“Rushford Knight is a hearty meal, and this girl is starved for a bite of that beefcake,” shouts a starry-eyed blonde with a Go Mustangs T-shirt tied in a knot at the base of her triple D knockers. Her lusty soliloquy elicits the giggles of the sorority hos surrounding her as they strut by in their matching six-inch Fork Me heels. I happen to recognize the lusty, busty ditz shouting the proclamation above the noise and the music. It’s Miranda Smirnoff—no relation to the vodka fortune, has always been a year ahead of me in school, thus the fact she’s a sophomore to my freshman at Whitney Briggs University. She was a special little gem at our old high school that everyone worshipped—a gem that put out on the regular. She’s essentially a skank, and, seeing that she’s at Briggs where skanks are a dollar a dozen, she’s now more common than a fruit fly.

“Disgusting,” I snip as I lean toward Sunday, the beefcake in question’s sister. She’s a stunner, and it’s not just because she won the genetic lottery. Sunday has a beauty vlog that eats up her week and our nonexistent bathroom storage space with the truckload of cosmetics necessary to make her the web success she is today.

Sunday and I are cellmates doing time together at Cutler Tower for a sentence of approximately four long years. As fate, or perhaps the collective efforts of our overprotective brothers would have it, we scored one of the few rooms in Cutler that comes furnished with the birth control loft beds. And since the aforementioned beds are entirely engineered of balsa wood and chewing gum from the coeds of yore, there’s no way either of us is getting any action in that thimble of a dorm. Not on those rickety beds anyway. The carpet came equipped with a series of mystery stains that resembled a sanguine bodily fluid, and that quickly ruled out any rug action for either of us as well. And the bathroom? It makes the restroom on a plane look like a cavernous shopping mall you could lose a small child in. Hey, they don’t call it Chastity Tower for nothing. My brothers smiled for a week once they were apprised of my assignment.

Both Sunday and I are new to Whitney Briggs and all of its superfluous sexual cavorting, thus the trepidation we shared in showing up tonight at this thorny, horny frat house to begin with. Beta Kappa Phi is pumping with hard rock music so loud that it’s rattling the walls and windows. Not to mention the fact there’s enough cologne and perfume to ignite an asthmatic in just about anyone.

The coeds continue to crowd Rush as each one offers a salacious smile, just begging to be his pick for the evening. Rushford Knight, Sunday’s older although not wiser brother, is a known sexual assailant who has the girls at WB lining up around the block just to have a quick bounce over his pogo stick.

I can’t help but smirk. “Such a nice little cult your brother has going.”

Sunday belts out a short-lived laugh as she tosses back her strawberry blonde hair. There’s a gleam in those lemon-colored eyes that suggests she knows it’s true. “It’s fake news and alternative facts, I tell you. And if you go around spreading rumors, I’ll tell everyone your formal name is Beatrix.”

“Ha!” I bark out a laugh at the moniker-based threat. I’d shout it from the rooftop myself if I thought anyone really cared. But Rush? I don’t have to start rumors. We both know his reputation is wrecked on all seven continents. “Please, that boy has a female following that spans three state lines, and you know it. Hate to break it to you, princess, but your big bro has become an inadvertent clap-trap around these parts.” Not to mention the raging malignant narcissism that takes over his body whenever he offers those bedroom eyes and crooked smile your way. Sure, Rush has a face that every deity in the universe would gladly bow down to, but that boy’s reputation precedes him in every single demented dimension and dominion.

I spot my own big brothers from across the room and give a wild wave. Rex is older than me by four years, and he happens to be tonight’s star quarterback for the Whitney Briggs Mustangs.

Knox, my twin, older by a few minutes, is my doppelganger in male skin, same inky black hair, same marbled violet-blue eyes. He was tonight’s star linebacker that brought home the win, so the entire school—read the entire female population—is exuberant to be in his presence. But as it stands, both of my big bros are taken.

Sunday leans in as we spot them headed this way. “Is it ever not weird?”

I frown as I look directly at the weirdness itself. Rex happens to be madly in love and dating our new stepsister, Scarlett. And, at the moment, she has her arms lassoed around his waist, letting the masses know that the school’s star quarterback is very much taken.

“Quasi-incest is never not weird.” I shake my head just as Knox and his girlfriend, Harper, get to me first. I offer my twin a giant hug, happy to note that he’s showered and dressed in clean dry clothes, absolving himself of the sweat attack he had on the field. “Well done. Looks like it’s official—you’re Whitney Briggs’ favorite mascot.”

“Very funny,” Harper snarks, stealing a hug of her own. Harper Shelton is one of those girls whose beauty isn’t even at a human level. I’m not sure what my brother did to the universe to get someone like her to even look twice his way, but lucky for him it worked heavily in his favor. Actually, my brother didn’t have to do a thing. He’s gorgeous and sweet and has a heart of solid gold. Harper and her beauty queen looks are simply lucky he chose her.

“She’s just up to her old Trixies.” Knox offers a sly wink at the play on my name.

“Hey, have you guys seen my sis?” Harper hikes up on her tiptoes trying to scan the crowd.

“Harley?” Sunday hikes up on her tiptoes as well and joins the search. “She’s here somewhere with Serena.”

Serena is Sunday’s cousin, who also happens to be Harley’s new roommate. Serena was a Barnes’ girl—as in the all-girls school down the road, but she quickly came to her senses before landing a single stuffed animal in her dorm and hightailed her not-so-innocent self to this testosterone driven side of town. I can’t say I blame her. WB beats Boring Barnes any day of the coital week.

“Who are we looking for?” Rex comes up with that killer grin of his, and I wrap my arms around him tight.

“You did great! I’m so super proud of you!” I squeal as I offer up a bionic squeeze.

“Hey”—Knox pulls me back—“how come he’s great and I’m the mascot?”

“Because I know how your mind works.” I glance to Harper. “Trust me, he’s mascot material.”

Scarlett breaks up the party and offers up a hug of her own. Scarlett Kent, my recent stepsibling acquisition, is a redheaded beauty with precision cut features and a presence that commands attention wherever she goes. Her father married my mother a while back, and she and her siblings have been a permanent fixture in our lives ever since. And have I mentioned she’s just that nice? I guess I can’t fault my brother for falling for his legal sis. Yes, it’s weird, and definitely gross, and seeing how perfect the two of them are together, it was as unavoidable as gravity.

Sunday bounces in her shoes. “Speaking of great big brothers—here comes mine! He’s off-limits by the way.” She says that last part while smacking me over the arm.

Both Rex and Knox bark out a laugh at the thought.

“She’s right.” Rex sobers up real quick and pegs me with a look that says keep away or grab a shovel and dig your own grave.

Knox shakes his head. “Like that would ever happen. You’re my baby sister. Rush knows better than to even look at you crooked.” He leans in with that smug look I’ve never appreciated from him. “Every dude on campus knows better than to look at you crooked.”

He pulls Harper in, and she wrinkles her nose. “Besides, he’s too much man for a girl like you.” She fans herself as if the same were true for her. “Heck, he’s too much man for every girl in this school combined. Rush should come with a warning sign on his forehead.”

Our little circle erupts in laughter. Too much man, my ass. But then, that is what his thirsty ego would want the masses to believe, isn’t it? As if. Rush Knight is too much of a man tramp for me to ever look at twice.

Knox sobers up right along with Rex. “Trixie’s a good girl. She stays out of trouble.” He gives my shoulder a tweak, and I scowl at him. He so knows how much I hate it when he talks about me as if I weren’t in the room. “She’s outright boring when you get down to brass tacks.” He gives a little wink, and I avert my gaze.

Scarlett wipes a tear from her eye from laughing too hard. “Trixie doesn’t want a player. Trixie doesn’t need a player.” The emphasis in her voice cites her incessant need to treat me like a six-year-old. Scarlett doesn’t have a little sister, so technically, I win. Or more accurately, lose. I scowl over at her redheaded eminence. She’s not the only one who can toss around an emphasis.

“Speaking of the man of the hour!” Sunday’s face lights up like a Christmas tree as she lunges behind me to tackle the manwhore-player of a clap-trap that seems to have the entire universe convinced he’s not the one for me.

He’s not, but that’s beside the point.

I abhor anyone treating me like a child by way of telling me what I can and cannot do—or in this case who. All my life I’ve lived in the shadow of my brothers’ wings. They were great at pretty much any and everything they undertook, racking up the trophies by the dozens. By the time they each graduated from high school, my father devoted an entire wing of the house in honor of those gilded statues, framed jerseys, and dirt encrusted footballs that paved the way to victory. I myself am a jack-of-all-trades, master of none, unless, of course, you count my high score on Candy Crush—where I am killing it by the way—or my affinity to catalog my dining experiences with copious amounts of off-centered pictures before uploading them for the world to see. I guess you could say I’m not particularly motivated or focused on what I should be doing in life. My brothers, however, discovered at an early age that they had a panache for driving an inflated pigskin down a field. And their propulsion to stardom has always made me feel about as important as a comma.

Rush looks up at me with those honey brown eyes, those heavy lids, and scruffy stubble peppered over his cheeks that make my fingers twitch to touch it.

“What’s up?” He offers that signature crooked grin my way, and much to my disdain, my insides squeeze tight, my face flushes with heat. And, oh my God, is he openly ogling me?

Knox smacks me on the shoulder from behind, and I fall right out of that clap-trap trance I was stuck in.

I turn and give him an approving nod. Knox and I are closer than your average brother and sister. Don’t get me wrong, I love Rex to pieces, but Knox and I have been bonding on an amniotic level since conception. He knows me better than I know myself, and most of the time we don’t need mere words to communicate—an attribute that Rex has always found creepy, and rightfully so since growing up more than half of those unspoken conversations were about him. When our parents divorced, Rex chose my mother’s side, and Knox and I wisely stuck it out with our poor father. And even though we chose opposite family lines in the sand to plant our feet, it didn’t stop Rex from stepping up to help parent us once our mother went away to the big house for a nine-month stretch.

My skin begins to crawl, and suddenly the room feels far too tiny for it to ever be safe with this many bodies swelling inside it. My eyes twitch to the mouth of the exit and admire the navy glow of evening from outside.

Seth comes up and offers Rush a hearty slap on the back, nearly throwing him off-balance, and I can’t help but laugh. I’d steal just about any opportunity to laugh at Rush. Seth is Sunday’s soon-to-be brother-in-law or something of that nature. Her brother, Nolan, is marrying Seth’s sister, Misty. Sunday has regaled me endlessly about how the two of them had this horrible breakup, only to find true love again years later, and now they’re just months away from officially hitching themselves to one another until death do they part. Or at least until one of them gets thrown in the slammer and then decides to nuke the family once she’s set free. That’s the only pattern of marital life I’m familiar with.

“Hey—I have an idea,” I lean in and whisper to Sunday while Seth, Rush, and my brothers replay the game quarter by quarter. “Maybe you can hook up with Seth? You know, dating legal siblings is all the rage. Just ask Scarlett.”

Scarlett rolls her oversized emerald eyes. I swear, Scarlett looks like an Anime character come to life. “I heard that.” She gives me a playful shove. “But since you asked—it’s twice as nice as you’d ever imagine.”

Both Sunday and I let out a guttural groan.

“You should go for it.” I give Sunday a light shove in Seth’s direction. “He’s muscular in all the right places, broad shoulders. The combo of that dark hair and those day-glow eyes? What’s to resist?”

She smirks my way. “Sounds like he’s more your type. In fact, it sounds like you’re already smitten.” She does her best to shove me at him.

“Just try to hide those budding feelings. The sooner you admit sexual defeat, the sooner Scarlett here can give you all the tips on how to land your brother horizontal. Sure, it’s probably awkward at the dinner table after you’ve done the nasty, but once you realize you’ll be having one another for dessert, I’m sure you’ll both get over it.”

Now it’s Scarlett and Sunday groaning at me. Funny how they turn on a dime.

“Hey, Trix”—Knox nods me over to where he is—“did you get any pictures of us on the field?”

“Only the best.” I yank out my phone and pull up a close-up of both Knox and Rex as they ran for the ball side by side. “Last picture of the night was the winner, much like the Mustangs this fine evening.” I’m quick to show Rex and Knox who both whoop it up and share a fist bump as they relive the celebratory moment.

“Let me see,” a deep voice rumbles from over my shoulders, and I take in that spiced cologne before turning around, hopeful that whoever owns that hot voice has an equally hot face to match.

“Oh, it’s just you,” I say as Rush frowns down at me before taking my phone.

“Good shot.” His thumb slides over the screen, and everything in me freezes. There I am on all fours with my hair fanned out as if I had just been electrocuted—my face done up like a possessed woman on the prowl, but it’s the fact I have nothing on but a thong. My back arched just enough to show my bare moon rising overhead qualifies it as soft porn at its finest.

“Give me that!” Each word comes out like its own sentence. My face flares with the heat of a thousand hellfires, and for some unknown reason that tender spot at the base of my thighs twitches a series of throbs, and I glare up at Rush for inciting a panic-gasm in me. “You’re a darn pervert, you know that?”

“What?” His eyes round out in horror, and my heart skips a beat at how violently handsome he is. On the day they were making Rush Knight, someone up there threw in way too much good looks into the mix. It was clearly a goof-up that has benefited the aforementioned perv down here on Earth where he consumes a healthy, steady might I add, diet of females of all shapes, sizes, and IQ levels. From what Sunday tells me, Rush is completely indiscriminate when it comes to entertaining the ladies. Some might say he’s a bit heroic in that sense. I say he’s just perverted.

I glance to find my brothers and Seth laughing it up about something while Sunday and Scarlett are chattering away. Scarlett is probably giving a thorough dissertation on how to bed your brother in ten days, and Sunday is clearly rapt at attention. There is no doubt in my mind she’s going to hit that soon-to-be big bro of hers. I’ve never seen anyone talk so laboriously about someone they profess to detest, loathe, hate—Sunday has thrown every synonym in the book at poor Seth. Besides, Seth is lovable, unlike this foolish oaf I’ve lassoed myself to by way of a frozen glance.

His glowing amber eyes penetrate mine, and it feels sexual as if I’ve just been mildly assaulted by him, and my insides pinch tight, because, hell, I think I kind of like it. Rush Knight is nothing but a modern snake oil salesmen, a modern-day charlatan that hooks the girls by the dozens simply by a glance, and there’s something primal in me that begs to fall under his sexual spell. I step hard on my own damn toes until I’m forced to bite my lip in pain. I will not fall victim to his wily bedroom ways.

He glowers at me a moment before leaning in. “What the hell are you doing taking those kind of pictures?” His brows pitch hard and not in any sexual manner—in a brotherly way, and it vexes me to no end.

My mouth falls open at the audacity this buffoon has to lecture me, or God forbid question my morals.

I sink my phone into my pocket. “I take them because my pimp needs them. How else am I going to rack up business?” I snipe like a fully loaded machine gun full of estrogen-based bullets. His eyes widen just a notch, signifying the alarm is real within him. “Look, relax, would you? If you’re trying to give me brotherly advice, you’ve got the wrong little sister.” Sunday told me that her entire family is convinced she’s an angel sent to live amongst mere humans. I almost want to laugh in his face. Sunday has shared more than enough with me to assure me she’s a perv in female skin. She’s boy crazy, and once her hormones are unleashed on this unsuspecting university, Rushford Knight is going to have a heart attack nightly. So take that, I want to say.

He pulls his lips in a dissatisfied line, and I can’t help but note how plump they look. “I may not be your big brother, but I’d hate to see that picture get in the wrong hands.” He rakes his fingers through his thick brown hair as if he were shaking with anger on my behalf—more like shaking with the need to find the nearest shower stall so he could alleviate all that sexual tension my rising moon just sponsored.

I can’t help but notice the fact his hair is light on the tips, as if the sun had fried it. Both his face and eyes glow the same even shade of honey. The tail end of a summer tan lingers on his skin, and it makes him that much more godlike than I’d prefer to admit. It’s bad enough the girls around here treat him as if he just finished vacationing on Mount Olympus. I, for one, will never treat him that way. The Church of Saint Rush may have its fair share of worshippers just waiting to dive down his altar, but I won’t be one of them. In fact, I’ll be the one burning his effigy and openly mocking the girls that line up to worship. Anyone who would settle for a short ride on a dumb jock rather than a permanent seat placement with a decent guy deserves to have a mocking finger or two pointed their way.

“The only wrong hands it got into were yours.” I hike up on my tiptoes and get in his handsome as hell face. Those cushioned lips of his call to me for a moment, and I can’t help but admire the vibrant yellow and bright green flecks in his eyes. “Now scat before I tell my brothers you were just begging to see the real deal!”

“Honey, I see that nightly. And I don’t need to beg.”

I gag on command. “Oh, barf twice. Get lost before the entire Toberman-Kent clan pulls you apart like a wishbone for even speaking with me about such perversion.”

“Geez.” He ticks his head back and glares at me one last time, although layered beneath that glare is something shy of affection, like maybe he really does see me as that perennial little sister my brothers have packaged me as. Rush takes off and is immediately swallowed whole by a crowd of coeds in short skirts and matching hyena cackles as the music in the room turns up ten times louder.

“Trixie!” Sunday pulls me over, and I find that my brothers and their girlfriends are nowhere to be seen and in their place stand Serena and Harley. Serena is a redheaded bombshell with sea green eyes. She’s one hundred percent the quasi-Disney mermaid her name suggests. And Harley is her sister, Harper’s, drop-dead gorgeous lookalike. Come to think of it, I’m afraid I’m the only troll in this equation, and I openly frown at the three of them for making my fear a reality. Not that there’s anything outwardly offensive about me. In fact, if I were a Disney princess myself, I’d be more of a caustic Snow White sans the cadaverously pale skin. I sport a mean tan year-round, mostly impart due to genetics. The Tobermans are prone to olive skin and, well, my self-tanner takes me to all the gorgeous bronzed places I want to go.

Sunday’s mouth lingers open as if she were about to say something important but someone froze time. I glance over my shoulder just as Seth pops up with those intense eyes pinned right on her, and a dull laugh pumps from me. My money says they’ll fall into one another’s face, and perhaps bed by midnight if this keeps up.

“Anyone here interested in joining the Media Club?” He tenses for a moment as both he and Sunday share a contrived look of disdain for one another.

“Not me.” Sunday heads off to the refreshment table where the frat brats store their illegal kegs and pyramid of red Solo cups. I’m guessing that plastic feat is the pride of all future engineers who may have had a hand in its efforts. And that, my friend, is why I’m afraid of the future.

“I’m out.” Serena shrugs. “I’m already looking into the Drama Club, Student Government, and the Book Club. I can’t take another commitment.”

“It is a commitment.” He deflates as he looks to Harley.

“Does it involve public speaking?” she asks tersely as if she were expecting a confession from him.

“It depends on your definition of public speaking.” His brows rise, and now I know for sure I’ve just met a master negotiator, or manipulator. Maybe it is best if Sunday steers clear of this salacious new member of her family.

“Then I’m out, too.” Harley scans the crowd past his shoulder at the Beta boys who just showed up in a coven. I happen to know firsthand that Rush is a part of that perverted pack, although he’s usually more of a lone wolf. “I’m gunning to pass my classes,” she continues. “I’ve never been good at juggling sixteen things at once. Besides, public speaking and I don’t get along.”

“I’ll do it.” I raise my hand as if we’re in class. Just the thought of public speaking scares the living daylights out of me, but I’m a glutton for a good punishment, and lately any form of public gathering seems to be just that. The room pulsates in and out right along with the caustic loud music, as the crowd grows denser by the minute. I swear, I’ve already made it to third base with seventeen different people simply by the bump and grind from the throngs of bodies surrounding me. “I’m a journalism major, so I’m a natural. And I love public speaking—although, not the actual public part. But I am an expert at saying the first thing that comes to my mind. My father says I have no filter, and it’s a trait I’ve never apologized for.”

The three of them share a laugh.

“Perfect.” Seth rocks back on his heels. He’s handsome enough, but for some reason doesn’t hold that stomach squeezing superpower that Rush has over me. “I was told I needed a recruit by the end of the night, and you just met my quota. I’ll catch you in the Annex tomorrow at noon. It’s behind the commons room in the Student Union.” He walks backward as the crowd tangles around him.

“Wait. Tomorrow is Saturday! And noon? Isn’t that a bit early? I like to sleep in—until at least two thirty!” Okay, so it’s really three.

His raises a hand my way, and his grin grows more devious by the second.

“Met his quota,” I huff under my breath as I turn to face Serena and Miranda? I blink back at the skank who haunted my high school for four long years, three of which I had to endure under her tyranny. I couldn’t wait until she was carted off to greener scholastic pastures so I wouldn’t have to look at that elf-inspired nose job gone wrong. Her hair is pulled back into a severe ponytail, further stretching her features to unnatural stages of tautness, and her lips are slashed in a bright pink line that actually offends me on some level.

“Hey, Miranda.” I try to sound casual. Miranda was a part of the Barbie Dolls—a group so popular, so exclusive, so mean you hoped with all your might you would never accidently fall victim to their shitty schoolgirl shenanigans.

“I’m sorry.” She laughs, shaking out her blonde curls as she leans in. She’s doused in a sickly-sweet perfume from head to toe, and I can feel my allergies kicking in like a tsunami about to roar to life. Perfect. Maybe if I’m lucky, I’ll unleash an atomic sneeze right over her face. Miranda had honed the fine art of belittling you even if she wasn’t trying. “Do I know you?” Her mouth falls open, and she looks like the dolt she is. I’d pay good money to see a fly buzz right on into that pie trap of hers right about now.

“I guess not.” I glance to Serena just as Sunday joins our group once again.

Serena does a brief intro to both Sunday and me. “Miranda is my mentor for Kappa Kappa Gamma. I’m toying with the idea of rushing, and she was just giving me the rundown.”

“I’ll give you the rundown,” I offer. “It’s all about the Kappa Kappa guys. Can’t you tell?” I wave a hand at the coital crowd. “They’re all fishing for someone to bed for the night. This frat house is quickly turning into a fright house if you ask me.”

Miranda pulls her riotous lips into a tight line. “It’s a good thing nobody asked you.” She looks to Serena. “But she’s right.” She gives a maniacal wink, and something in me warms at the idea of being right. “We’re all about the boys at Kappa G. But not just any boys. The best boys. Beta Kappa Phi just so happens to be our matchups.” She points to ground zero.

Rush and his cohorts strut by, and Miranda gives one of those wrist twisting beauty pageant waves.

“What’s the matter, Randy? Cute boys give you carpal tunnel?” The Goth girls at our old school used to call her Randy Mandy due to her insatiable sexual appetite. A nickname she undoubtedly has not forgotten, considering how hard won it was. No one dared call her a slut to her face—but hey, if the ho shoe fits. I glance down at those glittering stilettos better suited for a three-year-old at a dance recital and give a knowing nod. The ho shoes clearly fit.

Miranda nods in the direction of Rush and his crew. “That cute boy right there gives me everything I want. I’m just inches away from making him an exclusive edition to my dating repertoire.” A tittering giggle bubbles from her, and I’m suddenly moved to stuff her pie hole with old sweat socks.

Both Sunday and Serena gag in lieu of a response. Clearly, Randy Mandy here isn’t their first choice as far as a plus one goes for Rush.

“I’m sorry. Are you talking about Rushford, Whitney Briggs’ favorite fetish?” I inquire for the sole purpose of inciting a riot in Sunday and Serena.

Miranda looks momentarily stumped at the pop quiz I sprung on her, and so soon into the semester. She blinks to life like a haunted doll. “Oh yeah, totally, Rush. He’s my man. I’ve already landed him on the mattress springs three different times in the last year alone.” She chortles at the ceiling in celebration of the feat. “That level of repeated action automatically elevates me to girlfriend status.” She fans herself with her fingers a moment as if the idea of chaining herself to the WB welcome mat with a wagging appendage is an accomplishment. Of course, I wouldn’t dare say that out loud because I would never want to offend Serena or Sunday. He’s blood to them—blood is thicker than the coffee at Hallowed Grounds—and right about now, that’s about all the fluids we have in common.

“Mattress, huh? I guess that means you’re practically married.” Just as I’m about to introduce her to her new sister-in-law she waves at someone in the crowd—who I would bet my life on didn’t exist—and trots off quickly in an effort to ditch us. “Some things never change. I guess we’re not the in-crowd.”

“That’s so high school.” Sunday averts her eyes.

“So are her mattress moves,” I’m quick to offer. “You should warn Rush. She’s the clap that claps back. In fact, together they might actually develop a new disease that science doesn’t even know about yet.” I scowl across the room where Rush and my brothers are congregating. “Rush needs a good girl, not some twit with a nickname that precedes her reputation.”

“Someone is bitter.” Sunday bites down on a laugh. “I wouldn’t worry about Rush. I’ll warn him about Miranda, but I’m sure he’s already moved on.” She gives a halfhearted shrug. “I’ll admit, he’s a bit notorious with the ladies, but I’ve heard rumors alluding to the fact the girls at Briggs are out to get him. It’s a sexual setup.”

A laugh bubbles up my throat. “I love how you make him out to be the victim.”

“He’s not a victim.” Sunday looks mildly confused as if maybe he were. “Anyway, you steer clear. You for darn sure can’t go near him.”

Serena shakes her head at me. “That would be weird. He’s like a brother to me.”

Sunday leans in. “He is a brother to me.”

“Well”—my eyes round out momentarily as I look to Sunday and Serena—“it looks as if majority rules. Rushford Knight is safe from both me and my virginal standing.” I give a tight smile. “Anyway, I’d better turn in for the night. I’ve got the Media Club calling my name. And if there’s any hope of me waking up by noon, my head needs to hit the pillow soon.” I say goodnight and brush off Sunday’s offer to go home with me. In truth, everything about tonight has my head spinning.

The music grows louder, the screaming and dancing crowd only seems to get rowdier, and suddenly I’m feeling like maybe the Knitting Club is more my speed. Why must they turn up this metal riot on blast? What about putting on something decent like Elvis—as in Presley? My father loved Elvis and played the King’s greatest hits on a loop for the entirety of my childhood. I love my father with all of my heart, and just the thought of Elvis reminds me of him. My mother, on the other hand, couldn’t stand the King or my father as it turns out. In the midst of their ugly divorce, I distinctly remember her violently snatching off the stereo while “Love Me Tender” warbled away. After that, the only thing that warbled away was my mother.

The room closes in around me, and it feels as if I’m about to be crushed by a wall of sweaty bodies. A ripe sense of panic hits me, and I can’t claw my way through this human chain of Friday night oppression fast enough.

My heart begins to race, my bowels feel as if they’re about to explode straight through to middle earth—not pretty, trust me, I’m aware—and a gripping fear that I’m going to be trapped here forever takes over. This is the exact feeling I had last Tuesday when Sunday and I thought it a good idea to go to the nail salon and paint our nails in orange and blue in a sudden burst of school spirit. While Sunday was happily zoning out with earbuds plugged into her head, my breathing grew labored as the poor girl at the nail salon struggled to remove the dark chipped mess from my fingers. Just the thought of sitting through an hour-long session to have luxurious gel polish cured onto my being sent my skin crawling as if a dozen bats just landed in my hair. Heck, I would have preferred a dozen bats knotted in my tresses, two-dozen bats, in place of that torture session. I couldn’t breathe in there. I had the sudden urge to use the restroom, and my God, what if I were stuck in the middle of a very important part of the gel curing process and the need to visit the girls’ room arose again? I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t sit there, trapped like some zoo animal with my fingers subjected to ultraviolet light.

I made up some lame excuse about feeling the flu coming on, paid for a regular manicure, and waited for Sunday in the car. Of course, Sunday sucked the vital info out of me over pizza back at the dorm. I let her know that those episodes were only on the rise in my life, and I had no idea why. I used to love to do normal things, like shop, grab some coffee, see a freaking movie, but a line with more than three people in it makes me feel as if I were waiting in line for the electric chair—thus the birth of the three-person line rule. I guess you could say something good has come out of the madness. I no longer tolerate long lines, a majority of the public at large, and badly mismatched manicures.

Just as I’m about to hit the exit, I bump into a body.

“Whoa.” I pull back to find myself staring at my stepsister, Scarlett.

“Leaving so soon?”

I bite down over my lip as I glance around the boisterous crowd, laughing, screaming at one another as if the walls were on fire, and those boys with their bedroom eyes, the girls with their legs flying open at the ready. “I don’t know. This isn’t what I thought it would be. College isn’t what I thought it would be.”

She wrinkles her nose. “No offense, but you’ve only been here a week. What’s getting to you?” She pets my hair as if I were her favorite kitten, and something about the action warms me. My mother hasn’t always been the most maternal, and something in me craves this physical brand of attention.

“I guess I thought I’d feel like a grown-up. You know, less like a little kid with everyone telling me what to do, who to like, who not to talk to.” I spot Rush by the hall talking to a group of girls as Miranda slowly makes her way into the mix. I can’t help but scowl over at the entire lot of them. Trollops.

“Hey!” She pulls me in, and for a moment I bury my face in her cinnamon-colored locks. Scarlett always smells like spice cookies to me, sweet with a mysterious hint of clover or nutmeg. “Trust me, you’re going to have a great time at Briggs. Don’t you let others define you. College is the perfect time to reinvent yourself. How about you try to do something unexpected? Maybe step out of your old skin for a while. Do something that the old high school you would never dream of. You know, join a sorority or the Book Club. Start a novel of your own! The possibilities are endless. Just loosen up a little.” She jostles my shoulder with a sisterly grin. “How about you get back in there and hang out with Sunday for a few more minutes? I’d feel better if I knew you weren’t walking back to campus all by yourself. The Row is a bit farther than you think, especially all alone on a Friday night.”

“Fine.” I openly glare around the room as if it personally offends me. And come to think of it—it does. “You’re right. I need to stop letting other people define me. It’s time to reinvent myself—the new Trixie Toberman is here.”

She laughs while pulling me into a brief hug. “That a girl. Now, get back in there and start making some memories! Step out of your skin for a while!” Scarlett takes off for her friends, and I set out to do the same.

The music switches to a heart thumping rap song, and the room goes wild as if the roof just ignited with flames. I do a quick scan of the vicinity, and there’s not a sign of anyone I know. Perfect. I’m stranded in a sea of sexed-up bodies—half of them think I’m some seven-year-old who needs to be reminded of what she can and cannot do.

My brothers and their reprimands come to mind. Trixie’s a good girl. She stays out of trouble. She’s outright boring when you get down to brass tacks. My blood begins to boil at the thought.

The lights dim and the crowd screams ten times louder as if the 12 Deadly Sins themselves just appeared from nowhere, ready to hit the stage with a live concert. I swear, I’ve been in that bar where people lose their minds for the house band. This level of hysteria isn’t all that big a stretch.

Miranda and her tribe of super skanks strut by with their mocking jewel-toned fingernails, their loud laughter biting through the air at obnoxious glass shattering decibels.

Maybe I should step out of my skin for a while.

I spot Rush as he finishes up a conversation and begins to walk back into the crowd alone.

Rushford Knight is never alone. It’s practically illegal for him to be three feet away from a person with female genitalia at all given times. There are serious rules in play for manwhores like him. The governing authority of ho bags everywhere could readily revoke his douche card for such an offense.

Without thinking, my feet move in his direction, and for one strangled moment his hypnotic, warm honey eyes lock over mine. My body jolts with a mild electrocution, and my insides squeeze tight once again at the sight of him. It’s not fair he gets to illicit such a volatile response in me. I bet he’s not having a single visceral response to my presence, outside of irritation, that is. And I do hope he’s feeling at least that.

His jaw tightens on cue as if the very sight of me brought out a certain level of disdain in him, and the savage bitch in me gives a secret smile. Although, how dare he even imply it. Then, as if in an act of surrender, he tips his head to the side. No sign of that lazy smile he uses to seduce the girls by the dozens. After all, I had already been relegated to the bottom of the little sister deck. My brothers, Sunday, the world made sure of that. I hate labels, but that particular label is one I loathe the most.

I stride over and take up his hand, quick and tight. My feet pivot and I lead us up the stairwell, down a hall, and into the first open door, landing us in a bathroom. I leave the light off as I shut the door behind us.

His warm breath rains down over me as my body lands taut against his, pushing him to the edge of the sink as I hike up onto the balls of my feet. Rush Knight’s body feels as if it’s fashioned from steel, and a breath hitches in my throat at the feel of it—at the reality of what I’ve just done. His chest expands, and the slight rumble of laughter filters through him. My God, he’s so obnoxious I want nothing more than to school that oversized ego of his. Without hesitation, without another living thought, I stab my fingers into the back of his hair and pull him down to me. For a brief moment, in this, the dimmest of light, our eyes meet. There’s an arrogant look on his face that suggests he knew I would cave to his comeliness, and as much as I want to battle it, I don’t.

And just like that, I draw first blood. My lips slap over his like a punishment—hard and greedy for something his stiff muscles are too stingy to give. Rush takes a quick breath, forcing his chest to nearly buck me right off him, and then the unthinkable happens. His mouth moves over mine in a sinful rhythm. These slow, delicious movements smoke every theory I’ve ever had about Rush being a louse in every area of his life. Clearly, Rushford Knight is a master at one thing, and at the moment we’re engaging in the very act.

My stomach squeezes tight again until it painfully burns. Every last nerve in my body is alive and electrified at the touch of his mouth over mine. I can feel the sizzle from the ends of my hair to the tips of my toes. It’s unfair, and perhaps illegal to give anyone the power to invoke these apocalyptically huge feelings in you.

A small moan works its way up my throat, and as soon as I give it, his body relaxes for the first time, his chest melting against mine as if it were always supposed to be there. Rush brings his hands up over my back, slow and warm. His thick fingers carefully migrate to the back of my neck, threading into my hair, pressing our mouths furiously together as I open for him. Rush invades me with his tongue with a frenzy, as if it were his sole responsibility to teach me a lesson. And he’s kissing me. Soulfully, Rush delivers a lashing that grows darker by the moment.

He spins me against the counter and lifts me onto it until the cold tile burns right through my jeans. He takes up my hands, opens my arms against the mirror behind me as if exposing me in this way were supposed to speak to me. Rush is owning me, claiming me the way he does his floozies by the dozens. I might have stunned him to begin with, but it’s clear he’s on autopilot. Unless, of course, this is his way of saying don’t you mess with me, little girl. In that case, game, set, and match. Well played, Mr. Knight. Well played indeed.

I yank my wrists free from his bondage-like stronghold and cup my hands over his stubbled cheeks, holding him there, making him kiss me softer, drinking down all he has to offer as if it were the most potent wine. I’m pouring his mouth straight into mine and drinking down the intoxicating elixir that I should never have been privy to.

A deep guttural groan comes from him, and my entire body begs to faint. There is no sweeter sound than that of someone desiring you on such a primal level. That groan signified everything I was hoping to hear. I’m certain I’ll replay it in my sleep for the next eighty years, reliving my victory time and time again.

Rush runs his tongue over mine, rough and greedy, his lust for me amping up by the nanosecond.

The lights slap on, and we both look to the door to find a glossy-eyed boy looking momentarily stunned. “Sorry.” He slams the door shut behind him but forgets to turn off the lights, thus breaking the spell and landing us both back in that horrible place known as reality.

Rush and I glance at one another apprehensively at first with something shy of horror.

“Shit.” He bows his head and rakes his fingers through his hair as it all sinks in. Rush treaded into forbidden territory. He was led to the slaughter by a low-lying snake in the grass—better known as me.

Rush glances up, and for a strangled moment his amber eyes linger on mine.

“Go ahead and say it.” My voice comes out a touch louder than intended.

“Say what? You want me to apologize for that?” His brows hike as if he were amused.

“Please. You can eat your apology. It was a joke.” I glare at him a moment. “It was a dare. An initiation to get me into the slutty girls’ club at Briggs. You of all people should know you’re nothing more than an entrance exam to the dingbats that populate this place. You’re a whore—you’re a joke—someone people laugh at when they get a chance.” My chest hiccups with the lie. I don’t know why I spewed it, but I vomited it up easy as water.

Those dark brows of his narrow into a hard V as if they alone were handling the communication efforts with me. I may not know Rush all that well, but I know enough to realize he’s pissed to high heaven.

“Go on.” I slap my palms over his chest in an effort to propel him away, but Rush doesn’t move. Those lucent eyes of his remain locked over mine, and it feels invasive, punishing. Rush is penetrating me on an intimate level, and right now I hate him for it.

I jump down from the sink as I make a break for the exit, but he lands his enormous hand over the door a hard thump.

“Get out of my way or I’ll scream at the top of my lungs and have you thrown into prison—but only after my brothers have broken every last one of your bones!” I don’t dare look at him, but he leans in until his face is over mine and those eyes of his are working their black magic again.

There’s a soulfulness buried behind in that hard stare he’s throwing my way. And for a second I study the hard curves of his cheeks, the way the stubble peppers his face just enough to ring that sexual bell buried deep inside me.

His shoulders sag a moment as his hand slides off the door and I whip it open, nearly decapitating him in the process.

I turn back and look directly at him, all of my schoolgirl lust for him already gone, replaced with a ripe disdain. “I hope I never see you again.”

And just like that, I fly through the night, straight to Cutler Tower and dive into my bed like the coward I am.

The next day, I’m all groans and regret as I force myself to stand in the shower, as I struggle my way to Hallowed Grounds before heading past the commons room into the Student Union, past its Saturday afternoon calm, and into the Annex where a large white sign points the way to the Media Club. I open the door, and a small crowd, no more than twenty people, all look up at me stony-faced, Seth the only recognizable one of the bunch.

“Welcome to the club, Trixie,” a deep voice rumbles from my left, and I turn to find a face that haunted me long into my dreams last night. There he is, Rushford Knight, sporting that lazy crooked grin all for me. “I’m your leader.”