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  Until last year.

  Repeatedly. Endlessly. And sometimes illegally.

  I went from zero to sixty without ever tapping the brakes, and eventually I spun out. So here I am, back to zero, hunkered down, paying for all my fun. Was it worth it? Yes, I’d say so. Am I completely aware that I’m reversing course, going from sixty to zero without ever finding a reasonable middle ground? Yes again.

  I got good grades in high school, but high school wasn’t hard. College is. Burnham is my dad’s alma mater, which is the only reason I got in, and it’s prestigious for a reason. Their alumni boast two presidents, a Nobel Peace Prize winner, and a Supreme Court Justice. Professors will fail you if they don’t think you’re trying hard enough or if they think you’re phoning it in. It’s not enough to show up and complete all your assignments—they want to know you tried. And last year, I did not try. Hence my scholarship getting slashed in half, my parents kicking in for the missing tuition this year, and me moving in with Kellan McVey, my new study buddy.

  I may have gotten a C- in Stats last year, but even I know the odds of this arrangement failing.

  chapter three

  Okay, so it’s possible I’ve been making a bigger deal out of this “Kellan McVey’s my roommate thing” than is strictly necessary. I mean, he’s just a guy. A guy who comes home after a mid-morning soccer game in the rain, strips off his soaking wet jersey as he crosses the living room, and grins at me before disappearing into the bathroom.

  Have I mentioned that Kellan is ripped? Like, how-is-that-real ripped? Because he is. And while I’d like to pretend it’s the peanut butter sandwich I’m eating that has my mouth watering, it’s not. The heated feeling spreading through my belly has nothing to do with mealtime, either, and everything to do with the fact that I haven’t actually been with anybody since that time in the closet with Kellan.

  Four long months ago.

  I firmly close and lock the door on the dirty thoughts trying to penetrate my studious haze, and focus on taking my plate to the sink when Kellan comes out of the bathroom in shorts and…that’s it. Just shorts. His dark curls wet and shiny, a tiny drop of water working its way between his pecs and down over his six pack and—

  “Any plans today?” Kellan asks, joining me in the tiny kitchen and pulling a leftover bowl of mac and cheese out of the fridge. He sticks it in the microwave and punches a few buttons, the soft whir of the fans filling the air.

  “Ah, just work,” I say. “I start at two.”

  “No last act of rebellion before school starts?” It’s Labor Day, and classes officially begin tomorrow. I’ve got five courses and two tutorials, and juggling school and work should be more than enough to keep me out of trouble.

  I shake my head, since forming words poses a greater challenge than I’m up for. I’ve already seen Kellan’s soap in the bathroom, but smelling it on his freshly washed body is its own brand of olfactory torture. I rack my brain to think of something witty or intelligent to say, but can only come up with, “What are you going to do?”

  “Eat,” he says promptly, the microwave obeying the command and politely beeping. Kellan removes the bowl, stirs, and takes a bite, nodding his satisfaction. If I have learned one thing about Kellan in our three days as roommates, it’s that he wasn’t lying when he said he loves mac and cheese. He buys it in bulk and one of our four kitchen cupboards is stocked with boxes of it. I mean, I like a bowl of mac and cheese as much as the next girl, but in this quantity it’s kind of gross. Though it’s hard to think of mac and cheese as anything but sexy and delicious when it’s being forked into the mouth of a shirtless Kellan McVey.

  “Well,” I begin, ready to make my escape and hopefully not embarrass myself by drooling.

  “What’d you say you were studying?” Kellan asks, boosting himself onto the counter and settling in.

  Is this happening? Are we…talking? Just me and Kellan McVey?

  “I’m undecided,” I hear myself say, my voice blessedly normal. “I’ve got a bit of everything this year. You’re doing sociology, right?”

  “Yeah.” He shrugs carelessly. “It seems like a safe bet. A good base. You can go a lot of ways with it.”

  “Sure.” I take a sip of water and try not to look like I’m loitering in my own home. I want to have a conversation with Kellan. I want this to be a thing we do. I tossed the cardigan into the back of my closet the second I unpacked, and though the corsets and leather mini-skirts are stuffed back there too, I don’t want him to see me as the uptight budding librarian he met at our first meeting.

  In deference to the rainy weather, I’m wearing jeans and a turquoise flannel shirt, which fits well and shows off my figure, not that he seems to notice. After a lengthy moment of awkward silence, I sigh and turn to go.

  “Hey,” he says.

  I stop. “Yeah?”

  “You pass the Frat Farm when you go into town, right? For work?”

  I pretend I have to think about it, that I haven’t spent a lot of time at the Frat Farm. “I guess so.”

  “Any chance I can get you to drop off something for Crosbie? He needs it first thing tomorrow, but I’m not heading there today.”

  It’s like, fifteen minutes from here to the Frat Farm, but whatever. It’s on my way. “Sure,” I say. “But you’ll have to give me the address.” This part is true—I know Crosbie lives in a frat house, but not which one. They’re all the same in the dark.

  “Thanks.” He hops off the counter and jogs into his room as I try not to ogle the shifting muscles in his back. He returns a second later carrying a box with a familiar shoe company logo. “Sneakers,” he explains. “Special order. A guy I know works at the store and Crosbie’s been waiting for these forever.”

  “A shoe guy,” I say, studying the box. “Who knew?” When I think of Crosbie Lucas—and to be fair, it’s not often that I do—I think of three things: loud, muscles, and Crosbabes. Only one of those things floats my boat, and it’s not enough to make up for the other two.

  Kellan shakes his head. “Don’t get him talking about shoes, he’ll never stop. And no matter what, don’t let him convince you to participate in any magic tricks. You’ll never get out alive.”

  Illusions, I think. Don’t participate in any illusions. “Duly noted,” I say. Then, for some reason, I salute.

  Kellan stares at me for a second, then wrinkles up his nose and lets loose with a heartfelt belly laugh. And by belly laugh, I mean six-pack laugh, because that thing ripples and shifts in a way that does something to my own stomach and a certain spot beneath it.

  * * *

  Twenty minutes later I’m leaning my bike against the front stoop of the Alpha Sigma Phi frat house. It’s a peeling green Victorian on a shady, tree-lined street of similar houses painted in muted and respectable earth tones. Because it’s the day before classes start, things on the Frat Farm are relatively tame—guys are moving in, there are several parents hanging around, and everyone’s still on their best behavior.

  Alpha Sigma Phi is quiet, the front door closed, a large potted plant blooming cheerfully beneath the mailbox. It’s the kind of plant that says “Trust us, mom—your son’s in good hands!” The kind of plant that’ll be dead a week from now.

  I ring the bell and hear it chime inside, and a few seconds later the door opens to reveal a tall, thin black guy wearing a suit and tie and a nametag that says “My name is Dane.” He does a double take when he sees me, and I realize they’re expecting new roommates and are hoping to make a good impression on the parents. This is positive news for me—Alpha Sigma Phi is aptly named. The guys are all athletes and take the “Alpha” part of their title very seriously, each one determined to be the man of the house. If they’re still in “impress mom” mode, I’m unlikely to stumble into an orgy.

  “Hey,” I say.

  “Hey.” He glances at the box in my hand.

  “Does Crosbie Lucas live here?”

  “Oh.” Dane smiles and nods knowingly. “Yeah, yeah. He l
ives here. Right up there.” He steps aside to reveal a large staircase leading to the second floor. “Go ahead. Do your thing.”

  I blink. Flannel, jeans, and one o’clock on a Monday? There’s nothing sexy or suggestive about me. “I don’t need to go upstairs,” I say, suddenly a little less confident I won’t see anything I can’t unsee. The last thing I need is to walk in on Crosbie and his newest Crosbabe. I thrust the paper bag holding the shoebox toward Dane. “Could you just give him this? It’s from—”

  “Tell him yourself,” he says. “I’m not going to be responsible for whatever ‘gift’ you brought for the guy.”

  “It’s not a gift—”

  But Dane’s already walking away. So much for best behavior.

  I consider just leaving the bag inside the door and asking Kellan to call Crosbie and tell him it’s there, but I think about how irresponsible frat houses are and figure I’ll just hurry upstairs, find his room, cover my eyes and knock on the door. No chance for any sort of miscommunication or awkward encounter.

  Okay. Enough stalling. I have to be at work in forty minutes, and I left early so I’d have a bit of time to amble around town while it was still quiet. Because it’s Labor Day and everybody’s busy moving in and preparing for class, the small downtown will be mostly empty, just a few shops and restaurants open for locals. Quiet solitary walks—how’s that for rebellion, Kellan?

  I wipe my sneakers on the welcome mat—I expect this mat will go the way of the plant—and climb the old wooden staircase to the upper level. Last year the guys’ rooms had names on them, and this year is no different. Though without blaring dance music, a hundred writhing bodies, and sticky splashes of alcohol on the floor, it’s nothing like my past experiences.

  There’s a long hallway that stretches toward the back of the house, lined with doors on either side. A couple are open but most are closed, and I can hear music and voices filtering through the thin walls. I make my way down the hall, scanning names until I find Crosbie second from the end.

  I inch closer and try to listen for warning sounds—mattress springs squeaking, heavy breathing, cheesy porno music—but there’s just a strangely rhythmic thud and whir noise. I give serious thought to hanging the shoes on the knob and getting out of here, then I tell myself to suck it up and knock. He’s not going to answer the door naked—I’m pretty sure. Like, fifty percent sure. Thirty.

  I knock. The thud-whir combo slows, then stops, and after a second the door is wrenched open to reveal Crosbie on the other side, a small towel in one hand as he wipes his neck. He’s wearing a white wife beater with a large V-shaped sweat mark down the front and gray sweatpants. His forehead is slick and shiny, and every one of his overdeveloped muscles is on display.

  He’s alone.

  And very surprised to see me.

  “Nora,” he says, eyes comically wide. It’s actually kind of cute, especially now that I can breathe easy knowing I’m not about to walk in on anything that will give me nightmares.

  “Hey,” I say.

  For a second we just stare at each other. It’s weird—like seeing an animal in the wild you’ve only ever seen at the zoo.

  “Um.” I shake my head and thrust out the bag. “Kellan asked me to give you these. They’re sneakers.”

  “Right. Okay. Thanks.” He takes the bag and then we just stare some more. “What are you doing right now?”

  My heart thumps in my chest. It’s embarrassing to admit it, but that line worked on me a couple of times last year with other guys. But today my answer is different. “I’m going to work. I start at two.”

  “Yeah? Two?” He’s got an mp3 player in his pocket and now he pulls it out to check the time. Then he nudges the door open a bit wider and glances behind him to where I can see a haphazardly made bed. “Come in here for a minute.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  It takes a second, then his whole face changes, confusion shifting to surprise then amusement. “Just lay on the bed for a bit,” he says, trying to keep a straight face. “This won’t take long.”

  I roll my eyes, feeling foolish. “Shut up.”

  He laughs. “Seriously, come in. I need someone to quiz me and those ass hats won’t do it.”

  “What do you need to be quizzed for? Classes haven’t even started.”

  “I’ve got Bio with McGregor tomorrow.” He opens the door more and gestures for me to enter. And for some reason, I’m entering. “Everybody knows he drops a pop quiz first thing on day one and I’m going to be ready for it.”

  I’m trying to listen, but mostly I’m taking in Crosbie Lucas’s bedroom. It’s small and cramped, with a queen bed against the wall on the right, its blue plaid bedspread rumpled on top. The desk is home to a laptop and piles of books and school supplies, and the rest of the room is devoted to sports. The source of the thud-whir is an elliptical machine on the left side of the room, next to which sits a small weight stack. Even though Crosbie’s only on the track team, same as Kellan, there are hockey sticks, baseball bats, soccer balls, volleyballs…pretty much anything you’d need to play any game on the planet.

  A wardrobe, its doors left open, reveals an explosion of clothing, much of which is heaped in the corner, on the desk chair, and on the floor by the bed. A garbage can holds a couple of empty beer bottles, but the window that overlooks the front lawn—and which is propped open with a ruler—keeps the room from smelling as bad as it looks.

  “Here.” Crosbie snatches a textbook from the elliptical and sticks it in my hand. “Have a seat and start asking me questions about the first chapter.”

  The only free space to sit is the bed, and when I shoot a longing look at the clothing-covered desk chair, Crosbie laughs at me. Given our first cardigan-clad encounter, he must think I’m a terrified prude. “Just sit on the bed,” he says. “It’s not like I knew you were coming. I don’t exactly bring a lot of girls up here to ‘quiz.’”

  “You don’t need the air quotes,” I say, taking a seat at the very edge of the mattress. “I’m actually just going to quiz you.”

  He makes a finger gun with his hand and shoots me. “I knew you were smart.” He grabs a bottle of water from the cup holder on the elliptical, chugs half, and climbs back on the machine. “Okay. Start.”

  I flip open the book and skim the first page, raising my voice to be heard over the thud-whir. “You ready?”

  “Bring it.”

  “First question: head and shoulders, knees and…?”

  “Toes!” He fist pumps the air.

  “That was just a warm up. Question two: the toe bone’s connected to the foot bone, the foot bone’s connected to the…?”

  “Ankle bone.”

  I laugh and dodge the bottle cap he throws at my head.

  “Now ask me some real questions,” he says. “At this rate I’ll be the smartest guy in the class.”

  “I never knew you were so studious.”

  “I’m full of surprises.” He uses a small set of weights to do bicep curls as he runs backward on the elliptical. I try not to watch his muscles move. He’s much bigger than Kellan. Kellan has a traditional runner’s physique, tall and trim. Crosbie looks more like a wrestler, shorter, broad and stocky.

  “All right.” I force myself to concentrate. I’m supposed to be quizzing Crosbie on biology, not obsessing over his body. I don’t even care about his body. But as I start to ask him real questions and he does his very best to answer correctly, I start to care about this, just a little bit. Because he’s completely and utterly sincere, no trace of the brash bravado he normally exhibits. No sign of the guy who dances on tabletops and adds Crosbabes to the list scrawled on the bathroom wall on the fourth floor of the Student Union building.

  He’s not a genius but he tries hard, and he’s obviously been paying attention because he gets about seventy percent of the answers right without any prompting. Sometimes I give him hints and his brow wrinkles as he considers things, then bobs his head arrogantly when he figures it out, ne
ver once breaking his stride on the elliptical. The only time he sets down the weights is to take a drink of water, then he’s right back to it. He’s certainly committed.

  Speaking of committed—I have a job to get to, and nine minutes in which to make the ten minute trip.

  “Work,” I announce, slamming the book shut and standing. “I have to go.”

  “Oh yeah.” Crosbie powers down the machine and hops off, snatching the towel and mopping himself up. Sweat runs in rivulets down his neck, his shirt is soaked, and I remind myself to keep my eyes on his face. “I’ll walk down with you,” he says, reaching past me to open the door. The elliptical did a good job of blocking out the noise from the rest of the house, but without it I can hear raised voices downstairs—certainly more than just Dane, and certainly having more fun than they were half an hour ago.

  “You don’t have to do that,” I say hastily. Because even though we were only “quizzing,” absolutely no one will believe it, and how unfair would it be to have my “good” year tainted before it even begins?

  “I don’t mind.” He’s too close now, holding the door and waiting for me to pass through. He smells like sweat and…man…and it should be off-putting, but it’s not. That’s confusing enough to have me hustling out the door.