1. Mail stuff for giveaway. (Maybe keep the Too Faced blush in the heart-shaped thingy? It is freaking cute. Toss in some perfume samples instead! Ha! Hate those.)
2. Avoid and evade Trixie Toberman. She will not like #3. But tell her all about it in the morning over coffee at Hallowed Grounds—sans any dirty deets. (My God! There will be dirty deets! GAH!!!)
3. Find a hot frat boy to stomp out your virginity.
4. Avoid all texts, phone calls, or potential meals with any male family members for at least a week. Any hint of #3 is just cause to commit a felony. (Better yet, don’t make eye contact with them for the better part of a year—or ten).
5. Look cute for said frat party.
6. Bring a condom.
7. Double down on whatever they’re filling those red Solo cups with. (You will not let Serena win.)
8. Look in the mirror and say the words, “You are not boring!”
9. Do not let Serena know she has led you into the murky waters of sexual promiscuity. (She will roll her eyes, and you know you can’t stand that.)
10. Don’t forget to go to the party—and DO NOT ride the fence. (Grow some lady balls for once, would you?!)

Lists. I make them. I keep them. I love them. It gives me orgasmic-like pleasure to cross off one accomplishment after the next as my day progresses. And just the same, it makes me feel like less than a loser who is destined to live under a bridge when I don’t. But never mind that—because at the top of tonight’s delicious string of things to do is planting my feet right where they are, in a frat house just south of Whitney Briggs University. Beta Kappa Phi is a den of depravity on this the final night prior to winter break, and it’s the precise depraved environment a girl like me is looking for to end a nineteen-year sexual drought. Okay, so I’m almost twenty, and the drought is virtually nonexistent because, technically, I would have had to have already partaken in the—oh, screw it. I’m not getting into that. Instead, I make a beeline over to the refreshment table, snap up a red Solo, and fill it to the brim with the beer on tap from the massive keg taking up residency on the table.

Gotta love these frat parties.

I make a face as I study the dizzying crowd. The music is so loud it gyrates through my chest with its hard backbeat, its screaming vocals. It seems as if every single student at Whitney Briggs University has made their way within these raunchy walls. It may be winter, but the temps in this cesspool of drunken debauchery feel more like they belong to a humid, balmy night. The room is a tangle of limbs, and I can’t help but pick out the alarmingly beautiful girls, with their incessant laughter, their unabashed ability to pull over the cutest frat boys and have their proverbial ways with them—each setting the foundation for a night of carefree fun. A one-night stand. Why in the heck would I ever want to jump into something so seemingly stupid? Serena bounces through my mind, and my resolve rebuilds itself stronger than ever.

I knock back the beer in a few angry gulps and go for a refill. A mean shudder rides through me. Not only am I still clinging hard to my V card, but you could say I’m a virgin when it comes to imbibing libations. But on a night like tonight—one in which I throw caution to the wind regarding both my liver and my vagina—the alcohol feels flagrantly necessary. Liquid courage my mother called it. My mother never touched anything stronger than wine, but I’m in the mood for a shot of courage, and I happen to always follow my mama’s advice even if she didn’t mean to give it quite this way. My mother has long since passed, but that has never stopped me from thinking about her as if she were just a phone call away. The therapist my father hired suggested it was the best coping mechanism possible, thinking of her as if she were still living and breathing, and I couldn’t agree more. My brother, Rush, however, is another story when it comes to both drinking—the debauchery that follows and any thoughts related to our deceased mother. Rush was the king of sin prior to my newfound best friend spiking his heart with her stiletto.

I glance toward the stairwell and scowl. It was less than five minutes ago that I saw him traipse upstairs with my roommate, Trixie—his new, correction, first girlfriend. Just the thought sends a bout of nausea running through me. Nobody alive, including me, wants to think of the things their brother does behind closed bathroom doors with or without their best friend.

I’m happy for them. I really am. It’s just that Rush was a player before he met Trixie. And if he breaks Trixie’s heart, I might have to break him. Yes, blood is thicker than water, but Trixie and I practically have the same brand of coffee coursing through our veins and she’s become a java sister by proxy. Anyhow, I’m glad they’re out of sight. Trixie got wind of Operation Break My Hymen and lectured me for fifteen minutes at the door once I arrived. Suffice it to say, I’m thrilled she’s upstairs getting busy with my brother. The last thing I need is the two of them cramping my style.

Truthfully, it wasn’t my idea to head to Beta Kappa Phi tonight to lose both my good sense and my virginity. It was my cousin, Serena, who threw down the sexual gauntlet. Serena is one of those quirky girls who effortlessly pulls off being both sweet and a ball of red wild-headed fury when she needs to be. But yesterday, while we lamented over all the Christmas shopping we still had to tackle, we somehow jumped conversational lanes and she began lamenting the fact she was shy one testosterone-based Normandy invasion of her nether regions. She then went on to assure me that someone boring like me would hang onto it for years to come for posterity if nothing else. That I’m too much of a good girl to get in trouble. That I was practically a shoo-in to be the thirty-year-old virgin of the bunch, to which I countered—what’s wrong with that? All the way back to my dorm I thought about how love was important, how sex was most likely overrated, how I wanted to wait for that perfect someone, and then somewhere between the bookstore and Cutler Tower, all of my self-righteous hot air unraveled like a cheap secondhand sweater. And here I am, beer in hand, looking for a fresh cut of beefcake to fill my stocking an entire decade early.

“Hey!” Serena comes up looking every bit the Christmas vixen with her tight red dress, her bright green heels— a cute combo, considering her hair is as crimson as a holly berry and her eyes as green as mistletoe. Serena was sort of a Christmas package right out of the box you could say. “What’s this?” She flicks my Solo cup with her sparkly red fingernail.

“Never mind what this is,” I snarl without meaning to. Serena might be my relation, but my hair is strawberry blonde to her blazing red and my eyes are more lemon than they are lime. “Where’s Harley?” I’m quick to inquire about Serena’s roommate. Usually I enjoy Serena’s company, but tonight I see her for what she truly is: competition. And face it, with Serena the Sexy Siren around, my odds of hymen lancing just reduced to nil. “I swear she was just here asking about you. Said it was important.” I lift a brow her way to see if she’s fallen for it. Serena knows me well enough to see right through my lies, so I don’t expect much from the effort.

“Really?” She does her best to hike up on her tiptoes to survey the sea of dancing limbs and bobbing heads. Between the music and the laughter, it’s almost impossible to hear one another without shouting. “She did mention there was this guy she was interested in and wanted me to help him notice her.” She rolls her eyes, and I know exactly why. Harley is impossibly gorgeous, so it’s laughable that she would need any help in that arena.

“You’d better find her.” I put on my most convincing face, and at this point in our lives, Serena knows them all. We’re as close as sisters, so I’m a little amused she can’t see through me. “She was pretty panicked.” There. Serena is the last person who will leave you in a panic. She’s helpful to a fault, and routinely her urge to do good comes right back and bites her in the butt.

Serena openly growls at me, and I can’t help but laugh. It’s something she’s done ever since we were kids to signify her frustration.

“I swear, if you are lying to me...” She steps back, picks up a bottle of liquor, and pours a finger length into a Solo of her own before handing it to me. “Here. If you’re trying to get toasted, hard liquor is quicker. I’ll be back. Don’t think I’m not onto you.” She takes the beer from me and threads through the maze of humanity in a futile search for her bestie. I saw Harley head out the front about a half hour ago, and I hope Serena follows her all the way back to Prescott Hall. As close as I am to Serena, I was a tiny bit thrilled to hear she’d be holing up in an entirely different dormitory. Whitney Briggs was supposed to be my opportunity to spread my proverbial wings, but with Serena and Rush around, it’s been nearly impossible. But tonight, tonight the spreading begins, and it will be a lot less proverbial and a lot more literal. A dry smile floats to my lips as I do my best to reassess the prospects.

No sooner does Serena do a much-needed disappearing act than Lucky pops up in her place. I’ve known Lucky Madden for as long as I’ve been at Whitney Briggs. She’s the new RA in my dormitory, Cutler Tower, and, believe me, when she took over the position, half the girls rejoiced because they thought she was going to be a pushover, but she’s just as tough as anyone else. Her brother, Jet, owns the tattoo parlor in downtown Jepson, and I’ve toyed with the idea of getting a tattoo of my own as my next on-air stunt, but I keep putting it off for another day. I’m not a fan of blood and needles. Besides, I’m sort of in the middle of my next stunt.

I take in a quick breath. Losing my virginity is not a stunt. I’m solely doing this to get on with my life. I don’t like the power it’s been lording over me. I’m a firm believer that nothing or no one should have the power to make you feel as if it or they own you.

Seth Baker catches my eye from the entry, and I turn up a shoulder to him, giving my full attention back to Lucky.

“Sunday!” She bounces in front of me with those siren blue eyes. Some people have eyes that look as if they’ve been illuminated from the inside, and she’s definitely one of them. “We’re almost done with the charity drive, but we’re falling desperately behind. At this rate, Prescott Hall will have us beat by a financial mile. You and Trixie are the last to donate. Care to open your fat wallets nice and wide?” She blinks those extended lashes up at me so fast I can feel a breeze.

Huh. I know for a fact Trixie hardly has two dimes to rub together. Her father used to be wealthy, as in past tense. And my father is still very much wealthy, beyond wealthy, but I swore to myself I wouldn’t be one of those girls who runs to Daddy to solve all her financial problems. No way am I going to sit at home letting my bottom get flat as a pancake while my dad fuels my bonbon addiction. And it’s becoming clear Lucky is hoping for a little of my father’s green lettuce cha-ching.

“Prescott Hall, huh?” I scowl in the direction of the front door—the very direction I’m hoping Serena scuttled off to. Serena and her roommate, Harley, are in the aforementioned rival dorm. “Serena is in Prescott.” I blink a dry smile. “And lucky for you”—I lay the appropriate emphasis on her name and she winks—“the two of us happen to be competitive to a fault. Don’t you worry. I’ll make sure Trixie and I come up with enough money that we make Prescott’s offerings look like change at the bottom of a three-year-old’s piggy bank.”

“All right.” She slaps me five. “Let me know what the two of you decide to donate, and I’ll turn the numbers in to the Student Union. Remember, it’s all for a great cause! The homeless shelter in Jepson is in dire need of whatever we can give them.”

“A great cause indeed!” I shout after her as she bounds back into the crowd.

The music pumps ten times louder, and the bodies only seem to grow thicker. It’s so hot I wish I could peel off this sweater. And why the heck are my jeans suddenly so tight? I feel like a stuffed sausage in them. Why couldn’t I have worn a cute little dress like some of the other girls? It’s as if I insist on covering myself from the neck down. Maybe Serena is right. I’m too much of a good girl to get into any real trouble. And how are Trixie and I going to come up with any real money to set Cutler above Prescott in the holiday fundraiser? Whatever the means, we’ll have to do it. The last thing I want is Serena lording her stomping grounds over mine. And then it hits me.

Hello? I’ll just sic my followers on this. For the last three years, I’ve built a mini beauty empire by way of vlogging. At first, it was just something fun to do from my bedroom—to Serena’s point, it was the only fun I was having on a Friday night. But as time went on, I discovered I was pretty good at it, and one follower turned into ten, and before I knew it my numbers blossomed into seven hundred fifty thousand. Yes, it’s safe to say I’ve succeeded in that respect. I mean, I’m not the biggest name on YouTube out there, but I’m big enough for major cosmetic corporations to send me enough full-sized freebies to make any makeup counter at either Ulta or Sephora green with jealousy. And I always give those companies what they want—lots of beaming reviews. It’s easy to do, because if my mother instilled anything in me, it’s to see the bright side of every situation, and I can always find the good in any product sent my way. As for the charity race, I’ll simply shoot a quick video from right here in the frat house and upload it to my channel. I’ll do a small donation per view. That way I won’t go broke, but it’ll still be a decent amount, probably up to a thousand bucks. I get tons of views when I do a full makeup review or tutorial, but I’ve found when I just pop in for a quick hello, my legion of followers suddenly decide to ghost me. And secretly, I’m counting on almost each and every one of them to give up the ghost.

I don’t hesitate in pulling out my phone and starting up the camera.

“Hey, bellas! It’s me, Sunday Knight, and I’m hanging with the bad boys tonight.” I give a cheeky wink. “I’m raising money for the homeless shelter in downtown Jepson, so between now and—Sunday night, I’ll give a quarter for each view. Peace out and God bless! Stay tuned next Monday for our annual Twelve Days of Lipstick! I’ll give you a hint of what’s hot—take those colors off because you and I both know we look better in the nude. Ciao, bellas!” And it’s a wrap. I quickly upload it and tuck my phone back into my pocket.

I take in a soothing breath as I give a quick look around. Somewhere in this room is my Mister Right Now, and I’m about to find him. I take a sip of the toxic brew in the Solo Serena gifted me and gag as soon as the noxious poison hits the back of my throat.

“Here she is,” a male voice strums from behind, and I turn expectantly, only to be deflated by the fact it’s just Seth. My heart thumps unnaturally as it usually does when he catches me off guard. Seth’s arresting features have been sending hearts a thumping all over Whitney Briggs University this past year. Not that I expected anything different. When I first met Seth, I was immediately smitten by his dark wavy hair and those deep navy eyes. And just as I began to fall hard, my brothers stepped in and put the kibosh on that good time. Seth’s sister, Misty, is marrying my brother, Nolan, in three and a half weeks, New Year’s Eve to be exact. Years ago, when Misty and Nolan started dating, both Rush and Nolan made it clear that Seth was off-limits. And as angry as I was at the time, I eventually reconciled with the idea. My family is very close—sans my father—and Misty has always felt like family, so anything between Seth and me would be beyond weird, bordering on incestuous. Even though Nolan and Misty had a breakup that lasted several years, I still considered her a relative of sorts—a distant relative, but nevertheless, the two of them are back on and so is the wedding. Therefore, the stunning male specimen before me is relegated to an annoying older brother—something I seem to have no shortage of.

“Go away.” I turn back to the crowd and spot Eli Gates standing with Lawson and Grant, a couple of my brother’s friends. I’m pretty sure I should steer clear from anyone who remotely knows my brother, but since Rush is sort of a big man on campus that would be impossible to do. Besides, it’s not my fault he has a bevy of sizzling hot friends who have the ability to crane the necks of both the young and the old. And Eli Gates definitely fits the bill with his jet-black hair and dazzling smile that seems to have a hypnotic effect on the masses. That blue-checkered flannel he’s wearing sets off his eyes like glowing beacons.

“Who are you looking for?” Seth tips his head back and glowers at his friends from across the room.

“I’m not looking for anyone in particular.” I bite down on my lip, trying to envision myself behind locked doors with Eli. He’s handsome, classically so with a straight Roman nose, dark hair that offsets his bright eyes, and he always seems to have that particular dazzling smile for anyone coming his way. Maybe he’s too friendly? I mean, he does have a reputation. Do I really want to get busy with someone who has a reputation for doing just that with everyone on campus? Then again, I’m not too sure if rumor equals reality.

“Are you checking out Eli?” Seth sounds affronted by the idea, and I can’t help but scoff my way past him. Honestly, having Seth in my airspace really is just as bad as being tied to one of my brothers.

“Maybe, maybe it was the cute frat boy behind him or the dozen or so to my left or right.” I take another swig of the battery acid in my cup and give a mean shudder as it saws its way down my throat. “I’m in it for the long haul tonight.”

“Whoa.” Seth inches back. “You got some high-octane fuel there. You keep chugging that stuff and you won’t remember the night.”

“Believe me, I plan to keep chugging. And I plan on keeping this tiny red barrel of fun to the brim.” I raise the cup between us and accidently graze his rock-hard chest. Seth is on the basketball team here at Briggs—he’s been on any and every basketball team since the day we met. Nolan used to take me to his games way back when he was still trying to impress Misty. In that regard, it feels as if Seth and I have practically grown up together. Only I’ve never really seen him as a brother. Most likely because I’m filled to the brim with those high-octane creatures to begin with. “I’m determined to have a good time, and rule number one explicitly states loosen the heck up.”

He gives a dark laugh, his lids slit low, and my stomach does that annoying bounce he always seems to elicit. “You’re cute.” The smile dissipates from his face. “But I don’t approve.”

“Ha!” I laugh right in his face, or at least as close as I dare to get. God knows I’ve had my fair share of whiskey, and if I get a little too close, my lips might be tempted to fall over his, ending that whole Seth Baker embargo. “As if I needed or cared about your approval. You’re not my brother, Seth.” I move past him, and he follows along.

“That’s right. I’m your friend. And as your friend, I’m hugely suggesting you try to have a good time sober. It works, I promise.”

My gaze flits right to Eli Gates with that dark hair and chest the size of the front door. “My God, all that muscle mass could easily crush me if he landed on top of me.”

“What, you can’t be serious. Eli?” Seth sounds as if he’s about to have an aneurysm, and I spin around on the heel of my stiletto. “He’s not getting on top of you. No way, no how.”

“Would you shush! Relax. He’s not getting on top of you.” I bring my finger to my lips and fight the urge to smack him in the process. “If you’re really my friend, you’ll cheer me on in my endeavors.” I smack him over the shoulder three times fast. “You can’t be negative or you’ll ruin my mojo.”

“What the hell is mojo and why do you need it?”

I take a deep breath and look back to Eli, trying my hardest to feel an inkling of wanting, a spark of anything—at this point, I’d take heartburn. “Eli will do. He’s handsome, all right, but for some reason I don’t get those butterfly jitters the way you read about in romance novels—then again, those are works of fiction and this is real life. Most people probably never even experience butterflies. More like bats,” I pant as I stare at the six foot three wall of testosterone demanding that my ovaries pop. “Eli is on both the basketball team and the football team. Not to mention the fact he’s rumored to be good in bed. He’s basically a real-life triple threat—right here at Whitney Briggs.”

Seth grunts as he rakes his hair back in an aggressive manner. “Sunday, I don’t know what the hell you’re thinking about doing, but let’s just take a few steps back. If you want someone to hang out with and have a good time—I volunteer. I’ll take one for the team and make sure you land back in your bed all by your lonesome. I’m not letting you near that guy tonight.”

I make a beeline to the refreshment table, and Seth cuts me off at the pass. Just as I’m about to snap up a couple of Solos and bolt into the crowd, Seth grabs me by the shoulders and navigates us to the back of the room where an entire slew of beer pong tables sit in various levels of slovenliness. “Right there, you and me. I promise you’ll have a good time, and you won’t get any communicable diseases out of the deal.”

“Ugh, I hate beer pong. It’s the epitome of college life”—Serena’s voice filters through my mind like an echo, and I can hear her voice chime out the word boring on a loop—“in other words, the perfect way to end my night.” Great. I’ll get feasibly wasted, find Eli, then lock him in a room. I’m sure he’ll know what to do from there.

Seth fills a pitcher before emptying it into twelve cups lined up on either side until he’s formed two pyramids.

“Prison rules—no teams, just you and me.” A devilish grin climbs his face, and a bite of heat goes off in the pit of my stomach. “Stand at opposite sides of the table. Any cup you get the ball in, I drink and vice versa. You bounce the ball and miss, you drink two. We’ll keep going until you’re having such a good time you puke. The beer is on tap, and we are dangerously within refill range. Let’s do it.” Seth tosses the ball toward my tiny pyramid of Solos and lands it in the fullest of them all.

“Rumor has it, you like to get right down to business.” I pick up the cup and toast him. “I guess that rumor would be true.”

“You’ve heard rumors about me, huh?” His left brow does that sexy fish hook thing, and my body explodes with heat.

I take another six swigs and effectively drain the cup. “You might want to deflate your ego. None of the aforementioned rumors are good.” I toss the ball, and it nosedives off the table.

“You drink two.” He makes a face. “But since I’m getting thirsty, and you obviously have a propensity to miss, I’ll join you.”

“Pfft.” I chug down another, and the room does a comfortable spin. “Propensity.” My lips feel as if I’ve just twisted them in a knot. “Why says propensity at a frat party?” I slap my fingers to my lips. “I mean who—who says propensity at a frat party?” Geez. It looks like the liquor has already dumbed down my IQ. Not that I wasn’t already questioning that fickle number once I decided to jump onto the One-Night Stand Express.

Seth lowers those lids and does that bedroom eye thing at me that makes panties melt for miles, but I’m not buying it. And, oh hell, are my panties melting? Damn him for looking so delicious.

“I say it.” Seth bounces the tiny white Ping-Pong ball in his hand a moment. “I say it because I like words. I’m writing a novel. You know, just tinkering around. The intro was a project for my creative writing class, but I thought I’d take it home to the end—see what happens.” His navy eyes glow like blue flames as he looks right at me. “I like to finish what I start.”

And just like that, a spark jumps from him to me, electrocuting my heart back to life. A flashback of Nolan and Rush double-teaming me with their disdain toward my seemingly innocent childlike crush comes back to haunt me.

“A book, huh?” For a brief moment I envision him crouched over a stack of loose-leaf papers with a crayon in hand, scribbling feverishly outside of the lines. “I bet it’s a how-to manual. How to Form a Modern-Day Harem. Rumor has it, there are three different girls in Cutler Tower who have done the walk of shame from your apartment—all on the same night. Does your mother know where that mouth of yours has been? If not, I can tell her at the wedding.” I toss the ball as lightly as possible and land it in a puddle of amber ale. Seth drinks, and I break the rules, joining him.

He puts down his beer and barks out a laugh. “There were not three. I should know. I was there. And I’m pretty sure my mother doesn’t care for the details, but if you’re into sharing, I’ll be sure to tell your brothers all about your newfound hobby of toilet hugging.” He glances over his shoulder. “If you see Rush headed this way, give me a heads-up, would you?”

“Right. Like I care what Rushford thinks. He’s busy banging my best friend like a storm door in a hurricane.”

Seth laughs, landing another ball in a cup, and I quickly knock it back. My limbs feel heavy, and just closing my eyes for a brief moment makes my feet feel as if I’ve just stepped onto a carousel.

“Maybe we should stop.” Seth waves at me from across the table, and I swear on all that is holy that the room just elongated by thirty feet at least. “I can walk you back now if you want.”

“No way. I’m not a lightweight. I can hold my liquor.” Or so I’m hoping. The truth is, I’ve never had more than a sip of this or that. But I don’t feel anywhere near hugging a toilet, so that has to be a pretty good indication that I’ll be able to make it through that long haul I was threatening. “So, tell me about that book. Let me guess, a children’s story about princesses and unicorns?”

Seth hacks out a laugh, and his dimples dig in deep, his chest bounces, strong, wide, so very chiseled even under that T-shirt, I’m half-motivated to land my hands over it. “I’ll pen that especially for you sometime, sweetheart. I’m writing a thriller—a murder mystery thriller that involves a decapitation, a poisoning, and a missing painting from The Louvre.”

“At least you’re original.” I give a hard wink, and it feels as if my head is catapulting toward the table.

Seth and I empty cup after cup, drowning the night in a giant red Solo cup, swimming in amber liquid that smells and tastes like a skunk just sprayed it. And soon enough I can’t feel the floor, can’t find the door. In a blur of a moment, I’m ambling my way through the crowd, bouncing from body to body, looking for Mr. Right Now, Mr. Basketball. Mr. Football. Mr. Eli Gates. Right? I can’t keep any names, faces, or places straight at the moment. The only thing I really want is a bed to land myself in—all by my lonesome.

My stomach does a heated revolution, its contents potent as battery acid. The room spins, turns side-to-side as I stumble to the hall where the lighting isn’t so harsh, the sound of incessant laughter, the music isn’t so overpowering.

There he is—dark hair, those magnetic eyes, and that magic smile. It’s all I see, and it’s enough to send every butterfly in existence fluttering in my heated belly at once. He closes the gap between us as his arms land around my body, his lips over mine. Our bodies float down the hall, behind closed doors. We’re all limbs and teeth, my fingers knotted up in his hair. I tug at his clothes, whisper something that should sound like I want you, but my vocal cords don’t cooperate and I start to laugh right there with his mouth over mine. His wet kisses pick up with intensity, and soon we’re falling over a soft bed, a sofa—hell, it could be the floor. His skin touches over mine, and it feels electric, erotic beyond anything I have ever experienced, and soon we’re diving in and out of one another, clawing, laughing, moaning. And after a spin on the most dizzying carnival ride of them all, I fall fast asleep.

Dreams evade me all night, taunting me with snatches of an electric smile, low slung lids, a devilish gleam hidden in a pair of dark eyes. The shadows from the hall dull out his features as I struggle to see his face, the stranger with the delicious kisses, those masterful strokes of his…

Slowly I rouse from thick uncomfortable dreams, and my hand flops over the mattress and onto a body.

A body. A BODY!

I do my best to pry my lids open, my limbs feel as if they’re turning to stone, my head feels as if it’s been hit with a mallet, and my poor eyes feel swollen shut.

A room forms around me, too much light coming in from the widow in the corner, a gray comforter lies crumpled on the floor—a dark wood floor, neither of which belong in my dorm.

“Oh my God,” I whisper as I inch my way to the edge of the bed. I did it!

My knees pull together, and instantly I feel an unnatural burn deep inside of me.

Oh my God—I did it. I’m not a virgin anymore.

My heart ratchets up into my throat, and suddenly I want nothing more than to run the hell out of here. I spot my jeans next to the wall, my sweater by the door. What the hell is the morning after etiquette? Is there a morning after etiquette? God, why didn’t I ask more questions? A little research into the topic couldn’t have hurt. Do I turn around? What if it’s not Eli? What if it is Eli? Worst yet, what if he’s up for round two? Or judging by that fire raging in my nether regions, round sixteen. Oh my God, I’d really better get out of here.

If I get up and leave now, we can both forget about last night. I was so far gone last night I can’t even remember his face. Maybe he was just as wasted? If I tiptoe out, I’ll be doing us both a favor. I’ll just quietly roll off the bed, casually grab my things, and run like hell. I won’t look back. It was dark last night, wasn’t it? I doubt he even knows who I am.

Just as I’m about to move an inch, a warm hand lands right over my bare bottom and I let out an unexpected squeal. I hike up on an elbow and spot an enormous back, his head toward the other edge of the bed, dark hair. Just past him on the floor lies a blue-checkered flannel rumpled in a heap and I gasp. It must be Eli! He’s uncovered, unclothed, and safely unconscious, so I do the only thing I can think of. I roll out of bed, snatch my clothes off the floor, hop my way into my inside out jeans—phone still miraculously in my pocket—put my sweater on backwards, no shoes, and stumble my way back to Whitney Briggs looking like a homeless lunatic in what will be my first and final walk of shame.

Right about now, both my burning vagina and I would give anything to be downright boring again. In fact, that’s my new life’s mission. Return to the old me.

And for the hell of it, I just might slug Serena the next time I see her.