“I know.” I grip my fork in frustration, then put it down, my appetite vanishing. This is my first year as captain, which is a major honor considering I’m only a junior. I’m supposed to follow in my predecessor’s footsteps and lead my team to another national championship, but how the hell can I do that if I’m not on the ice with them?
“I’ve got a tutor lined up,” I assure my teammate. “She’s a frickin’ genius.”
“Good. Pay her whatever she wants. I’ll chip in if you want.”
I can’t help but grin. “Wow. You’re offering to part with all your sweet, sweet cash? You must really want me to play.”
“Damn straight. It’s all about the dream, man. You and me in Bruins jerseys, remember?”
I have to admit, it’s a damn nice dream. It’s what Logan and I have been talking about since we were assigned as roommates in freshman year. There’s no doubt in my mind that I’ll go pro after I graduate. No doubt about Logan getting drafted, either. The guy’s faster than lightning and a goddamn beast on the ice.
“Get that fucking grade up, G,” he orders. “Otherwise I’ll kick your ass.”
“Coach will kick it harder.” I muster up a smile. “Don’t worry, I’m on it.”
“Good.” Logan steals another piece of chicken before wandering out of the kitchen.
I scarf down the rest of my food, then head back upstairs to find my phone. It’s time to ramp up the pressure on Hannah-not-with-an-M.
3
Hannah
“I really think you should sing that last note in E major,” Cass insists. He’s like a broken record, throwing out the same unreasonable suggestion each time we finish running through our duet.
Now, I’m a pacifist. I don’t believe in using fists to solve your problems, I think organized fighting is barbaric, and the idea of war makes me queasy.
Yet I’m thisclose to punching Cassidy Donovan in the face.
“The key is too low for me.” My tone is firm, but it’s impossible to hide my annoyance.
Cass runs a frustrated hand through his wavy dark hair and turns to Mary Jane, who’s fidgeting awkwardly on the piano bench. “You know I’m right, MJ,” he pleads at her. “It’ll pack more of a punch if Hannah and I end in the same key instead of doing the harmony.”
“No, it’ll have a bigger impact if we do the harmony,” I argue.
I’m ready to rip my own hair out. I know exactly what Cass is up to. He wants to end the song on his note. He’s been pulling shit like this ever since we decided to team up for the winter performance, doing everything he can to single out his own voice while shoving me into the background.
If I’d known what a fucking prima donna Cass was, I would’ve said hell no to a duet, but the jackass decided to show his true colors after we started rehearsals, and now it’s too late to back out. I’ve invested too much time in this duet, and honestly, I truly do love the song. Mary Jane wrote an incredible piece, and a part of me really doesn’t want to let her down. Besides, I know for a fact that the faculty prefers duets to solos, because the last four scholarship-winning performances have been duets. The judges go cuckoo-bananas for complex harmonies, and this composition has them in spades.
“MJ?” Cass prompts.
“Um…”
I can see the petite blonde melting under his magnetic stare. Cass has that effect on women. He’s infuriatingly handsome, and his voice happens to be phenomenal. Unfortunately, he’s fully aware of both these assets and has no qualms using them to his advantage.
“Maybe Cass is right,” MJ murmurs, avoiding my eyes as she betrays me. “Why don’t we try the E Major, Hannah? Let’s just do it once and see which one works better.”
Benedict Arnold! I want to shout, but I bite my tongue. Like me, MJ has been forced to deal with Cass’s outrageous demands and “brilliant” ideas for weeks now, and I can’t blame her for trying to strike a compromise.
“Fine,” I grumble. “Let’s try it.”
Triumph lights Cass’s eyes, but it doesn’t stay there long, because after we sing the song again, it’s clear that his suggestion stinks. The note is far too low for me, and instead of causing Cass’s gorgeous baritone to stand out, my part sounds so clumsily off that it draws attention away from his.
“I think Hannah should stick to the original key.” Mary Jane looks at Cass and bites her lip, as if she’s afraid of his reaction.
But although the guy is arrogant, he’s not stupid. “Fine,” he snaps. “We’ll do it your way, Hannah.”
I grit my teeth. “Thank you.”
Fortunately, our hour is up, which means the rehearsal space is about to belong to one of the first-year classes. Eager to get out of there, I quickly gather my sheet music and slip into my pea coat. The less time I have to spend with Cass, the better.
God, I can’t stand him.
Ironically, we’re singing a deeply emotional love song.
“Same time tomorrow?” He eyes me expectantly.
“No, tomorrow is our four o’clock day, remember? I work Tuesday nights.”
Displeasure hardens his face. “You know, we could’ve mastered this song a long time ago if your schedule wasn’t so…inconvenient.”
I arch a brow. “Says the guy who refuses to rehearse on weekends. Because I happen to be free both Saturday and Sunday nights.”
His lips tighten, and then he saunters off without another word.
Dick.
A heavy sigh echoes behind me. I turn around and realize MJ is still at the piano, still biting her lip.
“I’m sorry, Hannah,” she says softly. “When I asked you guys to sing my song, I didn’t realize Cass would be so difficult.”
My annoyance thaws when I notice how upset she is. “Hey, it’s not your fault,” I assure her. “I wasn’t expecting him to be this much of a jerk either, but he’s an amazing singer, so let’s just try to focus on that, okay?”
“You’re an amazing singer, too. That’s why I chose the two of you. I couldn’t imagine anyone else bringing the song to life, you know?”
I smile at her. She really is a sweet girl, not to mention one of the most talented songwriters I’ve ever met. Every piece that’s performed in the showcase has to be composed by a songwriting major, and even before MJ approached me, I had already planned on asking to use one of her songs.
“I promise you, we’re going to sing the shit out of your song, MJ. Ignore Cass’s bullshit tantrums. I think he just likes arguing for the sake of arguing.”
She laughs. “Yeah, probably. See you tomorrow?”
“Yep. Four o’clock sharp.”
I give her a little wave, then leave the choir room and head outside.
One of my favorite things about Briar is the campus. The buildings, ancient and covered with strands of ivy, are connected to each other by cobblestone paths lined with sweeping elms and wrought-iron benches. The university is one of the oldest in the country, and its alumni roster contains dozens of influential people, including more than one president.
But the best thing about Briar is how safe it is. Seriously, our crime rate is next to zero, which probably has a lot to do with Dean Farrow’s dedication to the safety of his students. The school invests a ton of money in security in the form of strategically placed cameras and guards that patrol the grounds twenty-four hours a day. Not that it’s a prison or anything. The security guys are friendly and unobtrusive. In all honesty, I barely notice them when I’m wandering around campus.
My dorm is a five-minute walk from the music building, and I breathe a sigh of relief when I walk through Bristol House’s massive oak doors. It’s been a long day, and all I want to do is take a hot shower and crawl into bed.
The space I share with Allie is more of a suite than a regular dorm room, which is one of the perks of being upperclassmen. We have two bedrooms, a small common area, and an even smaller kitchen. The only downside is the communal bathroom we share with the four other girls on our floor, but luckily none of us a
re slobs, so the toilets and showers usually stay squeaky clean.
“Hey. You’re back late.” My roommate pokes her head into my bedroom, sucking on the straw poking out of her glass. She’s drinking something green and chunky and absolutely gross looking, but it’s a sight I’ve grown accustomed to. Allie has been “juicing” for the past two weeks, which means that every morning I wake up to the deafening whir of her blender as she prepares her icky liquid meals for the day.
“I had rehearsal.” I kick off my shoes and toss my coat on the bed, then proceed to strip down to my underwear despite the fact that Allie is still in the doorway.
Once upon a time, I had been too shy to get naked in front of her. When we shared a double in freshman year, I spent the first few weeks changing under my blanket or waiting until Allie left the room. But the thing about college is, there’s no such thing as privacy, and sooner or later you just have to accept that. I still remember how embarrassed I was the first time I saw Allie’s bare breasts, but the girl has zero modesty, and when she’d caught me staring, she just winked and said, “I’ve got it going on, huh?”
After that, I didn’t bother with the under-the-blanket routine anymore.
“So listen…”
Her casual opening raises my guard. I’ve lived with Allie for two years. Long enough to know that when she starts a sentence with “So listen,” it’s usually followed by something I don’t want to hear.
“Hmmm?” I say as I grab my bathrobe from the hook on the door.
“There’s a party at Sigma house on Wednesday night.” Her blue eyes take on a stern glint. “You’re coming with me.”
I groan. “A frat party? No way.”
“Yes way.” She folds her arms over her chest. “Midterms are over, so you don’t get to use that as an excuse. And you promised you’d make an effort to be more social this year.”
I had promised that, but…here’s the thing. I don’t like parties.
I was raped at a party.
God, I hate that word. Rape. It’s one of the few words in the English language that has a visceral effect when you hear it. Like a bone-jarring slap to the face or the chill of ice water being dumped over your head. It’s ugly and demoralizing, and I try so hard not to let it control my life. I’ve worked through what happened to me. Believe me, I have.
I know it wasn’t my fault. I know I didn’t ask for it or do something to invite it. It didn’t steal my ability to trust people or cause me to fear every man that crosses my path. Years of therapy helped me see that the burden of blame lies solely on him. There was something wrong with him. Not me. Never me. And the most important lesson I learned is that I’m not a victim—I’m a survivor.
But that’s not to say the assault didn’t change me. It absolutely did. There’s a reason I carry pepper spray in my purse and have 911 ready to dial on my phone if I’m walking alone at night. There’s a reason I don’t drink in public or accept beverages from anyone, not even Allie, because there’s always a chance she might unwittingly be handing me a cup that’s been tampered with.
And there’s a reason I don’t go to many parties. I guess it’s my version of PTSD. A sound or a smell or a glimpse of something harmless makes the memories spiral to the surface. I hear music blaring and loud chatter and raucous laughter. I smell stale beer and sweat. I’m in a crowd of people. And suddenly I’m fifteen years old again and right back at Melissa Mayer’s party, trapped in my own personal nightmare.
Allie softens her tone when she sees my distressed face. “We’ve done this before, Han-Han. It’ll be like all those other times. You’ll never be out of my sight, and neither of us will drink a single drop. I promise.”
Shame tugs at my gut. Shame and regret and a touch of awe, because man, she truly is an incredible friend. She doesn’t have to stay sober and remain vigilant just to make me feel comfortable, but she does it every time we go out, and I love her deeply for it.
But I hate that she has to do it.
“Okay,” I relent, not just for her sake, but my own. I had promised her I’d be more social, but I also promised myself that I would make an effort to try new things this year. To lower my guard and stop being so damn afraid of the unfamiliar. A frat party might not be my idea of a great time, but who knows, maybe I’ll end up enjoying it.
Allie’s face brightens. “Boo-yah! And look, I didn’t even have to play my trump card.”
“What trump card?” I ask suspiciously.
A grin lifts the corners of her mouth. “Justin is going to be there.”
My pulse speeds up. “How do you know?”
“Because Sean and I ran into him in the dining hall and he said he’ll be there. I guess a bunch of the meatheads were already planning on coming.”
I scowl at her. “He’s not a meathead.”
“Aw, look how cute you are, defending a football player. Hold on—let me go outside to see if pigs are flying in the sky.”
“Ha ha.”
“Seriously, Han, it’s weird. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m totally on board with you crushing on someone. It’s been, what, a year since you and Devon broke up? But I just don’t understand how you, of all people, are into a jock.”
Discomfort climbs up my spine. “Justin is…he’s not like the rest of them. He’s different.”
“Says the girl who’s never spoken a single word to him.”
“He’s different,” I insist. “He’s quiet and serious and from what I’ve seen, he doesn’t bang anything in a skirt the way his teammates do. Oh, and he’s smart—I saw him reading Hemingway in the quad last week.”
“It was probably a required reading.”
“It wasn’t.”
She narrows her eyes. “How do you know that?”
I feel the blush rising in my cheeks. “Some girl asked him about it in class the other day, and he told her Hemingway is his favorite author.”
“Oh my God. You’re eavesdropping on his conversations now? You’re such a creeper.” Allie heaves out a sigh. “Okay, that’s it. Wednesday night you’re exchanging actual dialogue with the guy.”
“Maybe,” I say noncommittally. “If the opportunity arises…”
“I’ll make it arise. Seriously. We’re not leaving that frat house until you talk to Justin. I don’t care if it’s just you saying hey, how are ya. You’re talking to him.” She jabs her finger in the air. “Capiche?”
I snicker.
“Capiche?” she repeats in a strict tone.
After a beat, I release a defeated breath. “Capiche.”
“Good. Now hurry up and take a shower so we can watch a couple episodes of Mad Men before bed.”
“One episode. I’m too exhausted for any more than that.” I grin at her. “Capiche?”
“Capiche,” she grumbles before waltzing out of my room.
I chuckle to myself as I gather the rest of my shower supplies, but I’m sidetracked yet again—I’ve barely taken two steps to the door when a cat meows in my purse. The high-pitched wail is the ringtone I chose for text messages because it’s the only one annoying enough to get my attention.
I set my toiletry case on the dresser, rifle through my bag until I locate my cell phone, then scan the message on the screen.
Hey, it’s Garrett. Wanted to hammer out the deets re: tutoring sched.
Oh, for fuck’s sake.
I don’t know whether to laugh or groan. The guy’s tenacious, I’ll give him that. Sighing, I quickly shoot back a text, short and not at all sweet.
Me: How’d u get this number?
Him: Study grp signup sheet.
Crap. I’d signed up for the group at the start of the semester, but that was before Cass decided we had to rehearse on Mondays and Wednesdays at the exact time the study group meets up.
Another message pops up before I can respond, and whoever said it isn’t possible to detect a person’s tone via text was totally wrong. Because Garrett’s tone is full on irritable.
Him: If u just sh
owed up to study grp, I wouldn’t have to text u.
Me: U don’t have to text me at all. Actually, I’d prefer if u didn’t.
Him: What’ll it take to get u to say yes?
Me: Absolutely nothing.
Him: Great. So you’ll do it for free.
The groan I’ve been holding slips out.
Me: Not happening.
Him: How bout tmrw night? I’m free at eight.
Me: Can’t. I have the Spanish Flu. Highly contagious. I just saved your life, dude.
Him: Aw, I appreciate the concern. But I’m immune to pandemics that wiped out 40-mil ppl from 1918 to 1919.
Me: How is it u know so much about pandemics?
Him: I’m a history major, baby. I know tons of useless facts.
Ugh, again with the baby thing? All righty. Clearly it’s time to put an end to this before he gets his flirt on.
Me: Well, nice chatting with u. Good luck on the makeup exam.
When several seconds tick by and Garrett doesn’t respond, I give myself a mental pat on the back for successfully getting rid of him.
I’m about to walk out the door when a picture message meows out of my phone. Against my better judgment, I click to download it, and a moment later, a bare chest fills my screen. Yep. I’m talking smooth tanned skin, sculpted pecs, and the tightest six-pack I’ve ever seen.
I can’t help but snort out loud.
Me: FFS. Did u just send me a pic of your chest?!
Him: Yup. Did it work?
Me: In icking me out? Yes. Success!
Him: In changing your mind. I’m trying to butter u up here.
Me: Ew. Go butter up someone else. PS—I’m posting that pic on my-bri.
I’m referring, of course, to MyBriar, our school’s equivalent of Facebook, which ninety-five percent of the student body is on.
Him: Go for it. Lots of chicks will be happy to have it in their spank banks.
Me: Lose this number, dude. I mean it.
I don’t wait for a response. I just toss my phone on the bed and go take a shower.
4
Hannah