: Chapter 3

I REMEMBER the first moment when I realized I was different from other kids. And it had nothing to do with boys or sexual fantasies and everything to do with my family. I sat in the back of my sixth grade English class, tugging down my plaid skirt required by all prep school kids. As the teacher left, a few boys scooted their desks to mine, and before I could form a reason for their closeness, they whipped out soda cans. Diet Fizz. Fizz Lite. Fizz Red. Just plain Fizz.

They took swigs and then left the cans scattered on my desk. The last boy opened his can of Cherry Fizz and smiled mischievously. “Here,” he said, actually handing me the soda. “I popped your cherry.”

The boys snickered and I turned the color of Fizz Red that stained a ring on my notebook.

In retrospect, I should have thanked them for buying all the Fizzle products. Every soda bought from the vending machine would line my pockets one way or another. They were probably the sons and daughters of oil tycoons, not nearly as exciting as being able to say that my father created the company that outperformed Pepsi last year. But I was too shy and mortified to do anything but sink further in my desk and wish for invisibility.

Lo can relate in some ways. He isn’t faced with his family fortune on billboards and in restaurants, but every would-be-mother knows a thing or two about Hale Co. products. Baby powder, oils, diapers, basically anything for a little newborn is created by the company. So Fizzle drinks may appear all over the world, but at least the Calloway name isn’t scribbled on the label.

Only in my family’s ring of socialites and business investors do we have to worry about teasing and reputations. Everywhere else, we’re just two spoiled rich kids.

All throughout prep school, guys harassed Lo, calling him baby—not even close to being endearing. They even vandalized his gym locker by pouring Hale Co. rash powder on his clothes. Lo was an easy target. Not because he was skinny or short or shy like me. He had lean muscles to his name and even outran a soccer player. Lo chased him down the halls after learning he keyed his new Mustang.

But Lo only had one friend throughout his adolescence. And without a male entourage, he became enemy number one for other guys. An outcast to be picked on.

I regret most of my actions, and high school is full of wrong choices and bad decisions. Sleeping with someone who tormented Lo was one of them. I didn’t care when it happened, but afterwards, I couldn’t be more ashamed. I still am, and I wear it like a thick scar.

College changed everything for the better. Away from the small inclusive prep school, I no longer have to worry about gossip finding its way back to my parents. The freedom offers me more opportunities. Parties, clubs, and bars practically serve as a second home.

Tonight at The Blue Room, the ceiling glows with hundreds of glass bulbs. Midnight fabric drapes overhead, veiled as a night sky. True to its name, everything in the massive club is decked in a shade of blue. The dance floor blinks in teal and the upstairs furniture has navy velveteen chaises and buttoned chairs.

My black shorts stick to my sweaty thighs, and my silver halter dips low in the back but sucks to my clammy skin—the result of cramming two bodies in a bathroom stall. Blue toilet seats? Check. I thought I’d be floating on a high after having sex, but he barely satiated my desires. Plus, the heat makes me feel gross.

I spot Lo at the bar, his jaw tightening as he watches the bartender dart from one end to the other, the counter full of young patrons waiting to be served. Lo looks more peeved than usual, and I notice a blonde in a bandaged red dress sitting on a stool to his left, her long bare legs brushing up against his thigh. He acts oblivious to her advances, keeping his hardened gaze on the liquor bottles that tower behind the bartender.

“Come on, Lo,” I encourage under my breath.

Then a guy sidles up and grabs my waist, dancing behind me. I ignore him, but he tries to move my hips while he rubs his pelvis against me.

The blonde beside Lo bites her lip and runs a hand through her hair flirtatiously. She leans in and says something to him, and I wish I was close enough to hear.

Lo’s eyebrows bunch together, and I already see where the conversation is headed. He replies back and the girl’s face twists in contempt. With venom in her eyes, she retorts something and departs with her blueberry martini in pinched fingers.

I curse and disentangle my dance partner from my backside. Quickly, I rush to the bar and replace the blonde. “What was that?” I ask.

“Go away. I’m busy and bodies are still here that you can fuck.” He takes a large swig of beer, washing down his statement.

I inhale strongly, trying to let his comment brush off my shoulders. Trying to ignore his sudden moodiness. Some days, he can be sexy. Others, he can crush you with a glare. I narrow my eyes at the deep royal bottle in his hand that says Berry Beer. “What the hell are you drinking?” It’s been months since Lo has ingested anything weaker than port wine.

“All their liquor is fucking blue,” he complains. “I’m not drinking blue whiskey. Or blueberry vodka.”

At least I found the source of his agitation. The bartender approaches and I shake my head at him since I still plan on being the sober driver. He takes an order from a couple of other girls by my side instead.

I lean an elbow on the counter, facing Lo. “I’m sure it’s not that bad.”

“I’d offer you a sip, but I don’t know where your mouth has been.”

I glower. “I don’t want your Berry Beer anyway.”

“Good.”

He chugs the bottle and motions for another at a lady bartender. She pops the cap and slides it over.

I take a quick peek back at the electric blue dance floor, and my eyes meet with…

Oh no. I spin back and plant my gaze on the racks of liquor and then bury my head in my hands. Maybe he didn’t see me. Maybe we didn’t make eye contact. Maybe it’s all in my mind!

“Hey, can I buy you a drink?” He touches my shoulder. He’s touching my shoulder. I glimpse from my palm to steal a glance at Lo. He looks detached from the situation, half his leg sliding off the stool, as though ready to go and give me space that he thinks I need.

“I didn’t get your name,” the guy adds. A redheaded girl beside me stands to leave, and I want to scream out for her to come back. Keep your butt in that seat! As she disappears, the guy scoots onto the stool, his body language open for me.

My luck has officially been thrown in the toilet bowl.

I lift my head, avoiding his bushy blond eyebrows and the stubble around his chin. Yep, he’s the guy I led to the bathroom. He’s the one who locked the stall, pulled down my panties, grunted and heard me moan. At least he looks twenty-something, but I can’t discern his exact age. I don’t ask. In fact, I don’t ask anything. My confidence has sputtered out with my climax, and all I feel is the heat of shame blooming across my ears.

I manage to mumble an answer. “My name is Rose.” Albeit a lie.

Lo lets out a short laugh at this, and the guy puts an arm on the bar, leaning forward into my personal space to see my friend. “You two know each other?”

“You could say that,” Lo says, finishing off another beer. He motions to the lady bartender again.

“You’re not her ex or anything, are you?” the guy wonders, easing back just a little. Oh yes, please go away.

Lo wraps a hand around his new Berry Beer. “She’s all yours man. Have at her.”

I am slowly dying inside.

The guy nods to me. “I’m Dillon.” I don’t care. Please go away. He extends his hand with a giddy grin, maybe expecting a round two. Thing is, I don’t do round twos. Once I sleep with a guy, it ends there. Nothing more, ever again. It’s a personal rule that I’ve sustained thus far. I won’t break it, especially not for him.

I shake his hand, not knowing exactly how to shoo him off without being rude. Some girls have an easy time with saying no. Me on the other hand…

“What are you drinking?” He tries to flag down the male bartender who’s busy with serving a group of girls. One wears a tiara and an I’m 21! sash.

“Nothing,” I say just as a lady bartender in cut-off shorts and a cropped blue top stops in front of us.

“What can I get you?” she asks over the music.

Before I can add, I don’t drink to the statement, Dillon says, “A rum and Fizz and a Blue Lagoon.”

“We only have blueberry rum,” she reminds him.

He nods. “That’s fine.”

She starts fixing up our orders, and I squeak out, “I actually don’t drink.”

His face drops. “You don’t drink?” The disbelief makes me question my normality. I guess a sober body in a club is hard to come by. “So…” He scratches his stubbly cheek. “You’re sober right now?”

I think I just died a second time. He thinks I’m a weirdo for having sober sex in a nightclub. My neck is turning violent red, and I want to stick my head in a hole. Or an ice bucket. “I drink,” I mumble under my breath. “Just not tonight. I’m driving.”

The bartender sets the blue cocktail on a napkin, and Dillon pushes it towards me. “Go ahead. You can always get a cab.” Ulterior motives glimmer in his eyes. He’s imagining what I’ll do drunk, considering I wasn’t too prudish sober. But that was before. And this is now—when my hunger to get laid has diminished considerably. At least with him.

“She doesn’t want it,” Lo snaps, clenching his fifth beer so tightly I think it might shatter.

“I thought you told me I could ‘have at her?’” Dillon asks, using air quotes for effect.

“That was before you started fucking with my ride home. I need her sober, so go find another girl to buy blue volcanoes for.”

“Blue Lagoon,” I correct him.

“Whatever,” Lo says into his swig of beer.

Dillon’s eyes darken. “She has a mouth. Let her speak for herself.”

Wow, this took a turn.

Lo rotates his body towards Dillon for the first time. “I bet you know all about that mouth, right?”

“Ohmygod,” I mutter unintelligibly.

“Hey, don’t fucking talk about her like that,” Dillon tries to defend my honor.

What is going on?!

Lo raises his brows. “So now you’re suddenly chivalrous, coming to her defense? You banged her in the bathroom. Don’t act like you’re the good guy in this situation.”

“Stop, Lo.” I shoot him a warning look that may be lost beneath my flushed cheeks. If he starts a fight, I’ll be barred from the club.

“Yeah, Lo…stop,” Dillon says in challenge. My face is so hot I think my skin might have second degree burns. Lo stares at Dillon for a long moment, unblinking.

“I’m not drunk enough for this shit,” Lo announces. He rises from the stool and closes out his bar tab quickly. While I wait, Dillon clasps my wrist and I try to peel away.

“Can I have your number?” he asks.

Lo tucks his wallet in his back pocket. “She doesn’t know how to say no. So I’m going to do it for her.” Thank you. But instead of actually saying anything, Lo flips him off.

I don’t look at Dillon. Lo. Or any other person in The Blue Room. I speed out of the club, wanting nothing more than to evaporate from the moment and flutter into the air.

After sliding into my sporty BMW, Lo silently joins me. The car ride home stays that way except for the sound of Lo unscrewing his flask and chugging it like he’s been trapped in the Sahara desert for a week. We avoid talking or mentioning the bad night until we enter the apartment.

I throw my keys in the basket by the door, and Lo bolts for the locked liquor cabinets. My hand shakes, and I tuck a flyaway hair behind my ear. I need a release.

The familiar sounds of clinking bottles fill the kitchen. “Do you want something to drink?” Lo asks, concentrating on his concoction.

“No. I’m going to call someone to come over. If they’re still here in the morning, can you do the usual?”

He hesitates, and the bottle of bourbon freezes above his glass. “I may be passed out. I’ve been drinking shitty beer all night.” Oh. He’s about to get wasted.

“We have the luncheon in the morning,” I say, my voice strained. Few things instigate a true fight between us, but I sense one brewing.

“I know. I’ll be awake for it, but maybe not to help you. That’s all I’m saying.”

My chest heaves. “You’re the one who ruined my night. You didn’t have to come to the club with me and start an argument,” I vent. “Now I’m the one who has to suffer because you didn’t want to drink blue fucking vodka.”

“Fine, go back to the club and be annoyed by that prick all night. I did you a favor, Lily.”

Irrational anger surges through me and I push one of the stools hard. It knocks over and breaks a rung. I crawl back inside myself, instantly feeling bad about hurting a piece of furniture.

“Whoa,” Lo snaps. “Don’t Hulk Smash the apartment.”

His addiction is screwing with my addiction. Alcohol trumps sex is this place, and that kills me. Or at least the part of me that needs a good lay, preferably one that lasts longer than five minutes.

I stare at the broken stool and feel so dumb. I squat and right it up. Mood swings. Lo understands what it’s like to turn into a needy freak, but I still can’t look him in the eyes.

“You’re a big girl, Lil,” he says after a moment of silence. I hear him stir ice into his drink. “If you want to hook up with someone then you should be the one to kick them out. I’m not stopping you from having sex.”

I don’t know why it feels like that or why his words upset me so much. I don’t move until I feel Lo stealing my newly bought phone from my pocket. I frown as he scrolls through my contacts and lands on a number for a male escort service. He dials and presses the receiver to my ear while he sips his drink.

I take the phone from him and mouth, thanks.

He shrugs noncommittally, but the muscles around his shoulders tense. Without another word, he leaves for his bedroom. My nerves settle and the anticipation begins to build.

The line clicks. “Hello, how may we be of service?”

The alarm on my phone blares for the third time, an annoying harp melody that I seriously reconsider. I wiggle from my covers, careful not to hit the male body splayed out on the other side. I shouldn’t have let him spend the night, but I lost track of time. Even though these…well, gigolos are on the clock, excitement fills their eyes at the sight of a young client who isn’t middle-aged and obese. So sometimes they prompt the overtime, but this instance, it was my doing.

Will he want to stay for breakfast? I don’t know gigolo protocol that well or what to say or do afterwards. Usually I have Lo bang on my door and tell the guy to beat it. Much easier. The digital clock on my white nightstand glows red. Ten in the morning. I have an hour to primp and shower for lunch at the Villanova mansion.

Quickly, I toss on a T-shirt that stops at my thighs and stare at my roadblock: a well-built, thirty-something male with tattoos sprawling along his torso. His limbs are tangled in my purple sheets, passed out from all the sex. Shouldn’t he be used to it by now? You don’t see me acting like I downed a bottle of sleeping pills.

“Hey,” I say, timid. He barely stirs. Okay, Lily, get it together. If Lo believes I can do this, I surely can. Right?

I take a deep breath, battling the intense blush and nerves that threaten to rise. Please don’t start a conversation with me.

“Hey!” I shake his legs and he lets out a long, bear-like groan. Yes! The gigolo rubs his eyes and props himself on his elbow.

“Whattimeisit?” he slurs.

“Late. I need you to leave.”

He plops back on the mattress with a long whining noise. What was that? Did he just die? “Let me wake up, will you?”

“I have to be somewhere soon. You have to go.”

He squints at me, the light too penetrating for his lethargic eyes. “While you get dressed, I’ll make us some coffee. How’s that?”

“I didn’t pay you to hang around,” I say, finding some confidence. Why is this so difficult? Are my requests that unreasonable?

He shoots me an annoyed look, and I instantly feel like a bitch. I shrink back.

“Noted.” He stands to collect his jeans and button-down. Yes, he’s leaving. But then, he stops and eyes the length of my body. I go rigid. “For someone who was anything but reserved last night, you look incredibly uncomfortable right now.” He waits for me to explain.

I open my mouth and shut it, not sure what to say.

“Was the sex not up to your standards?”

I turn my head. “Can you just leave?”

“You’re embarrassed? I don’t understand…” Of course I’m embarrassed. I called a gigolo out of desperation, because it sounded nice, because I knew it would relieve something in me that ached for it. I wish I could be one of those girls who has the guts to do it because they’re exploring their sexuality, but with me, I needed him to fulfill a desire, one that does nothing but torment me. And he’s reminding me of everything I hate about myself. That I let my downstairs brain control my night. That I can’t be a normal girl and just forget about sex for one second. Just one.

“Did I hurt you?” he asks, sounding concerned now.

“No,” I say quickly. “It was great. I’m just…” lost. “…thank you.”

My words spin his features into sadness. “If I leave, you aren’t going to do anything…” He thinks I’m suicidal?

I inhale deeply. “I need you to go so I can head to a family event.”

He nods, understanding. “Okay.” He buttons the last of his shirt and adds, “You’re fantastic in bed by the way.”

“Thanks,” I mumble, stripping my sheets.

The door closes, and my muscles don’t relax like I thought they would. The conversation replays, and I feel strangely about it. He saw through me. Not many people do.

I don’t have time to wallow in a self-deprecating puddle. The luncheon starts in less than an hour. I trip over a pair of sneakers on my way to the shower. While I wash off last night, I contemplate waking Lo. I’d rather let him sleep off his drunken stupor than force him to interact with my family.

By the time I hop out of the shower and change into a mint green dress, I decide to check on Lo and make sure he’s sleeping on his side. He rarely pukes when he passes out, but it doesn’t mean it can’t happen. Before I retreat from my room, I scour my closet for a rare purse. To avoid my mother’s ridicule, it’s best to be as normal as possible. I find a white Chanel with a gold chain (a birthday gift from Rose) shoved beside a broken pair of heels.

I unclick the latch. My runaway phone has reappeared, which is pretty worthless considering I already transferred my number and contacts onto a new iPhone.

I scroll through the old missed calls and few text messages that were delivered before I purchased my new cell. My heart stops as I open a text from Rose. Sent about the same time she last left my apartment.

No, no, no. Lo maybe, possibly, could have stayed home today. I could have formed a weak “he’s sick” excuse. Ditching on my family is a minor infraction. Ditching on his father is suicide.

Hurriedly, I toss the phone on my bed and head to his bedroom with less than half an hour to get ready. We’re cutting this close.

I knock once and let myself in.

Unlike my bedroom, Lo’s walls and shelves are covered with personality. Penn paraphernalia fits in nooks and crannies, like a red and blue clock and a Quakers bobble head. Photographs of us hang almost everywhere. Mostly for appearance sake. On the dresser sits a framed portrait of Lo kissing my cheek. It looks forced to me, and little things like this make my belly flop, reminding me of our biggest lie.

My sisters believe I store my clothes in the guest bedroom closet for more space. In truth, I like staying in that minimalistic room. No photographs. Just brightly colored Leonid Afremov paintings of Paris. Though, sometimes they make me dizzy.

Lo lies fully clothed on his champagne-colored duvet. He’s curled up on his side, and his light brown hair sticks in different directions. In his right hand, he cuddles an empty bottle of Macallan, a ten thousand-dollar whiskey.

Five more liquor bottles scatter the ground. Some half-full, others dry. But those have to be from other nights entirely. He has a high tolerance, but not that high. All of these bottles would knock out a whole football team and probably kill him. I try not to think about that.

I go to the bathroom and wet a hand cloth with warm water. Back in his room, I sidle to his low bed, the mattress coming up to my legs. I bend over and press the towel to his forehead.

“Lo, time to get up,” I say softly. He doesn’t stir. This isn’t the first time I’ve tried to wake Lo up for something important.

I abandon him passed out on the bed and race around his room, sweeping empty bottles and locking away full ones. When all the alcohol disappears, I turn my attention back on him. “Loren Hale!” I yell.

Nothing.

I try shaking his arms, his legs, his waist—anything that will make him rise to join the living.

Nothing.

He stays gone to the world and inside I’m cursing him for choosing this day to be so wasted. Time slips by, and my pulse heightens with every second. I can’t leave him. Lo wouldn’t do that to me, and if we go down, we go down together.

I unzip my dress and step out. In nothing but a pair of boy-short panties and a plain bra. At least I know what to do in these situations from his past experiences. Hopefully it will work.

With the little upper body strength I possess, I grab under his armpits and tug him off his bed. We both clamber to the floor, and he lets out a soft groan.

“Lo?!”

He sinks back into unconsciousness, and I quickly spring to my feet and drag his heavy body towards the bathroom. “You. So. Owe. Me,” I say with each jerk. The words aren’t true. We’ve both banked enough favors that we no longer even count.

I kick open the glass door to the shower and pull him in with one last heave. His head lies in my lap, and even though I wear beige undies, I’m not too embarrassed. How can I be when he lies vulnerable in my arms? He may not even remember this in an hour. Better my underwear soaking than my dress.

I stay on my knees, panting as I reach up for the faucet nozzle. I turn the water to the coldest cold.

It sprays down on the both of us, and within ten seconds, Lo sputters awake, spitting out water from his mouth like I’m drowning him. I turn the water to a warmer temperature, and he tries to right himself, lifting his torso off my lap. He slips when he attempts to simply lean on the tiled wall.

His eyes close and open sluggishly. He still hasn’t spoken a word.

“You have to bathe,” I tell him from my corner of the shower. “You stink like booze.”

He makes an incoherent mumbling noise, tightening his eyes shut. We don’t have time for this. I stand, grab the shampoo and soap, and return to his side while the water rains down on us.

“Come on,” I breathe softly, remembering how he hates when I speak in my “normal” voice on bad mornings. Apparently it sounds like knives slaughtering baby pandas. His words, not mine.

He lets me pull his T-shirt over his head and barely helps me maneuver his arms through the holes. Water beads on the ridges of his abs, a runner’s build that usually stays hidden beneath clothes. No one would expect how fit he is. Or that he does occasionally hit the gym. That’s the best kind—the surprise of something more underneath something already handsome. I envy all the girls who get to experience that feeling for the first time with him. I shake my head. Focus. I train my gaze off the curves of his biceps and concentrate on his jeans. Without another thought, I unbutton them and yank down.

When the heavy, sopping denim sticks at his thighs, his eyelids flutter open. I blush uncontrollably even though this isn’t the first time I’ve undressed him.

He peers down at me. “Lil…” he mumbles, sounding lethargic.

Okay, we do not have time for this. I yank. Hard. And they finally surpass his damn muscular thighs and to his ankles where the denim is much easier to manage. Now soaked in nothing but his black boxer-briefs, I have to use all of my strength on the task at hand.

I take the soap and lather them into a loofa and wash across his lean torso, down his abs…umm…skipping that area…and to his thighs and legs. I don’t have much time to wash his back, but I don’t think it will be a problem.

The worst part is the smell. A bourbon scent emits from his pores, and after trying different soaps and colognes, we found some that work to mask the repugnant odor.

His addiction scares me sometimes. Alcoholism can destroy livers and kidneys, and one day, he may not wake up from a night of bingeing. But how can I tell him to stop? How can I judge him when I am nowhere near ready to let go of my crutch? So for right now, this is the best I can do.

I lather the shampoo into his hair while he keeps his eyes open, using his own strength to remain somewhat conscious. He’s coming to, but I’m not sure he realizes where we are yet. “Have fun?” I ask while my fingers basically give him a scalp massage.

He nods slowly, and his gaze lowers to my bra—beige and now pretty much see-through. Uh…

I pinch his arm, and he lifts his head back to me. His eyes change, the amber color swimming and intensifying in the steam. He stares deeply, too intense. I hate when he looks at me like that. And he knows it. His hand rises and caresses the back of my neck. Whaaat…I shake out of my confusion and jerk away with a scowl. I don’t have time to deal with his hungover, delirious moves.

He gives me a smirk. “Just practicing.”

“Do you know what time it is?” I grab a plastic cup, fill it with water, and dup it over his head, not caring as the shampoo burns his eyes. He squints and mumbles a curse, but he’s too tired to actually rub it off.

When the soap suds fizzle out, I drape his arm over my shoulder and lug his body to his bedroom. This time, he cooperates and helps me.

He collapses on the duvet, and I spend the next few minutes drying him off with a towel like he’s my pet dog. He stares at the ceiling, transfixed. I try to talk to him, needing him responsive for the luncheon.

“We stayed out really late last night for Charlie’s saxophone gig at Eight Ball,” I remind him as I search in the drawers for a suitable outfit.

He laughs lightly.

“What’s so funny?”

“Charlie,” he muses with bitterness. “My best friend.”

I swallow hard and take a deep breath, trying to keep it together. I can do this. I find another pair of boxer-briefs, slacks and a powder blue button-down. I turn back to him, debating on whether or not I’ll have to see his junk.

His sopping underwear soaks his comforter, too wet to leave on with a pair of pants.

“Can you change yourself?” I ask. “I just want to limit the number of times I see your penis.”

He tries to prop his weight up and succeeds, holding himself upright on the bed. I’m impressed. And also, sort of, starting to regret talking about his penis. Especially with the way he’s looking at me. He blinks a few times before saying, “Leave them on the bed.” I set the stack of clothes beside him and grab my dress that’s slung over his desk chair.

Worry still beats in my chest. I enter my room and replace my soaked underwear before slipping into my dress. Is he going to be coherent enough to have a conversation?

In prep school, his father used to ground Lo as he stumbled home from a late night of drinking or when he found his raided and drained liquor cabinet. When Lo’s grades started tanking, Mr. Hale threatened to ship his son to a military academy for young boys, thinking the structure would be beneficial for a rowdy teenager. I’m not even sure he connected the events and understood that Lo’s real problem was alcohol.

In reflection, he needed AA or rehab, not a blue blood manufacturing camp. Instead, I gave him me: a scapegoat for his constant bingeing. That summer, we made the deal. And as soon as he told Jonathan that he started dating Greg Calloway’s daughter, his slate wiped blank. Mr. Hale slapped him on the back, told Lo that I’d be good for him, and if I wasn’t, he’d find a way to change his behavior. So we masked our lifestyles in order to continue them.

Even though Lo hardly became a model citizen in his early teenage years, my parents were overjoyed at the news of our relationship. The sound of a Calloway-Hale union surpassed the quality of the man on my arm. As if it’s 1794 and our marriage will garner military power and land rights. Hello, we are not royalty.

With our new alliance, we lied for each other and hid our infidelities, playing the role of doting boyfriend and girlfriend. The deeper we sink, the harder it is to crawl out. I fear the moment where neither of us can breathe again—when someone discovers our secrets. At any moment, everything can crumble beneath us. The dangerous game both excites and terrifies me.

I return to Lo’s room and relax when I see him fully dressed, leaning his side wearily against the bedframe. His shirt is unbuttoned and untucked.

At least he has pants on.

“Can you help me?” he asks casually. Without slurring!

I nod and take small steps towards him. I skim the hem of his button-down, and his hot, liquor breath prickles my skin. To avoid any bubbling feelings, I make a mental note to grab a pack of mints before we leave.

“I’ll be fine by the time we get there,” he assures me.

“I know.” I avoid eye contact as my fingers fumble with the button by his taut abs.

“I’m sorry,” he says softly and then laughs. “At least I gave you something to fill your spank bank.”

I sigh heavily. I don’t purposefully fantasize about Loren Hale to get aroused. That would be way too awkward each time I meet his eyes. It’s already bad enough it happens on accident. “You’re not in my spank bank, Lo.” I think he might complain or laugh, but he looks confused and kind of hurt. I don’t have time to dig through the meaning.

“Sorry then,” he snaps, agitated. He feels bad, and I suddenly wish I just played along. He loses his footing in his drunk stupor and falls back into the mattress. To catch myself from tumbling to the floor, I hold onto his arms tightly, but that sends me right into him. And when time starts to slow, I realize that my hand is planted firmly on his chest; my legs are pressed against his, and the only thing that really separates us is his pants and my dress.

He breathes heavily, his muscles constricting underneath my weight. Something deep pulses in me, something bad. His hands stay on the small of my back, on the dip above my ass. And as he licks his lips, watching me peruse his body with eager, wanting eyes, I tap into the sensible part of my brain. I mutter, “Your dad is going to be at the luncheon.”

His face blanches, and he lifts me up onto my feet like I weigh nothing. “We need to go,” he says, leaving the last few buttons undone. He eyes the clock. “Now.” His worry clears most of his hangover, and I hope that it will be gone by the time we reach Villanova.