Chapter 1
Frat Boys are Fucktards
Ryan
There are certain thingsin life I can’t tolerate, my top three being personalized license plates, comb-overs, and privileged assholes. So, it seems a no-brainer for me to steer clear of said privileged assholes as much as possible—particularly when they’re drunk.
So why then, am I subjecting myself to a party at the douchebaggest—it’s a technical term—frat house on campus? Two words: Charlotte Hayes.
I’m standing on the opposite end of the yard, sipping my nasty tastes-like-watered-down beer and trying to muster up the balls to talk to her. She’s completely oblivious to my presence, of course, chatting up her girlfriends and nursing a beer over by the pool. Tonight, she’s let her dark-brown hair down so it hangs in waves down her back, the color striking against her fair skin,and she’s wearing a strappy pink dress that hugs her sweet little figure. It’s sexy but classy at the same time, like Charlie. She’s smiling at something one of her friends said, and I swear my heart just skipped a beat. The girl’s got a smile that knocks me on my ass and the most incredible eyes I’ve ever seen, a pale-seafoam green.
“You’re going to swallow a bug if you leave your mouth open like that.”
Startled, I spin around to find my buddy Malcolm, his face split into a grin eerily similar to the Cheshire cat, standing behind me. “Jesus.” I give a backhanded smack to his shoulder. “You scared the shit out of me.”
“That was kind of the point, bro.” Laughing, he throws his hands up to defend against further assault. Speaking of privileged, Malcolm’s family has more money than God, but he’s as far from an asshole as you can possibly get. “Just talk to her already. Even I’m starting to get creeped out by all this stalker-esque shit you’re doing,” he says, bumping my shoulder with his.
I shoulder him back. “Screw you, man. I’m not a stalker.”
He raises a brow at me as if to say, “really?” “Look, I love you like a brother, but it’s been like—what—six months?”
It’s been nine, but hell if I’m going to correct him.
He continues, “You go anywhere you know she’ll be and stare at her the whole time like a long-lost puppy. Yeah, I’d say you’re moving out of the shy zone into creeper territory.”
I drop my head back and groan. He’s right. I’m a fucking creeper. I’ve been crushing on this girl for forever, and I’ve hardly said more than a few sentences to her.
“I’m not like you, okay? It’s not that easy for me. You barely have to look at a girl and she’s coming on to you. Girls run away from me.”
“That’s bullshit and you know it,” he says, waving a hand in front of his scrunched-up face like he’s smelling somethingmuch worse than the pungent chlorine scent currently permeating the night air.
“Whatever, bro.” It’s not worth getting into an argument with him. I know he’s trying to help, but Malcolm just doesn’t get it. The guy’s the NU quarterback, for Christ’s sake. That alone would be enough to build a small harem from. Add his super dark hair and eyes, almost too-pretty face and athletic build to the mix, and the girls swarm like locusts. I’m just the skinny kicker, who spent all last season on the bench, with long hair and way too many tattoos.
“Stop being a wussy and come on,” he says, shoving me forward.
I sigh and follow him around the pool. It’s not so much that I’m afraid to talk to Charlie. It’s just the chick’s light years out of my league. She’s a nice girl from a nice family that lives in a nice suburban neighborhood. I’m a nobody from shithole, USA. The only family I have are my two older brothers, both bikers, and their somewhat shady buddies, who helped raise me.
Not exactly a winning endorsement.
“Ladies, ladies, ladies,” Malcolm says as he wraps his arms around both Emma’s and Stella’s shoulders. I’m fairly certain he has the hots for Emma, but she’s Jacob’s girl, so he’d never go after her. I mean, I get it. The girl is a stunningly beautiful blonde with a rocking body. She’s a drama major, and I have to say, if she has even the tiniest bit of talent, the girl’s destined to be a star. Stella’s kind of her opposite. She’s got the whole super adorable emo girl thing going on with her white-tipped brown hair and ruby-red lips. She’s also got the snark to match, which is probably what I like best about her.
I say hello to the girls and Charlie, who barely gives me a second glance, and stand around like an idiot while the four of them talk because being this close to Charlie gets me so wound up, I can’t focus on anything but our proximity. It’s like she hasthis sort of gravity that pulls me toward her, and it takes almost all my willpower to keep a respectable distance.
“Okay, I’ve got to pee,” Charlie says to no one in particular.
“Again?” Emma says.
Charlie gives her a sheepish look. “It’s the beer. It totally puts my bladder in overdrive.” She hands her cup to Emma, even though I’m standing right next to her. “Either of you want to come?” she asks the girls.
“I think we’re all peed out,” Emma says while Stella chuckles and nods in agreement. “But I’ll go with you.”
“It’s okay. I’ll just be a minute.”
Emma’s brow furrows. “Alright, but if you’re not back in ten minutes, I’m sending in S.W.A.T.”
Charlie salutes her friend. “Yes, Sir.” She starts off toward the back door of the house. I’m watching her sexy ass sway as she walks away. She stumbles a bit—maybe she’s drunker than I thought—but catches herself and continues on. That’s when my gaze snags on another pair of eyes following her. Normally, a guy checking her out wouldn’t set off alarm bells for me. She’s a pretty girl, guys are going to look at her, but there’s something about this dude I don’t like. I’m not even sure what it is. He’s your typical frat boy—clean-cut with a politician’s haircut and wearing his dad’s polo, but he’s not socializing with anyone, just standing there—alone—in the middle of the yard, and there’s something about the way he’s looking at Charlie that raises the hairs on the back of my neck.
Charlie’s entering the house now, and I watch as the frat boy sets down his cup, licks his lips and heads for the door. He could just be going to talk to her, but I’ve learned to trust my gut, and my gut is telling me this guy’s trouble. I don’t even say anything to the others. I simply hand my cup to Malcolm and follow.
