1
QUINN
“This is literallythe worst idea you’ve ever had,” Haley says, arching a slender brow as she scans the room, a red plastic cup dangling from her fingertips.
“Really?” I challenge, taking a sip of my beer. It’s lukewarm and has too much head, but shitty beer is the least of my worries. “Worse than the time I streaked across the President’s lawn?”
“Hell, yes.” Haley turns to face me, dark eyes fixed on mine. “And as your best friend, I’m obligated to go on record because, girl, you aresogoing to have regrets in the morning.”
Only if this plan fails.
“If there’s a better place to find a hookup on campus,” I say, nodding toward the sea of sweaty undergrads before us, “I’m all ears.”
A frown tugs at the corner of Haley’s full mouth. I’ve got her there. Greek Row is my best option and we both know it. Sig Chi is wall to wall bodies, as if every student on campus came out to celebrate the Wildcats’ first win of the season.
Hell, they probably did.
Waverly University is a football school, and the guys on the team are treated like gods. Gods who are expected to deliver a national championship.
The hardwood floor vibrates beneath our feet, but it’s impossible to tell if it’s from the dancing or the bass pulsing from the giant speakers in the corner of the living room.
“Come on, Hales. You’re supposed to be my wing woman.” I bat my lashes and jut out my bottom lip out, doing my best imitation of a pout. Haley may look totally badass, but inside she’s as squishy as a Jell-O shot. “Help me, Haley-Wan. You’re my only hope.”
“Fine.” She rolls her eyes. “But don’t blame me if the sex is terrible.”
I shrug, trying to play it cool despite the nervous energy coiled low in my belly. “How bad can it be?”
Haley snorts and takes a sip of her beer. “I’m not even going to dignify that with a response.”
Technically, she already has, but I don’t point it out, because I need her help. I’m a hot mess when it comes to the opposite sex. Not that I have much experience—or, okay, any—with sex, because every time I’ve tried to cash in my v-card, the universe has screwed me.
But only in the figurative sense.
Like after prom, when someone pulled the fire alarm at the hotel, and my date decided it was a sign premarital sex would send him straight to the fiery pits of hell.
Or last year when I was a clueless freshman hooking up with this guy from my American History class, and his cock got stuck in the zipper of his jeans. I tried to help with the zipper sitch—which, judging by his squeals, was wicked painful—but that turned out to be an even bigger mistake than hooking up with him. He bolted and never spoke to me again, like it was my fault he didn’t understand the concept of manscaping.
So, yeah. I’m still a card-carrying member of Virgins-R-Us, but not for long.
Tonight I’m having sex, universe be damned.
No planning. No strings. No cosmic interference.
“What about him?” Haley asks, nodding toward a cute guy with an edgy frohawk.
I sip my beer, studying him over the top of my plastic cup. He’s tall, dark, and sexy. More Haley’s type than mine. I prefer my guys sweet with a side of nerdy.
And how’s that working out?
“If you’re not interested,” Haley says casually, “maybe I’ll go for it.”
Bullshit. Haley and her on-again, off-again boyfriend Bryan are on a break, but there’s no way she’ll hook up with someone else. She might be pissed at him now, but she’s convinced they’re end game.
“He’s all yours.” I grin and call her bluff. “Not my type.”
“Type doesn’t matter when it comes to one-night stands.” Haley smirks and bumps her hip against mine. “Are you sure you want to do this?”
“Definitely.” I lift my chin. No way am I dying a spinster virgin. And, yes, I realize that sounds dramatic, but you’d be dramatic too if the universe was conspiring to hold your virginity hostage while all your friends were getting their O on. “We just need to find the right guy.”
