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“Who is this ho?”
Is the first thing I hear when the door to the frat house opens. Behind the blond girl with a permanent pout—from recent lip fillers, no doubt—are a group of people running around and loud rap music playing.
“Someone who was invited to the party.”
She rolls her eyes. “You wish you were invited to this party, ho.” I see bitch was on the menu tonight.
Annoyed, I look at my phone. “Maybe this is the wrong party.” It’s the right party. But I’m not big on starting catfights with rude girls. The noble thing to do is walk away. Until none other than Jake Larson comes behind her and gives me an apologetic look.
“I invited her, Brooke. Let her in.”
She looks as if she’s been slapped. I snicker, causing them to look at me.
“Fine, come in. Don’t talk to people I know.” She turns on her freaking heel like a drama queen and stalks off. I catch Jake looking at me.
“You look nice tonight.”
Ignoring him, I walk into the house, hoping to find someone I know.
JAKE
It appears Miss Walton thinks she can outrun me.
But she doesn’t know that I’m the master runner. I’m on the prowl tonight, and she can think she’ll get away all she wants. But I will have her.
“Dude, you look a mess chasing after this girl. It’s becoming pathetic,” Hunter says, appearing at my side.
“What’s becoming pathetic is the girls you invite to these parties.”
“I thought these were your type of girls, hockey captain. You signed these same tits not too long ago.”
I cringe at the memory of that year. We won, what did he expect? I was living in a momentous victory.
“Well, one of them called her a ho, and I didn’t like it. So you better get that shit squared away, or this party is over for the night.”
He cocks an eyebrow. “Yikes, one female calls her out of her name and you’re going all Den Mother on us. Get a set of balls, Larson. That’s how these parties are. I’m not gonna say shit just because the one girl who turned you down couldn’t give a shit about your existence.”
Hunter is a fucking douche. He’ll be anexhausteddouche on Monday if he continues to talk to me the way he does.
“You’re speaking very freely for a guy who has to wear ice on his face every two hours.”
He gives me a grimace before stalking away to the kitchen. Jackass.
Where the hell is Leia? I spent the last hour dancing and talking to some Rubenstein fans about our upcoming season this winter. And my unrelenting girl has been nowhere to be seen. I’m in the kitchen making a vodka tonic for Brock when I feel someone hug me from behind.
“What the he—” I turn around to see those jet-black waves and her eyelashes coating her cheekbones as she hugs my waist. My heartstrings grow tighter from this simple interaction, but one thing or another tells me she’s tipsy...yet again.
“Hmmmmrrrrr...I smeel fleepy,” she murmurs. I try to hide my chuckle because she’s clearly under the influence, but I can’t help it.
“Honey, while I’m loving this, I’m making drinks, and I need my mobility back.”
“Nooooo, you smell good,” she slurs as she slowly opens her eyes, smiling at me.
“Leia...I will happily take you home or bring you upstairs. But I need to finish this drink, honey,” I say, slowly prying her from my waist.
She quickly lets go as she hops up on the counter next to me. I glance at her, and she still has her eyes closed. But she’s smiling and kicking her legs like a child. “Leia, what are you doing?”
