Preface

Lucas had never met a party he couldn’t improve with volume.

Six-two, two-twenty, shoulders wide enough that he had to turn sideways to get through the narrower doorways in the Delta Chi house. The brothers called him “The Fridge” because he could block an entire hallway when he laughed, which was often and loud. He kept a C+ average the way other guys kept houseplants-bare minimum water, plenty of neglect, still alive. Professors liked him anyway; he had a knack for showing up hungover with the exact smart-ass remark that made the whole lecture hall snort. He lived for Saturday game days, cheap light beer that tasted like aluminum and victory, and the particular roar of a hundred drunk twenty-year-olds make when someone yells “pong!” at 2 a.m.

He spotted Joyce in the campus coffee shop on a Tuesday, nose in a book, earbuds in, looking like she was allergic to fun. Dark hair twisted up with a pencil, tortoiseshell glasses sliding down her nose. She wore a cardigan in October like she was auditioning for a library. Lucas decided right then that she needed corrupting.

“Hey, Joyce, right?” he said, dropping into the chair across from her without waiting for an invitation. “Lucas. Delta Chi. You look like you’ve never seen the inside of a basement at Theta. We should fix that. Dinner Friday? I know a place with wings so hot they count as community service.”

She blinked at him over the rim of her latte. “Do lines like that actually work?”

“Statistically? Seventy-thirty. I like those odds.”

She studied him for a long second, something amused and wary flickering behind her eyes. “Fine. Friday. But if you call me ‘m’lady’ even once, I’m leaving.”

Friday came. He picked her up in his beat-up Jeep wearing a clean shirt (miracle) and the grin he usually saved for last-second touchdowns. Took her to a barbecue joint where the napkins were paper towels and the waitress called everybody “sugar.” Lucas ordered sixty wings, half suicidal, half honey barbecue, then launched into a detailed ranking of the top five worst walk-of-shame stories in Delta Chi history, complete with sound effects and gestures that involved a lot of spilling sauce on the table.

Joyce laughed once-sharp, surprised, like it escaped against her will-then spent the rest of the meal watching him the way biologists watch monkeys fling poop at zoo glass. Entertained, but keeping her distance.

He talked with his mouth full. He called the Lakers game on the bar TV “a goddamn travesty.” When she mentioned wanting to go to law school, he said, “Nice! You can bail me out when I finally get that public intoxication trophy I’ve been chasing.” He thought he was being charming. She heard a guy who still thought farts were comedy gold.

After dinner he drove her home, music loud, windows down even though it was cold. Parked outside her off-campus house, he killed the engine and turned toward her with the confident lean he’d perfected sophomore year.

“So,” he said, voice dropping into what he considered his panty-dropper register. “Solid date, right? Ten outta ten, would bang.”

Joyce unbuckled her seatbelt. “It was… an experience.”

He took that as encouragement. Leaned in. She put a hand flat against his chest-firm, no hesitation.

“Lucas.”

“C’mon, one kiss. I brushed my teeth and everything.”

“You’re drunk on wings and your own voice.”

He laughed, shifted closer, big hand sliding to her waist like he was claiming territory. “Relax. It’s just a kiss.”

She opened the door herself, cold air rushing in. His fingers tightened for half a second, reflex, like he could keep her there by sheer mass. She twisted free, stepped out onto the curb, looked back at him with something flat and final in her eyes.

“Grow up, Lucas.”

Door shut. Deadbolt clicked. Porch light stayed off.

He sat in the dark Jeep for a minute, engine ticking as it cooled, staring at the closed door like it had personally insulted his bloodline. Then he laughed once-short, hollow-started the car, and peeled out doing forty in a twenty-five.

Back at the frat house the party was still raging. Someone handed him a beer the second he walked in. He shotgunned it, crushed the can against his forehead, and roared for the next one.

But for the rest of the night, every time he laughed, it came out half a beat late. Like even he wasn’t totally convinced anymore.

Chapter 1

Lucas told himself the next morning that Joyce was just playing hard to get. Girls like that always did; they wanted to be chased. So he chased.

First came the texts.

hey sorry if i came on strong last night. wings were hot but you’re hotter ;) round 2?

No answer.

He sent a meme of a sad puppy in a Delta Chi hoodie.

Still nothing.

By afternoon he was sliding into her DMs with a video of himself shotgunning a beer and yelling her name at the end. Fifty-three people viewed it. She didn’t.

Monday he “happened” to be outside her Psych Stats lecture with two pumpkin spice lattes.

“Peace offering,” he grinned, holding one out like a trophy.

She walked past him without breaking stride.

“Joyce, c’mon-”

“Leave me alone, Lucas.”

Her voice was flat, almost bored. It stung worse than anger would have.

Tuesday he waited by her car. Wednesday he sent flowers to her house-two dozen roses with a card that read Still 10/10 would bang, but nicer this time, I swear.

Thursday she blocked his number.

Friday he showed up at her doorstep at 11 p.m., slightly drunk, holding a six-pack like a hall pass.

“I just wanna talk, Joyce. Five minutes. I’ll sit on the porch if you want.”

She opened the door only as far as the chain allowed.

“You’re embarrassing yourself is not my problem. Go away or I’m calling campus safety.”

He laughed, too loud. “You’re really gonna make me beg?”

“I’m really gonna make you leave.”