There are only three goals I have for my time here at Whitney Briggs University: graduate with honors from the business program so I can work for and eventually conduct a hostile takeover of my father’s investment firm, join a sorority to form lifelong bonds and social connections that span the entire PanHellenic structure which will ensure Greek-based nepotism for decades to come—and last, but not least, fall madly in love with a man of blue-blood standing, who has a brief yet meticulous list of overachieving yet underhanded if-need-be goals in life. I’m strong-willed, strongly opinionated, and I say what I want when I want.

Those are the exact thoughts I rehearse over and over as I make my way down the middle of Founder’s Square to the long row of sororities seated at banquet tables with their perky painted-on smiles, their matching clothes and hairstyles. It’s all a bit Stepford Wives for me at the moment, but this has been something I’ve wanted for so long that I’m not going to let their silly little mix-and-match clothes and bodies, and their blood red lipstick grimaces frighten me from getting the prize.

Actually, there’s one more thing that they should probably know about me—I have a temper—a damn ugly one, too. But I’m pretty sure informing someone that, should they cross me, hellfire shall spew from my mouth isn’t going to foster the positive experience I’m looking for. There are some things best saved for later, and, for now, my warpath hatchet-wielding aggression remains on a need-to-know basis.

“There are only three goals I have for my—” I whisper under my breath as I rehearse for the bazillionth time. My father says you only get one opportunity to impress people, and I plan on doing just that, impressing the hell out of every sorority captain here and her persnickety crews that are handing out pamphlets while sizing up the fresh meat—i.e., potential new members.

My feet carry me that much closer to my destiny here at Whitney Briggs, and my heart starts in on a defibrillating pattern that has the power to land me in an operating room with my chest spilt wide. God, I need to calm the hell down. The last thing I need is for these sorority skanks to see my forehead beading with sweat.

I do a quick sweep of the vicinity for Cassidy, my new roommate. She’s about as country bumpkin as you can get—super sweet, and I love listening to her thick-as-potato soup Tennessee accent that, on occasion, I seriously wish came with a translation guide. Cassidy is as calming as they come, and right about now both my jangled nerves and I can use a calming face in the crowd. I’ve never felt so comfortable around anyone before as I do Cassidy. Well, with the exception of my brothers, but as far as non-relatives go, it’s odd how quickly I’ve taken to her. Not that she’s particularly interested in how I feel. She was pretty bummed to find out that I was assigned to her dorm and not her old best friend, Scarlett, whom she went to junior high with. But then, Scarlett moved, and they became good old-fashioned pen pals—and that’s about the time I tuned out the conversation. I can only handle so much verbiage spewed at me before my ears beg to fall off, my eyes roll to the floor, and I voluntarily bite my own tongue off. It’s not that I strive to be cold and unfeeling; it’s just the way my cold and unfeeling parents happened to genetically engineer me.

A pep rally breaks out in the grassy area just beyond the mayhem in Founder’s Square. The collective student body seems eager to kick off this school year right here in the thick of the club sign-ups extravaganza. The entire scene is quickly morphing into a spontaneous mixer as girls and guys alike size one another up for the pickings.

I’m not going to lie—I’m pretty excited about doing some sizing up myself. This entire college experience is about exploration and self-discovery, and God knows I’ve yet to properly explore or discover what sits ahead on the horizon of this sexual terrain. I might have been known as a cock-tease in high school, but I’m ready to shed myself of that ill-deserved title. Just the thought of those dark days sends my chest constricting, my face scalding with embarrassment again. All those cruel taunts, the rumors that had me hiding beneath the covers—more days than not—flood to the surface, and I’m quick to submerge them. Thankfully, the Bentley Academy is an eternity away from the WB campus. I have a chance at rebuilding who I am, who I always knew I should be.

My body moves swiftly through a tangle of limbs as I fast approach the endless row of sororities campaigning for my attention.

Here I am, walking toward the most plastic group of girls I’ve seen since my Manhattan boarding school days, with their five hundred dollar designer jeans that beg the world to see them as casual and their three hundred dollar tissue-weight T-shirts complete with ragged edges that work hard to achieve that effortless worn look. And it happens to be the exact uniform I donned this morning. It’s always a good feeling to know I played it just right. But the biggest giveaway to their monetary good standing are those matching pearl necklaces that ring each of their necks like an oyster-inspired, shiny, white noose. I can tell by their blue-pink patinas they’ve been handed down generation after generation.

Whitney Briggs is a magnet for children of the rich and infamous, but it wasn’t until I visited my brother, Wyatt, last spring that I knew this was where I was destined to feather my scholastic nest, even if I do fit nicely into the aforementioned child-of-the-rich-and-infamous category. Wyatt is technically my half-brother, but I couldn’t love him any more if he held every last bit of my DNA. We share the same father. Wyatt’s mother was Dad’s first wife, my mother being his third. Wife number two didn’t gift him any new heirs, and he’s been forever grateful to her for that. You might even say she was his favorite for just that very reason. Nevertheless, he’s content with just the three children. My parents seem to have a pretty solid deal, even if neither of them is around that much.

I brush my parents out of my mind and sink them right down along with my shitty high school experience.

A cleansing breath works through my lungs. It’s no secret the WB campus is crawling with trust fund babies amongst a smattering of scholarship recipients. I just can’t figure out which one these sorority snobs would like me to be. As horrid as it is for me to admit, it’s important for people to like me. I want to fit in. I’d do just about anything to land myself with the right people—shop couture or dumpster dive at a thrift shop. Take your pick; that’s about the only respect I’m easy.

I do a quick assessment of the girls at the tables to determine social status and overall desirability, but they’re all flawless and beautiful as they smile and wave at the passersby with illegal amounts of enthusiasm.

My feet quicken with each step, and my mind races with my well-scripted introduction. My mind fumbles for my father’s words about impressing people, and all I come up with is don’t fuck up.

My fingers fly to my lips. God, I’m pretty sure my dad didn’t say that. Okay, he for sure didn’t infuse it with the expletive, but oh, my shit. My heart pummels my chest from the inside as I step up to the long, white, blanketed table with a trio of Greek symbols spread across the banner, and my mind turns to sludge the closer I get to these abnormally gorgeous girls.

“Welcome to the Alpha Chi sorority chapter at Whitney Briggs!” An outrageously curvy blonde beams while stuffing a folder in my hand with hot pink letters printed across the front that spell out, Go Greek to be Great! She looks cartoonish, like a real-life Jessica Rabbit, and for some reason this pulls the reel I’ve been cementing in my brain for the last few days straight out of my head.

She claps like a trained seal. “My name is Jules Flannery, and this is Lucille Hoffman!” She bounces when she points to her near identical blonde running mate. “We have the largest group of diverse sisters among the WB Greek system, campus wide, and we would be honored to have you attend our general interest mixer tonight at our match-up fraternity Sigma Theta Tau!” She segues into the next segment of her diatribe, denying me an opportunity to impress her with my own verbal onslaught. “Now, there will be eleven other sororities vying for your time tonight, but at Alpha Chi we strive to—” Her speech continues endlessly with not a moment to spare for breathing.

If this goes on, she’ll pass out long before I ever get a chance to get a word in edgewise. Then, as if on cue, the words start to bubble their way up my throat like vomit.

“There are only three goals I have for my time—” Oh, crap, here I go. Not that I mind. God knows if I don’t speak right over her squeaky, perky, pesky non-stop prattle, I’ll forget my fucking lines. “Whitney Briggs University, graduate with honors—oh, wait…” A hot bite of sweat erupts under my arms. “Um, that’s actually not how it goes.” But it doesn’t matter that I’ve flubbed my lines, because she’s still speaking, not missing a single beat, her lashes batting, her lips buzzing like a wind-up doll, and all I can think to do is shout right over this Energizer bunny with a ponytail.

“There are only three goals I have for my time here at Whitney Briggs University! Graduate with honors from the business program so I can work for and eventually conduct a hostile takeover of my father’s investment firm—did you catch that?” I lean in, ready to shake the crap out of her and those frenetically moving lips. “I’m actually going to conduct a hostile takeover of my own father’s investment firm!” My voice shrills so loud I can taste blood in the back of my throat, but the bodies bustling around us—the overzealous cheer-bots shouting into their megaphones nearby have this conversation, this moment, quickly spiraling into nightmare territory. This is not how I envisioned this to be. It wasn’t supposed to—

The spinning nose of a brown leather ball launches toward Founder’s Square, and the next thing I know I’m on my back, a venti-sized cup of raspberry iced-tea baptizing me from my head to my tissue-weight, newly see-through, newly annoyingly pink T-shirt. A towering, very much weighted body clamps down over me. His panting chest rides over mine, hot and heavy.

“Hi,” he whispers just a breath above my mouth.

“Shit!” I gasp and blink my way back to reality as I try hard to process who the hell just tackled me, and why the fuck they have my limbs pinned to the concrete like some sexual crime is about to take place.

Stellar smile, bright blue eyes, hair as black as night—it’s some idiot, irritatingly handsome as he may be, licking his lips as if he were readying to take a bite out of me. He’s good-looking, and he knows it. I hate his type. That cocky smile jerking up his lips only confirms this theory.

“That was close.” His eyes ride down my features, lower still to my now fuchsia T-shirt with my lace bra newly visible underneath. “You okay?” He sweeps back the hair from my face as if he had the right to, and I slap at his chest until he manages to scuttle off my body.

A series of primal cries escape me as I assess exactly how affronted I should be on a scale of one to never-getting-into-a-fucking-sorority.

“You ruined everything!” I shake the excess tea off my hands as if it were blood. “You have no idea how hard I worked to perfect that stupid speech!” I shriek so loud my hair vibrates, but it doesn’t make a damn of a difference. The band has cued up and happily belts out the WB fight song. If I hear Go Mustangs! in that ultra cheery welcome-to-Barbie-land falsetto one more time, I might reach out and strangle my dark-haired teetotaling, very unwanted suitor.

“Excuse me?” He inches back as if I just dished out a slap, and, believe me, the idea is still very much on the table. “I saved you from a lobotomy by way of a football. How about you try that again, sweetheart? This time with a thank you.” His brows furrow like a pair of caterpillars struggling to escape his facial carnage—and something about his self-righteous indignation (the exact amount that matches my own) makes my stomach squeeze tight with lust. Stupid, stupid hormonal need to procreate. ARRGGH! I will not find him attractive. I will not fucking have this! If there’s one thing I won’t do, it’s let my ovaries determine whom I fall for. Income potential be damned.

I kick him in his shredded Levi’s, naturally worn-out, of course. He’s about as far away from blue blood as one can get—as evidenced by the jeans that look as if they haven’t left his body in the last five years.

I pluck at my trashed shirt, and it suctions away from my skin like the giant slurp of a tongue. “Looks like you’ve already met the lobotomy quota for both of us!”

“What?” He blinks back in disbelief.

“Piper?” a familiar voice penetrates the crowd as Marley, Wyatt’s girlfriend, pops up with horror stamped across her face. “Oh my shit!” She plucks me off the ground and away from the smattering of Greek isles that have cropped up for Welcome Week. Thankfully, I still have that Go Greek or Die folder clutched in my tight little claw. Hopefully, the perky ponytail brigade won’t remember me, and I can successfully give my well-crafted, heavily honed, and admittedly, slightly borrowed speech to them later. It was my brother Cade who spouted most of that off as a quasi-putdown on the plane ride here. He thought it was quite comical that I was penning a biography that branded me in a less than favorable light. He was shocked how easily I had relegated myself to asshole standing, which he pointed out I actually earned, but Cade loves me too much to mean it. I think.

“I’m fine.” I shudder toward Marley. “The crowd was pressing in, and I must’ve tripped.” I glare momentarily at the bonehead with the boat feet who escorted me to the ground via his rock hard chest.

Marley scoffs. She’s beautiful and sweet, and actually pretty fun to be around, with the tiny exception she has a habit of turning into the warden when it comes to my whereabouts. She seems to care for my well-being in that same sweet way Wyatt does—too damn much. It’s no secret that Wyatt has been a more prominent father figure in my life than the sperm donor we have in common. Wyatt is exactly a decade older than Cade. And Cade is just three years older than me. He recently transferred here from NYU just to keep vaginal tabs on yours truly. I don’t buy that, it’s-a-great-school-with-a-great-business-program bullshit, or that I-want-to-get-to-know-Wyatt-better crock. Cade can go to business school on Mars, and he’d still manage to make his first billion before he peaks thirty. He’s that brilliant. And trust me, we both know Wyatt plenty, so that excuse doesn’t hold water either. In fact, we know Wyatt’s half-brother Blake and his baby Ben plenty, too. Cade has long tried to perfect the role of annoying big brother in my life, and the fact he’s stalked me all the way to North Carolina only goes to show his devotion to making my life miserable knows no end.

“The crowd was pressing in?” That deep annoying rumble stems from behind once again. “Oh, sweetie, you wish. Your head was about to do its best imitation of a wide end receiver. But not to worry—had you caught the ball with your teeth, I doubt you would have remembered any of it.”

I turn to find the jerk that just landed a touchdown while using my body as a goal post smugly smiling to himself. His dark wavy hair gleams with a bluish cast under the late August sun. His eyes shine electric blue as if someone plugged them in and turned on the lights in his barren, hollow skull. A long string of tattoos runs up and down his beefy arms, inching their way past his sleeves in monochromatic tones of navy and gray. For a moment, their delicate curves and intricacies mesmerize me.

I step into him, fists on my hips. “If that ball was smart, it was headed for your teeth. In fact, I suggest you duck and cover. I hear pegging dolts is an all new American pastime.” I wring out my T-shirt, and a river flows down my jeans looking as if I’m one tampon shy of flooding the world with the Red Sea. Just freaking great. As if having a public tealeaf facial wasn’t enough, there’s nothing like a faux Tampax moment to demonstrate to all my prospective sorority sisters my nifty hygienic practices, or lack thereof.

Marley scoops me in like a child about to wander onto an L.A. freeway. “You’ll have to excuse my friend. She must be a bit confused after hitting her head.” Marley’s eyes widen as if mortified by my words, despite the fact I seem to have morphed into a magenta maven. While I usually appreciate her sage advice and motherly doting, I’m not too into the fact she’s siding with Dr. Destructo at the moment.

“She didn’t hit her head.” The raspberry beret folds his arms over his enormous chest while pouring out his disappointment in my direction. I don’t know what the hell this guy has to be disappointed with other than the fact he’s wasting our time. “I shielded her with my arms.”

Marley melts in a choir of Aw! as if a puppy just leaped from his mouth. “Piper, apologize so we can get going.” She gives my elbow a firm tug without taking her eyes off him.

My mouth falls open as words, although plentiful and not altogether pleasant, stifle in my throat. The band ratchets up again, and the crowd screams with delight or torment—uncannily, they both sound the same right about now.

I give a quick glance behind me and note the Greek girls have disbanded, leaving their tables barren. I spot their ponytails swinging in the distance as they gather around the football team that parades through campus like deities.

As much as I detest the idea of thanking the takedown teetotaler for christening me crimson, I don’t want to disappoint Marley either. Reluctantly, I turn to the moron who has decreed himself my hero.

“Thank you.” I do my best to quell my temper, but I can feel it biting around the edges of my sanity, threatening a takedown of its own. My lips twitch at the caped-crusader who might have just swiped my entire sorority-based future right off the map.

His brows rise as if he were amused with the gesture.

Marley takes me by the hand and begins to navigate through the crowd.

I glance over my shoulder. He’s still watching with those brooding eyes. That disapproving look sears me to the bone. Why would I care what that ’roided-out douchebag thinks of me?

He offers a meager smile in my direction, and I grunt as we fly through the crowd on the way to my dorm—anger emanating off me like a vapor. The pot is boiling; the lid is rattling. There is only one thing that can stifle this dull ache in me from turning into an all-out rage, so I do the only thing I can to make myself feel better.

I stick my tongue out at him.

* * *

It takes an hour to convince Marley that I’m more than okay after what she’s labeled “the incident.” I’ve showered and changed and blown out my unruly mane while Marley chats it up with Cassidy as if she understands every word that comes out of that girl’s mouth. Bless her heart. Actually, that little country idiom is the one thing I do understand—especially when the barb that precedes it is aimed at me. If it’s one thing country girls do best, it’s put just about everyone else on the planet in their place.

Wyatt calls, and Marley happily trots off to join him for dinner.

“I thought she’d never leave.” I fall onto my bed and make snow angels over the comforter as I bask in the freedom. Marley and Wyatt are as close to parental controls as it gets in North Carolina for me. Cade will simply have to learn to let me be myself. The last thing I want is my big brother’s shadow falling over me everywhere I turn.

“She’s nice.” Cassidy breaks the word nice into two pieces.

“I’m nice, too.” I roll over onto my side. “Mostly.” I wince. “Honestly, I don’t know what gets into me sometimes. It’s like I’m ready to tear apart the world for no good reason. You’re nice,” I point out, using her same inflection before it occurs to me that I probably just came across as a sarcastic bitch. “Sorry,” I mouth.

“Oh, hon, not a problem. You just have too much of that stuffy old boarding school still on the brain. You need to let loose a little bit.”

“You’re right.” I pluck the white folder with its glaring pink lettering off my desk. “There’s a general interest mixer tonight at Sigma Theta Tau. You want in on this?”

She snatches the folder from me, and the corners of her lips depress. Cassidy is gorgeous, flawless even, with the exception of a scar that runs from her eye to her left cheek. It fragments around her lips into a million little tendrils like the roots of a tree. At first, when we met, I thought she was her mother. If you see Cassidy from the left, she looks much older than she is—like way older, Dorian Gray older. I feel bad for her, but she is totally beautiful. For the short time we’ve been hanging out, I’ve noticed the way people stare at her. Some of them don’t even hide the fact, but it’s always the same when we meet someone new, the big eyes, the quickly lowered gaze. It’s sad that the first thing people do when they see her is wipe the smile from their faces. I know it hasn’t been easy on her. She does cover it up expertly with makeup, so you can’t even see it, unless you’re right on her. But the scar still holds a silver tint to it, like lightning streaking down her face when she turns her head just right. I think it adds a sort of a badass quality to her, and I admire the way she carries herself. Cassidy wears her scar right there on her face. Albeit not by choice, it still lets the world know you can’t mess with her. She’s a survivor—she’s already survived something pretty awful. She hasn’t brought it up, though, and I’ve never asked about it in the event it’s a touchy subject, thus leaving my mind to fill in the gruesome blanks.

“Sorority, huh?” It comes from her singsong, and I swing my legs to the rhythm.

“That’s right. And I hear Sigma Theta Tau is loaded with the best-looking guys on campus.” This may or may not be a rumor that I’m currently constructing and perpetuating from this very dorm room, but let’s call a spade a spade. The chicks from Alpha Chi were hot; therefore, one can only deduce their matchups are their superficial equals.

“Cute boys? Sorority shenanigans?” Her dimples dip approvingly as Cassidy exemplifies every country cliché this side of the Mason-Dixon line. Cassidy is beautiful. It’s a fact whether or not her scar-haters agree. She’s as blonde as I am raven-haired. Our eyes are the same shade of denim, and our skin the same shade of bisque that we’ll forever curse our ancestors for. “I’m in like sin, sweetheart. Let’s get this Friday night rollin’!” She lets out a whoop and high-fives me before diving into the closet.

Two hours, sixteen wardrobe changes, and three lattes later, we show up at Sigma Theta Tau, each sporting a tiny black dress and heels, and more than a slight caffeine buzz. Scarlett and her friend Daisy have joined us, both of whom are already onboard to finding the nearest sorority to strap ourselves to.

“Alpha Chi has the biggest house on the row,” Daisy informs while slicking her lips with a roller ball gloss that I haven’t seen sold in stores since I was in elementary school. The bubble gum scent permeates our small circle. Daisy seems nice enough. She’s a matching blonde to Cassidy. Scarlett and I are the two brunette bookends of the bunch—with the exception her hair has a strong auburn tint to it.

The Row, as in Greek Row, is where all the sorority and frat houses are lined up. Boys on one side of the street, and girls on the other as if some great gender standoff were about to take place. I bet the early risers make a sport out of watching those participating in the walk of shame. Knowing today’s hyper-sexualized collegiate climate, it probably looks a lot like a parade.

I glance over my shoulder at the large, boxy mansion nestled in the middle of the street surrounded by smaller brownstones and brick homes. Alpha Chi offers all of the glitz and glamour the other structures wish they had the masonry to provide.

“Tonight is about mingling with all of the sororities.” Scarlett doesn’t take her eyes off the gaping double doors of Sigma Theta Tau with the constant rush of people threading in and out. It’s so impacted with bodies, I’m positive it’s breaking at least twelve different fire codes. “We need to find the one that fits us best. Just because Alpha Chi seems to be running this peepshow doesn’t mean they’re the one for us.”

“Who invited this voice of reason?” Cassidy gives one of Scarlett’s curls a tug as we make our way up the walk. “Time to weed the horses from the dogs, girls—may the best sorority bitches win!”

We head inside, and the backbeat of some obnoxious rap song thumps through my chest. It’s riotously loud, perilously crowded, and far too difficult to assess if people are having a good time or running from the authorities with the way the exit is teeming with bodies struggling to get out. But since just as many are streaming their way inside, I suspect it’s a typical Friday night. In hindsight, the high school party scene was pretty tame compared to the overpopulation, or more to the point, overcopulation of the student body at Whitney Briggs. My senior year nicks through my mind like a rusted knife, and I squeeze my eyes shut tight for a moment evicting it from my brain.

“Girls!” a high-pitched voice squeals, and I recognize the ponytail bopping, red lipstick wearing, pearl clutching cartoon-like beauty skipping our way as Jules Flannery from the embarrassment at Founder’s Square Flannerys. “Come, come!” She takes me by the hand and walks us to where her doppelgangers matriculate freely with the crowd, with the boys to be exact—hell, these are men. Each one is so shockingly handsome that it actually hurts to look directly at them. They’re all sporting that after prom look with their business casual attire, neatly trimmed hair, loosened ties, dress shirts rolled up to the elbows, and it gives me a bit of a yuppie-gasm. Each one is a little preppier than the next. One of them in particular, tall, requisite handsome with hard chiseled features winks over at me, and I inwardly cringe.

Who winks? Is this a thing? If I somehow manage to procure a preppy handbook, will I find that winking is totally acceptable under line item thirteen hundred? Pity. He was pretty much perfect up until that point. People don’t really wink, do they? Creepers wink. My grandfather winks, but he doesn’t know any better. Hell, it’s downright adorable when he does it. But I think this poor guy just winked himself off my vagina’s hit list.

My mother’s effigy stains my brain, and my heart thumps just once reminding me that it’s not my vagina that gets to “choose the gentleman I’ll invite to take a seat inside my body.” According to her, it’s my heart. It’s the one piece of advice she has given me. My mother touts that four-letter L word—love, as if it actually means something. She’s tattooed it on my skull until I believed it will magically appear before me when I least expect it, like the cystic acne I get after woofing down a tub of fried chicken or that elbow wart that bloomed the night before prom.

“Welcome to the Alpha Chi sorority mixer!” a lookalike blonde chimes while popping up next to Jules. A trio of sorority sisters passes between us handing out red Solo cups brimming with beer as if we were readying to partake in a shared barley-based communion. “My name is Lucille Hoffman, and everyone here wearing the signature Alpha Chi look is one of your potential sisters!” She waves her hand over at the plethora of pony dwellers. “At Alpha Chi, we rush for just three weeks. We have a strict no hazing policy—and should it be broken, we will spare the jury of any PanHellenic trial and hang ourselves!” They break out into cackles, and I catch Scarlett rolling her eyes.

I do a quick sweep of the vicinity for Marley or Annie, Blake’s fiancée. I didn’t exactly run my sorority dreams past any of them in the event they disapproved, and, judging by the matching ponytails and perhaps brain cells of these PanHellenic propagators, that might just be the case.

“Who here is a junior?” Jules calls out, and a few prospects raise their hands. “Sophomore?” Daisy uncurls her hesitant fingers. She and Scarlett are both from North Carolina, having known one another in some way prior to WB. “Freshman?” Jules says freshman with a grimace as if it were the bane of society to bear that first year cross. Scarlett, Cassidy, and I each raise our hands with pride, as do several other girls.

“Very good!” Lucille claps up a storm as if we’ve just given the performance of a lifetime. “Unfortunately, freshmen are not eligible to live at Alpha House until sophomore year, but should you be tapped to be a sister, you will very much be a valuable and cherished member of the Alpha Chi legacy. Participation in all chapter meetings, mixers, and philanthropic endeavors are strictly required to hold your bed until move-in day next fall.”

“Not to fret!” Jules bellows over the deep bass that’s shaking down the room. “I myself was a freshman plebe who endured an entire year at Cutler Tower before transitioning to Alpha House the summer of my sophomore year—best summer ever.” She gives a side eye to her ponytail-wielding consorts.

Cutler Tower is the exact dormitory Cassidy and I are in. Scarlett and Daisy, too, but they’re on the fifth level, which is a bit more exciting since it’s one of the many coed floors in the building. Much like my life in boarding school, I’ve managed to score an unwanted estrogen buffer when it comes to my sleeping arrangements. I’m betting one of my many self-appointed vaginal protectors, i.e., Wyatt, Blake, or Cade, guaranteed a penis-free environment with a simple monetary exchange down at the registration office.

Cassidy leans in and whispers, “A whole year?” She breaks the last two words into separate syllables until it sounds like yee-are, and it takes a minute for me to decode it.

“I know it sucks”—I whisper back—“but trust me, if there’s anything I’ve learned from my dad, it’s that the rules only apply to some people.” I give her a hard wink and cringe. The tall, abnormally chiseled-faced winker catches my eye, and once again indulges in my grandfather’s favorite pastime. Apparently, it’s as catching as a yawn.

Cassidy knocks me in the ribs. “Are you going to pad this with some green and land us both a bed in that princess ponytail wearing palace?” Her eyes light up as if the prospect were alluring enough to consider, especially since it’s not her green I’ll be padding it with.

“No.” I wince. I have no intention on actually becoming my father. “Maybe.” I cringe again because on some level it feels inevitable. It’s not my fault his DNA is the questionable matrix holding me together.

The Alpha Chi bots continue to intermingle with the girls in the crowd, doing their best to dig their talons into our young, juicy, non-sorority flesh. They’re just waiting to anoint us with their red lipstick and oyster pellets. You can see it in their eyes.

“Of course, we have strict rules to abide by at Alpha Chi!” Jules and Lucille linger in front. Cassidy and I are all ears, but I can’t help but note that Daisy and Scarlett are quickly becoming the dissidents. I can tell they’re just a hair from rolling their eyes, their mouths smacking with disapproval at whatever springs forth from our future fearless leader’s pouty little lips. “No casual drug use. No throwing yourself at undesirable men for the fun of it. We at Alpha Chi are big believers in monogamy. In fact, Lucille and I have a magnificent track record when it comes to matchmaking!” Jules’ lips widen as if this stupid cupid move were about to erect itself. “I think you’ll find that in life there is nothing as important as who you surround yourselves with and who you fall in love with.”

Lucille nods like an obedient child. “It’s telling of so many things. Good friends and good lovers are next to godliness!” She chortles at the ridiculously contorted cliché, as does the growing crowd of potential new members—PNMs as per the handbook I was given.

“It’s time for a little getting to know you game!” Jules claps, and the masses flock to her like refugees begging for Greek asylum, me being one of them.

Here it is. My chance to verbally vomit that speech I hand hewn with a little help from my big bro. Speaking of Cade, I’m so thankful he’s nowhere to be seen. He’s already warned me to stay away from the Greeks, citing it’s a faulty system that churns out nothing but frat brats and sorority sluts—which I pointed out, made him sound like a narcissistic ass who didn’t mind painting society with the broad stroke of his egotistical brush. Besides, the last thing I want is Cade lumping me in with people he looks unfavorably on. Once I make it into Alpha Chi, I’ll introduce him to the Greek system my way. He’ll see he was wrong about labeling the ponytail swinging masses without getting to know them first. God knows we hate it when people do it to us. Having unimaginable wealth sort of puts an inadvertent target on your back, especially when it comes to people assuming the worst in you.

The room grows increasingly congested, and we’re encouraged to break off into groups of ten or so. We stand in a tight circle, and Jules gets the games going for our small crowd.

“Okay, ladies, how about we start with something simple? A drinking game?” She lifts her red Solo as if saluting us. She introduces herself, and we go around in a circle spouting off our names and where we’re from with a firm shout to edge over the music, which gives this whole getting-to-know-you process an intense military feel.

Lucille downs the rest of her Solo contents and gives a happily sloshed grin. “Let’s kick this mixer up a notch and get down and dirty! Stay with the theme! Never have I ever…in my parents’ house.”

The crowd titters as most of us are spared from sipping from our watered down beers.

Jules goes next. “Never have I ever been walked in on by my parents!”

The circle explodes into a fit of laughter at the coital implications.

My face fills with heat as the girls each regale us with their slightly veiled innuendos as my turn quickly approaches.

The truth is, never have I ever done anything to qualify me to even make up an innuendo, so I quickly excuse myself from the sexual shenanigans. For whatever reason, I have an inability to lie, and also quite thankfully, I have a bladder the size of a thimble so my bathroom excuse is always valid. And really, never have I ever? What’s next, pillow fights and make-out sessions?

I thread through the darkened room as the music pulsates right along with my blooming headache. I ditch my beer on a nearby table as I maneuver through the wall of human limbs. Is this really what I want? Endless Friday and Saturday nights playing slumber party games while sipping from Solo cups? And what exactly did I think the sorority was going to be about anyway? Study groups? One big day spa where we sit around painting each other’s toenails?

A brick wall of a body slams into me. I jump back just as a generous amount of beer heaves over the side of his cup and splatters onto the floor.

“You missed,” I say, looking up and gasping at the familiar shock of black hair, those blue light bulbs he calls eyes that siren out at me. It’s the unwanted superhero from Founder’s Square. “It’s you!” Gah! He’s like a curse that’s fallen on me—literally—and now, we’ll be inadvertently doing the bump and grind at the most inopportune moments for the next four years. “My God, were you aiming at me?” My hands clutch over my chest in the event he decides he likes me better with the wet T-shirt look.

He’s cuttingly handsome even in this dim light. He has that evil villain thing happening with his eyebrows as they waggle over those demanding eyes. A smile ticks on his lips as if his sole purpose in life were to gain pleasure by annoying me with liquids.

He smirks as if I would be so lucky to have him dunk his skunk juice over my head twice in one day. “Never have I ever fooled around in a frat house.” He bleeds a devilish smile. “Care to change that?”

“Oh my God.” I try to sidestep around him, but he’s quick to block my path with that sheet of flint he calls a chest. My eyes graze down to his tattoos, but they look blurred and as dirty as his soul in this strained light. “Go away!”

I try a zigzag maneuver, but he’s zigging and zagging right alongside me.

An exasperated cry escapes my throat. “Shouldn’t you be scouting for someone to sit on your dude piston?” I try to make a break for it, but he’s right there with me.

“My what?” His forehead creases, and it’s unsettling how aggressively cute he is with his doltish confusion.

“Your whoopee stick. Your slut hammer.”

His mouth rounds out before he gives a dark laugh. “You up for filling any of those positions?” He relaxes his hand against the wall just over my head, effectively pinning me in. “Of course, I’m open to all kinds of positions. I’m flexible, if you know what I mean.”

My eyes round out in horror. “Are you stalking me? Should I be alerting the authorities? You’re a pig, by the way, if you think that lame never have I ever in a frat house pick-up line is actually going to work.”

“Relax, princess, I was just teasing. I happen to be an expert at fooling around in a frat house.” Alpha Chi continues with their never have I ever sexual misconduct stories that elicit a riotous laugh every ten seconds as if on cue, and he nods in their direction. “Never have I ever seen such a group of fake people. You sure you want to dive into that silicone swimming pool?”

I suck in a sharp breath at the audacity. “Never have I ever met such a dick!” I try to sidestep him once again, but he’s right there with me, entrapping me with his refrigerator build, holding me hostage with those ever-lucent sky-blue eyes.

“I’m sorry.” He winces as if it pained him to say the words. “In fact, I’m sorry about everything. I don’t like getting off on the wrong foot with anyone. You’re sweet”—he makes a face—“okay, maybe that’s laying it on a little thick, but, nevertheless, there’s something about you that reminds me of my little sister, and I don’t want to see you get mixed up with those girls.”

A breath gets caught in my throat. “Let me get this straight. First, you ask to get it on with me to fulfill your frat house fantasies, and now you’re likening me to your little sister? Do you even realize how perverted that leap is?” I retch a little at the thought. “Look, I’m not making your twisted wet dreams come true anytime soon, and I just so happen to have enough big brothers to look out for my best interests, thank you very much. By the way, you’re still holding strong in the biggest dick department.”

His grin widens.

“Ugh. Not like that. You’re sick.” I try to push him out of the way, but he proves immovable as a boulder.

He grabs ahold of my hand and pulls it gently to his chest. His features soften, and there’s an earnestness in his face that feels genuine. “My name is Owen, and if you never want to speak with me again, I’m okay with it.” He lands my hand carefully by my side. “Just know that those girls are serious trouble. I should know. My older sister used to be their ringleader. She was dangerous, and so are they. They’re nothing but a bunch of manipulative lowlifes. Consider yourself warned.” His eyes burn into mine a moment too long, and my insides sear with heat.

He stalks off, and I can’t help but follow him with my gaze. Who calls their own sister dangerous? What is she, a viper?

As soon as he hits the other side of the room, an entire harem amasses around him. I make a face at the sight. Typical. He’s just your run-of-the-mill dick jockey looking for fresh meat to sink his lap rocket into. And judging by the way those girls are pawing all over him, nibbling on him as if he were a decadent dessert, you can tell his lap rocket will have plenty of places to land later this evening. My stomach explodes into a ball of acid at the thought.

“Here you are!” Jules pops up with her glued-on smile, her eyes sparkling potent as dynamite. “I have someone I think you should meet.” She pulls forth a body, and I’m met with the chiseled-faced winker who looks much more sculpted to perfection up close than he did from far away.

“Why don’t you two introduce yourselves?” Jules rounds her eyes out at me, and even though I’m sure she’s just being encouraging, there seems to be a veiled threat layered just beneath.

“I’m Piper James. So nice to meet you.” I extend my hand, and he takes it.

“Winston Stanford of the New York Stanfords.” He gives a baritone laugh as if he were in on the joke.

“I’m from New York, too. Manhattan,” I offer, a little too giddy, bouncing when I say it, and I hate myself for it because I know my eagerness to please is aimed straight for Jules and not so much Winston Stanford of the New York Stanfords.

“See there?” Jules gives a little hop and sends her ponytail counterclockwise full swing. “You two have oodles in common already!” She leans in and whispers hot into my ear, “I’m batting a thousand. Don’t you ruin my streak!” She leans back and gives a deadly serious wink that both creeps me out and sends my blood running cold. Something tells me my grandfather would really like this place.

She starts to walk away, and I pull her back by the elbow. Her eyes drift to my bodily malfeasance, and I’m quick to let go.

“I just want to let you know that I’d do anything to get my friends and me into Alpha Chi,” I assure.

She sizes me up a moment before inserting that perky grin right back onto her face, Potato Head style. “It’s every girl for herself, but”—she tilts toward Winston a moment—“I think this is something we can discuss.” She offers me another wink before dissolving into the crowd.

I glance up at Winston whose name and heavily chiseled features hold a soap opera appeal.

“So, tell me about yourself.” I take a step into him, and his heavy cologne walls me in like a membrane. Hopefully, both Jules and Lucille have their eyes peeled in this direction. Jules made it clear she’d like nothing more than for her matchmaking batting average to maintain its status quo.

Winston leans in and leers at me with an open look of lust. Something tells me I’d better get used to it. I’d better get used to the paint thinner he’s doused himself with. I’d better get used to his daytime-ready name and features, because if I want to play nice with the Alpha Chi drones, I might just be staring at my very first college boyfriend.

Winston starts in on a long and tedious speech that begins with his goals to work in finance with his father. He talks of his days in boarding school (a crosstown rival to my own scholastic home), and then proceeds to tell me that his sister also roams the WB campus, and, despite the fact our lives seem to be traveling parallel to one another, my eyes can’t seem to stop flitting to the annoying moron who had the nerve to warn me about anything this evening. My stomach still feels the searing heat that bit through it when Owen and I touched, and yet, I shook hands with Winston here, my own social doppelganger—a blue blood no less, and felt absolutely nothing.

I catch a glimpse of a tall blonde wrapping herself around Owen, the dispenser of harbingers. She whispers into his ear and elicits a lewd grin from him.

My stomach churns without warning.

He glances my way, and our eyes snag a moment too long. He says something to the leggy blonde, and she simply walks away. Owen nods over at me before heading to the door. His body passes right next to mine, and it feels electric as a swell of invisible waves pulsates through me in quick thrusting jags.

Owen ducks out into the thick of night, and my eyes watch the mouth of the door long after it swallows him whole.

I bet his big ego thinks I’ll be following him. A silent laugh ripples through my chest. He wishes.

I turn my full attention back to Winston as he prattles on about finance and politics—the national trade deficit even manages to make a debut in our first conversation.

And suddenly an aching part of me wishes I had followed Owen right out that door.