The night air hits but I barely feel it. Between the alcohol, and the way she keeps looking at me, I'm already thinkingabout how good this is gonna be. And from that gleam in her eye? Pretty sure she is, too.
The phone rings atfive-fifteen in the morning, dragging me from a wine-induced sleep that definitely wasn't long enough. My head pounds as I blindly pat around my nightstand, knocking over every crystal I own before my fingers finally close around it.
Unknown number.
I should let it go to voicemail. Normal people don't call at a godforsaken hour in the morning unless someone's dead or dying. But there's this annoying little whisper in the back of my mind, insisting someone needs help, and—
"Hello?"
"Don't hang up." The whisper is urgent, familiar. "It's me. Caleb."
I push myself up, squinting at my salt lamp's muted coral glow. "Why are you whispering?"
"Because I'm hiding in a bathroom." There's rustling on his end, like he's moving around in a small space. "Long story. Can you come get me?"
"Wait," I frown. "If you're calling from someone else's phone, how did you even know my number?"
"Oh, I've got the important ones memorized." He rattles them off without hesitation. "Cheesy Delights, Mom, and you."
My heart stumbles in my chest. "Good to know I rank with pizza delivery."
"Hey, those are my top three speed dials for emergencies." More rustling. "Food emergencies, mom emergencies, and . . . you know . . . Ivy emergencies."
"Can't you just call a taxi?"
"I would, but I have no wallet." More shuffling. "Please, Ivy. I need to get out of here. Like, now."
I sigh dramatically, throwing off the covers. "Where even are you?"
"So last night started normal, right? Drinks. Dancing. Izzy's very hot. Everything's fine."
"Wait, who's Izzy?" I pad down the hallway, trying not to trip over my own feet.
"Girl from the speed dating thing at Sunflower. Well, technically we matched on PairUp a while ago, but . . . anyway, not important. What's important is I need help."
"Where does the needing rescue come in?"
He takes a deep breath. "So, she's into rope stuff. Likeseriousrope stuff. Full setup. Diagrams. A whole-ass playlist. It was like walking into a sexy Home Depot situation."
I pass the guest room where Amelia's starfished on the sheets, one sock off, mouth open in a gentle snore. "Shibari?"
"Youknow what that is?" His whisper rises an octave. "Never mind. Yes. That. And like, I'm not kink shaming. You do you, right? I figured how bad could it be?"
"I'm guessing pretty bad?"
"Look, some people might be into getting tied up by strangers while drunk off their ass, but turns out I am not one of them."There's rustling, like he's shifting positions. "She had all these . . . implements. And a manual. Amanual, Ivy."
"That's because it requires trust, you idiot." I navigate the disaster zone that is my living room—scattered bay leaves, half-eaten pizza, Amelia's shoes creating a drunken breadcrumb trail to the kitchen. Under my breath, I mutter, "Where do you even find these girls?"
"I heard that." More rustling. "And hey, how do you know so much about rope stuff? Is that what you're into? Because—"
"Finish that sentence and I'm hanging up."
"No, wait! Please! I panicked after she tied me up like some sacrifice! I had to fake feeling sick to get out. I've been in this bathroom for an hour. I can hear her snoring in her bedroom.Help me."
"Where am I picking you up?"
"Meet me outside the campus store?"
