The Mistake

  I don’t see my friend anywhere. As hip-hop music blasts out of the speakers at a deafening volume, I fish my phone out of my purse to check the time and discover that it’s close to midnight. Even after eight months at Briar, I still experience a teeny sense of glee every time I stay out past eleven, which was my curfew when I lived at home. My dad was a real stickler for curfews. Actually, he’s a real stickler for everything. I doubt he’s ever broken a rule in his life, which makes me wonder how he and Mom managed to stay married as long as they did. My free-spirit mother is the polar opposite of my stuffy, strict father, but I guess that just proves that the whole opposites-attract theory has some merit.

  “Gracie!” a female voice shrieks over the music, and the next thing I know, Ramona appears and throws her arms around me in a tight hug.

  When she pulls back, I take one look at her shining eyes and flushed cheeks and know she’s drunk. She’s also as scantily clad as most of the other girls in the room, her short skirt barely covering her upper thighs, her red halter-top revealing a serious amount of cleavage. And the heels of her leather boots are so high I have no clue how she can walk in them. She looks gorgeous, though, and she’s drawing a ton of appreciative stares as she links her arm through mine.

  I’m pretty sure that when people see us standing side by side, they’re scratching their heads and wondering how on earth we could possibly be friends. Sometimes I wonder the same thing.

  In high school, Ramona was the fun-loving badass who smoked cigarettes behind the building, and I was the good girl who edited the school newspaper and organized all the charity events. If we hadn’t been next-door neighbors, Ramona and I probably wouldn’t have known the other existed, but walking to school together every day had led to a friendship of convenience, which had then turned into a real bond. So real that when we were looking at colleges, we made sure to apply to all the same schools, and when we both got into Briar, we asked my father to speak to the residence office and arrange for us to be roommates.

  But even though our friendship started off strong this year, I can’t deny that we’ve drifted apart a little. Ramona has been so obsessed with hooking up and being popular. It’s all she ever talks about, and lately I’m finding that she kind of…annoys me.

  Crap. Even thinking it makes me feel like a shitty friend.

  “I saw you go upstairs with Matt!” she hisses in my ear. “Did you guys hook up?”

  “No,” I say glumly. “I think I scared him off.”

  “Oh no. You told him about your puppet phobia, didn’t you?” she demands, before heaving an exaggerated sigh. “Babe, you’ve gotta stop revealing all your crazy up front. Seriously. Save all that stuff for later, when you’re in a relationship with the guy and it’s harder for him to run away.”

  I can’t help but laugh. “Thanks for the advice.”

  “So are you ready to go or should we stay a while longer?”

  I glance around the room again. My gaze lands in the corner, where two girls in jeans and bras are making out while one of the Omega Phi guys films the passionate display with his iPhone.

  The sight makes me stifle a groan. Ten bucks says that video will wind up on one of those free porn sites. And the poor girls probably won’t find out about it until years from now, when one of them is about to marry a senator and the press digs up all her embarrassing dirt.

  “I wouldn’t mind going now,” I admit.

  “Yeah, I guess I’m cool with it too.”

  I raise my eyebrows. “Since when are you cool with leaving a party before midnight?”

  A frown puckers her lips. “Not much point in staying. Someone already beat me to him.”

  I don’t bother asking who she’s talking about—it’s the same guy she’s been talking about since the first day of the semester.

  Dean Heyward-Di Laurentis.

  Ramona has been obsessed with the gorgeous junior ever since she bumped into him at one of the campus coffee houses. Like seriously obsessed. She’s dragged me to almost all the Briar home games just to watch Dean in action. I have to admit, the guy is hot. He’s also a major player, according to the gossip mill, but unfortunately for Ramona, Dean doesn’t date freshmen. Or sleep with them, which is all she really wants from him anyway. Ramona has never gone out with anybody for more than a week.

  The only reason she even wanted to come to this party tonight was because she heard that Dean would be here. But clearly the guy isn’t fucking around with that no-freshmen rule. No matter how many times Ramona throws herself at him, he always leaves with somebody else.

  “Let me just use the washroom first,” I tell her. “Meet you outside?”

  “’Kay, but be quick. I told Jasper we’re leaving and he’s waiting in the car.”

  She darts off toward the front door, leaving me with a prickle of resentment. Nice that she asked me if I wanted to leave when she’d already made the decision for us.

  But I swallow the irritation, reminding myself that Ramona has always done that, and that it never bothered me in the past. Honestly, if it wasn’t for her making decisions and forcing me to step out of my comfort zone, I probably would’ve spent my entire high school career in the newspaper office, writing the advice column and offering life tips to students without having ever experienced life myself.

  Still…sometimes I wish Ramona would at least ask me what I thought about something before deciding that we should do it.

  The downstairs bathroom has a long line, so I weave through the crowd and head upstairs to where Matt and I had been talking before. I’m just approaching the bathroom when the door swings open and a pretty blonde saunters out.

  She jerks when she spots me, then offers a smug little smile and adjusts the bottom of a dress that can only be described as indecent. I can actually see the crotch of her pink panties.

  As my cheeks heat up, I avert my gaze in embarrassment, waiting until she’s at the stairs before I reach for the doorknob. I barely get my hand on it when the door opens again and someone else walks out.

  My gaze collides with the most vivid blue eyes I have ever seen. It only takes a second for recognition to dawn on me, and when it does, my face burns hotter.

  It’s John Logan.

  Yep, John Logan. AKA the star defenseman of the hockey team. I know this not just because Ramona has been stalking his friend Dean for months, but because his sexy, chiseled face was on the cover of the school newspaper last week. Since the team’s championship win, the paper has run feature interviews with all the players, and I’m not going to lie—Logan’s interview was the only one I paid any attention to.

  Because the guy is smoking hot.

  Like the blonde, he looks startled to find me in the hallway, and like the blonde, he recovers quickly from his surprise and flashes me a grin.

  Then he zips up his pants.

  Oh my God.

  I cannot believe he just did that. My gaze involuntarily drops to his groin, but he doesn’t seem bothered by that either. He cocks a brow, shrugs, and then walks away.

  Wow. Okay.

  That should have icked me out. Forget the very obvious bathroom hook-up. The zipper move alone should have placed him directly in douchebag territory.

  Instead, knowing he’d just fooled around with that girl in the bathroom evokes a rush of jealousy I don’t expect.

  I’m not saying I want to have a random hook-up in a bathroom, but—

  Fine, I’m lying. I totally want that. At least with John Logan, I do. The thought of his hands and lips all over me unleashes a flurry of hot shivers that shimmy up my spine.

  Why can’t I fool around with guys in bathrooms? I’m in college, damn it. I’m supposed to be having fun and making mistakes and “finding myself”, but I haven’t done jack shit this year. I’ve been living vicariously through Ramona, watching my bad girl best friend take risks and try new things, while I, the good girl, stand there clinging to the cautious approach to life that my father drilled into me when I was still in dia
pers.

  Well, I’m tired of being cautious. And I’m tired of being the good girl. The semester is almost over. I have two exams to study for and a Psych paper to write, but who says I can’t do all that and still squeeze some actual fun in there?

  There are only a few weeks left in my freshman year. And you know what? I plan on making good use of them.

  2

  Logan

  I’ve decided to ease back on the partying. And that’s not just because I got so trashed last night that Tucker had to haul me over his shoulder and cart me upstairs to my bedroom because I was too dizzy to walk.

  Though that was a major factor in the decision-making process.

  So now it’s Friday night, and not only did I turn down a party invite from one of the guys on the team, but I’m still nursing the same glass of whiskey I poured more than an hour ago. I also haven’t taken a single hit off the joint Dean keeps shoving in my direction.

  We’re hanging out at our place tonight, braving the early-April chill as we huddle together in the small backyard. I take a drag of my cigarette while Dean, Tucker and our teammate, Mike Hollis, pass around the joint, and I’m only half-listening to Dean’s incredibly raunchy recap of the sex he had last night. My mind keeps wandering back to my own hook-up—the sexy-as-sin sorority sister who’d lured me into one of the upstairs bathrooms and had her way with me.

  I might have been drunk and my memory might be a bit hazy, but I definitely remember fingering her until she came all over my hand. And I absolutely remember being on the receiving end of a pretty spectacular BJ. I don’t plan on telling Tuck about it, though. You know, since apparently he’s keeping a tally of my hook-ups. Nosy bastard.

  “Wait, back up. You did what?”

  Hollis’s exclamation jars me back to the present.

  “I sent her a dick pic.” Dean says this as if it’s something he does every day.

  Hollis gawks at him. “Really? You sent her a picture of your junk? What, like some kind of fucked-up sex souvenir?”

  “Naah. More like an invitation for another round,” Dean answers with a grin.

  “How the hell will that make her want to sleep with you again?” Hollis sounds doubtful now. “She probably thinks you’re a douche.”

  “No way, dude. Chicks appreciate a nice cock shot. Trust me.”

  Hollis presses his lips together like he’s trying not to laugh. “Uh-huh. Sure.”

  I flick my ash on the grass and take another drag. “Just out of curiosity, what constitutes a ‘nice cock shot’? I mean, is it the lighting? The pose?”

  I’m being sarcastic, but Dean responds in a solemn voice. “Well, the trick is, you’ve gotta keep the balls out of it.”

  That gets a loud hoot out of Tucker, who chokes mid-sip on his beer.

  “Seriously,” Dean insists. “Balls aren’t photogenic. Women don’t want to see them.”

  Hollis’s laughter spills over, his breaths coming out in white puffs that float away in the night air. “You’ve put a lot of thought into this, man. It’s kinda sad.”

  I laugh too. “Wait, is that what you do when you’re in your room with the door locked? Take photos of your cock?”

  “Oh, come on, like I’m the only one who’s ever taken a dick pic.”

  “You’re the only one,” Hollis and I say in unison.

  “Bullshit. You guys are liars.” Dean suddenly realizes that Tucker hadn’t voiced a denial, and wastes no time pouncing on our teammate’s silence. “Ha. I knew it!”

  I arch a brow and glance at Tuck, who may or may not be blushing under the five inches of beard growth on his face. “Really, man? Really?”

  He offers a sheepish grin. “Remember that girl I was dating last year? Sheena? Well, she texted me a picture of her tits. Said I had to return the favor.”

  Dean’s jaw falls open. “Dick for tits? Dude, you got played. No way are those even remotely comparable.”

  “What’s the equivalent of tits then?” Hollis asks curiously.

  “Balls,” Dean declares, before taking a deep pull of the joint. He blows out a ring of smoke as everyone laughs at his remark.

  “You just said women don’t want to see balls,” Hollis points out.

  “They don’t. But any idiot knows that a dick pic requires a full frontal shot in return.” He rolls his eyes. “It’s common sense.”

  Someone clears their throat from the sliding door behind me. Loudly.

  I turn around to find Hannah standing there, and my chest squeezes so tight my ribs ache. She’s wearing leggings and one of Garrett’s practice jerseys. Her dark hair is loose and falling over one shoulder. She looks gorgeous.

  And yup, I’m a total asshole friend, because suddenly I’m picturing her in my jersey. With my number scrawled across it.

  So much for accepting and moving on.

  “Um…okay,” she says slowly. “Just making sure I’m not misunderstanding, but…you guys are talking about sending pictures of your penises to girls?” Amusement dances in her eyes as she glances around the group.

  Dean snorts. “We sure are. And don’t roll your eyes like that, Wellsy. Are you really gonna stand there and tell us that G hasn’t sent you pictures of his cock?”

  “I’m not going to dignify that with an answer.” She sighs and rests her forearm on the edge of the door. “Garrett and I are ordering pizza. Do you guys want to pitch? Oh, and we’re putting on a movie in the living room. It’s his turn to pick so it’ll probably be some God-awful action movie, if you guys want to watch with us.”

  Tuck and Dean instantly pipe up with yeses, but Hollis shakes his head regretfully. “Maybe next time. My last final is on Monday so I’m spending the rest of the weekend cramming.”

  “Eek. Well, good luck.” She smiles at him before releasing the doorframe and taking a step back. “If you guys want a say in the pizza toppings, you better come inside now, otherwise I’m going to load it with veggies. Oh, and what the hell, Logan?” Those green eyes narrow at me. “I thought you said you only smoke at parties. Am I going to have to beat you up now?”

  “I’d like to see you try, Wellsy.” My tone is filled with humor, but the second she ducks back inside, the humor fades.

  Being around her is like a punch to the gut. And the thought of sitting in the living room with her and Garrett, eating pizza and watching a movie and seeing them all cuddly and in love…a hundred times worse than a gut punch. It’s an entire hockey team slamming you into the boards.

  “You know what? I think I might go to Danny’s thing after all. Can I catch a ride with you to the dorms?” I ask Hollis. “I’d drive over myself but I don’t know if I’ll end up drinking.”

  Dean stabs out the joint in the ashtray on top of the closed barbecue lid. “You won’t end up drinking, dude. Danny’s RA is a total Nazi. He patrols the halls and does random room checks. No joke.”

  I don’t care. All I know is that I can’t stay here. I can’t hang out with Hannah and Garrett, not until I manage to get a handle on my stupid infatuation with her.

  “Then I won’t drink. I just need a change of scenery. I’ve been home all day.”

  “A change of scenery, huh?” Tucker’s cloudy expression tells me he sees right through me.

  “Yes,” I say coolly. “Got a problem with that?”

  Tuck doesn’t answer.

  Gritting my teeth, I mutter my goodbyes and follow Hollis out to his car.

  Fifteen minutes later, I’m in the second-floor corridor of Fairview House, and it’s so eerily quiet that my spirits plummet even lower. Shit. I guess the resident advisor really is a hard-ass. I don’t hear a peep from any of the rooms, and I can’t even call Danny to find out if the party was canceled, because in my haste to escape my house, I forgot to grab my phone.

  I’ve never been to Danny’s dorm before, so I stand in the hallway for a moment, trying to remember the room number he’d texted me earlier. Two-twenty? Or was it two-thirty? I wander past each door checking the numbers, and
my dilemma solves itself when I realize there isn’t even a room two-thirty.

  Two-twenty, it is.

  I rap my knuckles against the door. Almost immediately, footsteps sound from behind it. Someone’s there, at least. That’s a good sign.

  Then the door swings open, and I find myself looking at a total stranger. Granted, she’s a very pretty stranger, but a stranger nonetheless.

  The girl blinks in surprise when she sees me standing there. Her light brown eyes are the same shade as her hair, which hangs in a long braid over her shoulder. She’s wearing loose plaid pants and a black sweatshirt with the university logo on the front, and from the utter silence in the room behind her, it’s obvious I knocked on the wrong door.

  “Hi,” I say awkwardly. “So…yeah…I guess this isn’t Danny’s room?”

  “Um, no.”

  “Shit.” I purse my lips. “He said it was room two-twenty.”

  “One of you must’ve gotten the number wrong then.” She pauses. “For what it’s worth, there’s no one named Danny on this floor. Is he a freshman?”

  “Junior.”

  “Oh. Well, then he definitely doesn’t live here. This is a freshman dorm.” As she speaks, she plays with the bottom of her braid and not once does she look me in the eye.

  “Shit,” I mumble again.

  “Are you sure your friend said it was Fairview House?”

  I falter. I was sure, but now…not so much. Danny and I don’t hang out too often, at least not on our own. Usually I see him at post-game parties, or he comes over to my place with our other teammates.

  “I have no idea anymore,” I answer with a sigh.

  “Why don’t you call him?” She’s still not meeting my gaze. Now she’s staring down at her striped wool socks as if they’re the most fascinating things she’s ever seen.