Then he laughs.
I was wrong. My blood boils and now the premature hatred he’d exhibited earlier floods through me. I don’t even know his name, but my mind is already imagining a dozen vicious karmic paybacks. Everything from drunk dude getting to his feet only to lose it again all over my companion’s perfect face to spreading a rumor that he’s packing a cocktail Weiner in his pants. I suspect that one’s not true, but he’d deserve it. I would be doing the entire female student body a favor.
I’m not going to do it and the drunk guy isn’t going to get up and this dickhead isn’t going to get what he deserves. Pushing past him, I head toward the bathroom still fuming.
“You can’t say that you didn’t have that coming,” he calls after me—and he sounds almost… friendly? If this is how he makes new friends, he needs a serious lesson in interpersonal skills.
I don’t respond. Beelining for the bathroom, I slam the door behind me and lock it. I slump against the wall and inspect the damage to my shoes. It’s almost as bad as the damage to the rest of me. He doesn’t know me. That should be enough. I haven’t exactly put my best foot forward. I grimace thinking of my shoes—or even worse, my feet—again. But he had started it, hadn’t he?
I’ve already suffered a lifetime of people thinking they know me. People assume the MacLaine children haven’t worked a day in our lives. All we do is work. Our father’s love isn’t free. Everything we have cost us something. I’m not spoiled. Not in the way he thinks.
There’s something rotten inside me though, and I can’t deny it. It shows itself when I least expect it—when I least want it to—and tonight it found a playmate.
I force myself to confront the task at hand. My shoes are ruined. Unstrapping them, I toss them in the garbage before shimmying up my skirt so I can wash my feet under some running water. I consider looking for soap but a college boy’s shower will make you lose faith in humanity. How could living creatures be so gross? Sticking my leg carefully into the stall, I turn the knob so I can wash tonight off. The shower head hisses, pipes rumbling, and then cold water shoots directly into my face, my dress, my hair. I try to cover my face with one palm while I search for the knob, half-blinded by the assault. When I finally manage to shut it off, I’m dripping wet. Drenched silk clings to my skin and soaked strands of hair fall limply on my shoulders while water puddles at my feet. Air conditioning blasts from a floor vent making me wet and cold.
A fist pounds on the locked door and I freeze.
“You okay in there?”a muffled voice calls.
It’s him. That’s when I realize that I’d screamed when the water hit me.
“Fine,” I bite out through shivers.
“You screamed.”
“Go away!” I want to tell him exactly where to go and what he can do when he gets there, but I have bigger problems.
I grab a towel hanging nearby and dry myself, trying hard to ignore its tell-tale mustiness. Swiping at my face and hair, I drop the towel to the ground. Tonight could not get worse.
The mirror proves me wrong on that count. Smudged mascara rings my eyes, my lipstick is smeared at the corners of my mouth—I look like a drowned cat. It takes me a few minutes to wipe the ruined makeup off. Pulling a scrunchie off my wrist, I knot my hair into a messy bun, which is a minor improvement. It’s no use trying to save the dress. I need a savior. Someone who will brave the asshole in the hall to rescue me. A knight in shining armor.
I take my phone out to call Poppy, who is way more dependable than a knight, and realize I don’t have service.
I’m stuck shoeless and soaked, wanting to shrink into nothing and sneak out of this hellhole. But I’m a MacLaine, so I don’t. Who cares about the rude boy in the hall? It would take an act of God to impress him. No one else is going to notice me. They’ll be too drunk or trying to get laid. All I have to do is walk out the door. August in Tennessee is hot and sticky. I won’t miss my shoes and my dress will be dry by the time Ava or Poppy finds me. I just have to hold out. I think of the drunk guy in the hall, passed out in a pool of his own vomit, and decide things could be worse.
When I crack open the door, I brace myself. Any hope that I might be spared the humiliation of facing him is dashed. He had not gone away as ordered. In fact, he’s leaning against the wall, staring at me. His cocky gaze scans me up and down, and then one side of his mouth tugs up. It’s the slightest movement, but it’s enough to push me over the edge.
“Freaking hilarious, isn’t it?” I shout. “First, you get me puked on and now I’m soaked.”
He straightens up, his eyebrows knitting together. “I got you puked on?”
“You didn’t stop him.” My accusation is as limp as my hair but I put as much conviction behind it as I can muster.
The smirk falls completely off his face replaced by a scowl, which suits him more. “Oh, sorry. I’m fresh out of barf bags.”
“You just left him on the floor.” This is the hill I die on apparently. I don’t know why it’s so important to blame him. It just is. Because he’s here and he’s infuriating and he laughed. Southern boys—even the arrogant, spoiled ones I’d known my whole life—would never do that. If it had been Cyrus or Money or any other local guy here they would have offered their assistance. “You’re not a
