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Frat Party
I glanced down at the red plastic cup in my hand, still filled with just as much beer as I’d started with when my brother and I first arrived at the frat party. Only now it was lukewarm instead of ice cold. I wasn’t sure why I continued to clutch the cup like it was some sort of safety net. Or maybe it was—as long as I held it, no one bugged me and tried to get me to drink anything else.
Lord knows I had enough to deal with just being the brother of Jack Carter. It was my responsibility to make sure we got home all right. Not that Jack tended to drink all that much during baseball season, but still.
“Hey, Dean.” A leggy blonde wove her way through the crowd in the fraternity house’s front yard to reach me. I had no idea who she was.
“Hey,” I said back, not wanting to be rude, but knowing from experience what would come next.
“Where’s your brother?”
And there it was, the one thing that ninety-nine percent of the female population at Fullton State cared about—my older brother, Jack.
Without saying a word, I pointed in the direction of the driveway where he stood with a few of his teammates, watching another blond girl dancing.
“Wanna introduce me to him?” She batted what had to be fake eyelashes at me, and I blew out a long breath.
“Not really. He’s not hard to talk to, I promise. Just go say hi.”
I gave her a little shove, which was probably rude, but hell. Sometimes it was annoying being the younger brother of a future major league baseball player. That was part of the reason why everyone wanted a piece of him, especially the girls. They knew he was going places, and they wanted to hitch a ride.
Girls were weird, and I’d never understand them.
I looked back at my brother, realizing he held a short girl by her arm for half a second before letting go. The little pixie stood there, apparently annoyed, scowling up at him as she tapped her foot on the concrete. Jack leaned toward her, saying Lord knows what.
That was when I realized who she was.
Melissa.
Please, God, if you care about me at all, don’t let Jack be interested in her. Or vice versa.
I had a class with Melissa, and often found myself staring at her tanned legs instead of paying attention to the teacher. I’d caught her staring back at me too, and on the few occasions she sat next to me, her leg would occasionally bump mine, or her shoulder brushed against me, and I’d get a whiff of the fruity scent of her shampoo.
We flirted, that much I knew. And she seemed interested, but so far I hadn’t worked up the nerve to do anything more than ask for her name. I’d thought of those big blue eyes and silky brown hair more often than I cared to admit.
Hell, maybe I was more like Jack than I realized, I thought, but then gave myself a mental slap. No, no way. I didn’t want to sleep with Melissa and then never do it again. That kind of shit wasn’t in my DNA the way it was in my brother’s.
Melissa passed by me in a huff as she stormed into the frat house, and I smiled to myself before chasing after her. Being pissed off suited her. Her blue eyes practically gave off sparks when she was mad, making her look like a pissed-off Tinker Bell.
“Melissa!” I shouted over the music, but she didn’t seem to hear, so I shouted her name once more as I reached for her arm.
She instinctively yanked out of my grasp and whipped around to face me, her eyes narrowed and blazing, ready to do battle. But once she realized it was me, everything softened. Her expression, her body language, everything relaxed. Then her pretty face broke out into a big smile.
“Dean, hi!”
When she launched herself into my arms and gave me a big hug, I hugged her back and breathed her in, trying not to look like a douchebag. She smelled like summer and sunshine. After a beat, I reluctantly released her.
“Was my brother bothering you?” I nodded my head in the direction of the front door.
“Your brother’s an asshole.”
Thank you, God, I thought, assuming that this meant Melissa was not, and never would be, interested in him. He could have all the other girls in Southern California, but not this one.
