pointed right at me.
Shit. If Coach finds out about this, I’ll be running lines until I puke.
No time to worry about that now. I reach the top of the drainpipe and spot the shoe to my left. Thank Christ for small favors. At least I won’t have to scale the roof.
If I can just reach it…
I lean toward the sandal, keeping my right hand wrapped firmly around the drainpipe. The tips of my fingers brush the soft leather, but I can’t quite get a grip on it. Using my feet, I push myself a little farther up the drain and try again.
The pipe groans under my weight, but I manage to hook a finger through one of the straps and pull it back.
Score!
I hold up my trophy and the crowd below goes wild. Red smiles up at me like I’m a freaking hero and I know without a doubt that I’m getting her number tonight.
Just as I’m about to toss the shoe down, the drain groans ominously. I reach for the lip of the roof, but it’s too late. The pipe breaks free of the house, sending me careening backward.
Oh, shit.
There’s a high-pitched scream as I sail through the air and then everything goes black.
Chapter Two
Harper
TGIF. I force a smile that feels more like a grimace as I approach the nurse’s station. The first week of clinicals has been hell and the weekend can’t get here fast enough. The nurse I’m assigned to shadow is a real-life Nurse Ratched. Demanding, no-nonsense, and completely void of patience. Which is sort of understandable since this is a teaching hospital and she’s got a revolving door of inexperienced future RNs to train, but that’s hardly a comfort when my feet are swollen and I only got four hours of sleep last night.
I’m literally running on coffee and fear of failure at this point. Just counting down the hours until I can put my feet up and relax for one glorious day. Or, more likely, put my feet up and study. Because if this week’s taught me anything, it’s just how much I still have to learn before graduation.
It’s karma kicking your ass for the Sig Chi party.
Bile burns the back of my throat and I close my eyes, stuffing down the guilt. Yes, I told that guy to go get my shoe. Yes, he turned out to be Waverly’s starting kicker. And yes, his broken leg has him benched for the season. But it’s not like I was the one who dared him to climb up on that roof.
Not that it makes me any less responsible.
So much for do no harm.
“You’re late, Miss Payne,” trills Nurse Ratch—Rogers. In addition to being a tyrant, she insists on formality. No first names in the surgical unit. Like this place isn’t sterile enough with its stark white walls, fluorescent lights, and the overwhelming tang of disinfectant. Nope. We’re all Miss Payne or Mr. Sanders, which is ridiculous considering we are literally up to our elbows in needles, blood, and human excrement.
