No, no, no, no, no.

The pickup died three feet away from the deer, coming to a full stop.

The dumb animal finally decided to blink and amble away from the road, its hooves snapping against the ice with gentle clicks.

Stupid fucking deer.

Stupid fucking car.

Stupid fucking me, for not hurling myself out of the goddamn pickup when I still had the chance, right off the cliff.

It was quiet for a few minutes. Just me and the deceased pickup and my beating heart, before a scream tore from my throat.

“Fuckkkkkk!”

I punched the steering wheel. Once, twice … three times before my knuckles started bleeding. I braced my foot over the console and ripped the steering wheel out of the pickup, dumping it on the passenger seat and raking my fingers down my face.

My lungs burned and my blood dripped all over the seats as I tore everything inside the pickup. I ripped the radio from its hub, throwing it out the window. I smashed the windshield with my foot. Broke the glove compartment. I wrecked the pickup like the deer couldn’t.

And yet, I was still alive.

My heart was still beating.

My phone rang, its cheerful tune taunting me.

It rang again and again and fucking again.

I tore it from my pocket and checked who it was. A miracle? A heavenly intervention? An unlikely savior who actually gave a fuck? Who could it be?

Scam Likely

Of course.

No one gave half a fuck, even when they said they did. I boomeranged my cell into the woods then got out of the vehicle and started my ten-mile walk back to my parents’ farm.

Truly fucking hoping I’d bump into a bear and let it finish the goddamn job.

Present.

Grace

“Best nineties invention: curtain bangs versus slap-bracelets. You have five seconds to decide. Five.”

Karlie sucked on her margarita slushie, eyeballing her phone. Damp clouds of heat sailed over the food truck’s ceiling. Sweat soaked through my pink hoodie. We were in the midst of a Texan heatwave, even though we were a few months shy of summer.

My heavy coat of makeup was dripping down my FILA shoes in orange spurts. Good thing we closed five minutes ago. I hated hanging outside the house with less than two thick layers of foundation caked on my face.

I was planning on a cold shower, hot food, and setting the air-con on blast.

“Four,” Karlie counted in the background as I scribbled a want ad. My body was angled to the window, in case late-night customers trickled in.

Karlie was officially cutting back on her shifts, something her mom and owner of the food truck, Mrs. Contreras, wasn’t thrilled about. Obviously, I was sad I wouldn’t be working with her as often anymore. Karlie had been my best friend since we’d both wobbled about in diapers in each other’s backyards. There was even a picture of us somewhere—probably Mrs. Contreras’ living room—sitting on matching purple pots, butt naked, grinning at the camera like we’d just unfurled the great secrets of the universe.

I was worried whoever was going to replace Karlie—Karl to me—wasn’t going to appreciate my sarcastic nature and surly approach to life. But I also completely understood why she had to cut back. Karl’s class load was insane. And that was without all the extra internships she’d picked up to decorate her CV with work experience in journalism.

“Three. There’s only one correct answer, and our friendship is in jeopardy, Shaw.”

I capped the Sharpie with my teeth and leaned out the window, sticking the sign on the side of the open window.

That Taco Truck is HIRING!

Help Needed.

Four times a week.

Weekends included.

$16 per hour plus tips.

If interested please speak to manager.

I opened my mouth to answer Karlie at the same time I lifted my gaze. My body froze, every inch of it seized with a mix of dread and alertness.

Crap.

A herd of Sheridan University VIPs ambled toward the truck. Eight in total. It wasn’t the fact that they went to my college that sucked. No, I was used to serving my peers.

It was who they were in Sheridan University that made me break out in hives.

These guys were high commodity seniors. The cream of the popularity crop.

There was Easton Braun, Sheridan University’s hotter-than-Hades quarterback, dragging his fingers through his wheat-hued hair in slow-mo, like in an anti-dandruff shampoo commercial. He looked sickeningly perfect. Like those chiseled guys who lived in Pinterest Land and have arm veins as thick as hot dogs.

Reign De La Salle, the linebacker with soft, tar curls and pouty lips. A Sig Ep member, who reportedly slept with anyone with a pulse (and even that wasn’t mandatory, provided he was hammered enough).

Then there was West St. Claire, a completely different species from Braun and De La Salle. A myth at Sher U. He was in a league of his own.

He wasn’t an athlete, but he was by far the most infamous out of the three. Best known for being a hotheaded bully who dominated the local underground fight ring unchallenged. Rude, crass, and flat-out unresponsive to people who weren’t in his tight circle.

Even I, who wasn’t particularly privy to town gossip anymore, knew nobody messed with St. Claire.

Not his peers.

Not the townsfolk.

Not his professors, nor his friends.

It didn’t help that West St. Claire had ticked every sex god cliché box on the list.

His dark hair was always messy, and his emerald eyes had that dangerous glint that promised you your life would never be the same after a ride on his motorcycle. Six feet, four inches of golden skin and corded muscles. Broad, athletic, and unfairly gorgeous with thick, dramatic eyebrows, eyelashes most starlets would kill for, and narrow lips pressed into a hard, formidable line. He wore dirty Diesel jeans, faded shirts worn inside out, dusty Blundstone boots, and always had a green apple candy stick wedged in the corner of his mouth, like a cigarette.

He was widely known as Sher U’s biggest catch, only no one had ever caught him—and not for lack of trying.

The girls with them were familiar, too. One of them was even a semi-friend of mine—Tess, a raven-haired beauty with more curves than a barrel of snakes. She majored in theater and arts, like me.

“Two! I would like an answer now, Shaw.” Karlie waved an imaginary microphone in my face, but I couldn’t find my voice, stuck in a weird trance.

“One. The correct answer was curtain bangs, Grace. Curtain. Bangs. I mean, hi, Kate Moss circa 1998. Fashion icon.”