[Ryan]

What the hell is wrong with me?

I pace outside the bar as I contemplate whether to go back in or cut my losses and go home. I came alone and fully expect I’ll leave alone. I’m used to it. I slide my glasses up after my profuse sweating results in a slip-n-slide down the bridge of my nose.

Why didn’t I trust my gut? I knew meeting Brad and his shadows at the bar would wind up biting me in the ass. He may be the president of my frat house, but he’s no friend. He’s hated me since being forced to accept me into the house. I did everything right during rush and still he refused to let me in—until my father called the university. Next thing I know, I’m a Delta and moved into one of the single bedroom modular housing units clustered behind the house. BU built them when the houses weren’t big enough to hold the explosion of students after the economy bombed. They’re reserved for seniors, but that didn’t stop dear old Dad from pulling a few strings.

I sigh and shake my head. What the hell was I thinking coming here tonight? It’s a Thursday. I have to work early, have pretty much no money since I’m a starving college student, and know better than to think Brad wants to hang with me. He wants to make fun of me, to push me far enough to either do something to get kicked out of the house or finally get fed up enough to leave. Neither is going to happen. Not only would I have to move out of my mod, I’d also be disowned by my father, grandfather, and brother. They all graduated Delta and threatened me with death and dismemberment if I do anything to screw up the legacy.

If I earn a spot inside the Delta house instead of tossed into the backyard, my dad will stop riding my ass. My brother may even pat me on the back when I come home for spring break. I hate how their approval matters to me, but it does. They’re family. It just does.

It doesn’t matter that I’m miserable being a Delta. At pretending to be something I’m not. Deltas are jocks. Lady’s men. The life of every party. I’m not any of those things, but that didn’t stop my father from shoving being a Delta down my throat. I’ve been at BU for almost three years, two of them as a probationary Delta.

“Being a Delta is all that matters,” he told me before I left for college. He takes every opportunity to remind me of that. What I want doesn’t matter. My goals aren’t important. Being a Delta is the only thing he cares about. Got to love family and their priorities, no matter how skewed.

My thoughts land on the pretty redhead inside the bar. Those glimmering hazel-green eyes mesmerized me to the point I couldn’t think straight when I talked to her. Her hair caught the sparse lighting just right, giving her a delicious glow. Her smile is something songs are written about. I had her in a few classes last year and again this year, and even tried to talk to her once, but failed miserably and never tried again.

Until tonight. I sucked just as bad tonight as I did a year ago. Why can’t I talk to women? It pisses me off, which doesn’t help my situation. A person’s IQ drops, on average, thirty points when they’re angry. Emotions overwhelm rationality thanks to the tunnel vision in the amygdala impairing the prefrontal cortex’s job.

Of course I’d justify something like this with numbers, with science. Like that makes a shit bit of difference when I crash and burn at record speed.

Back to Emma. Yes, I know her name. She doesn’t know I do, so, until she gives it to me, I’ll keep that knowledge to myself. I’ve had classes with her for the two years since she arrived. I’m rounding out my junior year. One more year and I’m free. Free of having to sit through classes I care nothing about. Free of living under my father’s thumb. Free to finally live the life I want instead of the one chosen for me.

At least I get to see Emma every day. This year I only have chem with her, but I see her every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday morning. I work in one of the college’s computer labs, which is also where her first class is held three days a week.

It sucks she doesn’t know I exist, but I get it. Not many people know who I am unless they need help on a computer issue. She’s come to the front desk several times to get her password reset. Each and every time, I hide in the break room and wait until she leaves. I’m such a coward.

Maybe I should just go home. I’ve embarrassed myself enough tonight. I take a step away from the building just as a woman with straight, dark hair and cobalt eyes steps out of the shadows, into the single light above the door. I stumble back in surprise.

“You should go back in.”

“Who are you?” I ask, shocked she appeared out of nowhere.

She shoves her hands into the pockets of her vest and smiles. “Someone trying to help you out.”

“I don’t even know you.” I swallow tightly. “And you don’t know me.”

“Sure, I do. You’re Harold Bartholomew Francis Ryan. Twenty-three. The youngest son of tycoon Stuart Ryan—a major benefactor of Bainbridge University as well as several other universities. Could have his entire college career paid for if he just followed in Daddy’s footsteps, instead took two years off to live on his own and save enough money to pay for college himself.” She inches toward me, forcing me back a step. “The name is Bailey McKoy. It’s nice to finally meet you.”

She doesn’t even know me, so my guard is immediately up. “Finally?”

“We’ve been watching you.”

I glance around, expecting to see people actually watching me. My neck hairs stand on end. Is she here to kidnap me and demand a ransom from my dad? Not that he’d pay it. He can stand me about as much as I can stand him. “Who’s we?”

Handing me a card, she says, “An explanation best kept for somewhere a little more private. For now, get back in there. Talk to her.”

My heart hits the roof of my mouth. It comes out an octave high as I ask, “Talk to who?”

“Emma isn’t as tough as she likes to make herself sound.” She steps back, partially concealing her face in the shadows. “She could use a friend. She could use more than a friend.”

Just then Emma’s friend steps outside. She spots me and sighs. “You’d better get in there. She’s going after your Delta brothers.”

“She?”

“You know who I’m talking about. Get in there and help her.”

I stiffen as I swing my gaze inside the door Emma’s friend is holding open. There’s that crazy redhead, waltzing over to Brad and his shadows. What does she think she’s doing? “I’ll be right there.”

Her friend nods and closes the door behind her. I read the card in my hand and ask as I look up, “What’s TREX?”

There’s no one there. How’d this woman—Bailey McKoy, whoever she is—disappear like that? I step into the shadows, like that’s going to help me see. “Hello?”

I don’t expect a response and don’t get one. With a shake of my head, I dismiss the meeting and stuff the card into my back pocket. Time to find out what one exceptionally crazy redhead is up to.

I’m still shaking my head as I head inside.

* * *

{Emma}

I take my time swaying my hips and making sure every one of them watch me glide over. This would have so much more effect on them if I had on one of my cute, hug-my-ass little dresses instead of my skinny jeans and guaranteed-to-go-home-alone high-cut top. At least I let Britt talk me into the fuck me pumps before we went out. I need them right now. They add four inches to my height.

I don’t slow my seductive walk until I stop in front of the table full of Delta dicks. Folding my arms under my breasts to force them out even more, I wait until all three of them stop staring at my boobs long enough to look me in the eye. If I had on one of my low-cut tops to really show off the girls, I’d feel a hell of a lot sexier. The one with the blazing blue eyes and short, dark hair takes his time tracing my frame with his hungry gaze before finally joining the rest of us. I’ve stared at him as he’s walked across the quad. Hell, every female and even several males have noticed him. He’s the head of the Delta house and absurdly gorgeous.

“Hey, guys.” I bat my eyelashes.

“Hey, beautiful.” He gives me a wink. I try not to vomit in my mouth. Ten minutes ago I would have let him stick his tongue down my throat. Maybe even let him take me back to his house for hookup sex. He’s definitely one-night stand material—if he weren’t such a douche for making fun of poor Ryan.

I really shouldn’t care. It’s not my fight. But we’re all BU Nighthawks and I’m channeling my inner hawk. Men like these guys need to be brought down a peg or ten. “Whose idea was it to send him over?”

Blue Eyes grins wide. “Mine. But, now that I see you up close, I think you’re more my style, not HP’s.”

“Is that so?” I tap into my husky, sexy voice. Or at least I think it’s my husky, sexy voice. I just hope it doesn’t sound like I smoke two packs a day.

“Oh, yeah. I have a thing for redheads. What say you and I get a private little booth for two and get to know each other better? Bring your pretty friend over there. I’m sure my friends wouldn’t mind keeping her company.”

Oh, please. I stop myself from rolling my eyes. “What’s your name?”

“Brad.”

Bad sign. Guys named Brad are historically and categorically giant douchebags.

“Well, Brad. I can’t even begin to tell you what I think about getting a private little booth with you.”

His smile falters as he contemplates the meaning behind my statement. “Is that a yes?”

“Uh, no.”

“No, that isn’t a yes? Or no, you don’t want to?”

I frown. “Is English your second language?”

He loses his smile as the other two laugh. He then transforms into the Delta dick he is and attacks. “Listen, sweetheart. I actually had my eye on your friend there. That’s why I sent HP as my wingman to get you out of the way. You’ve got that can’t touch this vibe. There’s no need to pull the bitch card. You’re not even that hot.”

Ouch. Way to make me feel good about myself, Brad. Judging by the way he’s watching me, waiting for me to react, he knows exactly how to hit a girl’s weakness. I so want to take off one of my shoes and stab him in the eye with the heel but refuse to give him the satisfaction of knowing he got under my skin. Instead, I plaster on a mask of disinterest. “What does one have to do with the other?”

“The hotter you are, the bigger the bitch. Deltas grant allowances based on the hotness scale. If you’re under a five, you aren’t even allowed in the house. You, sweetheart, barely qualify. That’s why I’m surprised you’re such a bitch.”

I hate that my stomach flips over the fact I still qualify as a Delta groupie. Only the hottest girls are invited to the Delta’s epic parties. If I take this much further, Brad and his frat brothers will make sure I’m banned for life. Not only are their parties reserved for Greeks, they also have to be upper class Greeks unless invited by a Delta. As a sophomore and not living on Greek Row, I don’t qualify as either. I debate stopping now before it’s too late. Not that I have a chance to get into a Delta party. Still, I’d like to keep my options open.

But then my stupid silver tongue engages before my brain can stop it. “You don’t think I’m hot enough to get with a Delta?”

“Don’t hate the player, baby. Hate the game.” He shrugs and lifts his hands. His buddies snicker.

I fight dropping my jaw at his arrogance and struggle to find something to say that won’t make me sound like a complete moron. “How about you do me a favor?”

“Depends. Does it involve us taking off our clothes? If your titties look that good without a bra, I’ll bump you up a point.”

Titties? What is this guy, ten? God, what a fucktard. “The next time you see Ryan, tell him he walked away from what could have been the best night of his life.” I then adjust my titties and pucker up to blow him a kiss.

All three guys still as their expressions melt from their faces in unison. I can’t stop from feeling a little smug at their reactions. Brad blinks out of it first. “Ryan?”

“He’s so much more than HP to me.”

“Wait. You’re telling me you were actually going to leave the bar with him?”

“He broke my heart when he said no. Sadly, there’s nothing I can do about that now but to have you fine gentlemen relay the message.” That should do it. I have no intention of going home with the nerd or any of these Delta dicks. What does it hurt to have them think Ryan didn’t strike out?

“Why not tell him yourself?”

I bristle and thrust out my chin. “How would I do that?”

“He’s standing right behind you.”