by Blake, Tessa
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
© 2018 Tessa Blake
Happy Ever After, October 2018
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This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual people, places, institutions, colleges, sororities, or handsome TAs is entirely coincidental.
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All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, in any form, by any means electronic or mechanical, including but not limited to photocopying, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system currently in use or yet to be devised.
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This ebook is licensed for your personal use and may not be re-sold or given away to others. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase a copy for that person. If you did not purchase this book, or it was not purchased for your use, then you have an unauthorized copy. Please go to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting my hard work and copyright.
For the Book Tarts,
who have never judged me by the number of books I sell.
Love is a familiar; Love is a devil: there is no evil angel but Love.
William Shakespeare
Alyssa
I check myself out in the triple mirror in front of me, turning to look at every angle. White spandex short-shorts that end about a half-inch higher than they really should, tight white corset pushing my boobs up and together. Strappy, sparkly, 4-inch-high white heels—and boy am I going to regret those before the night is over. I skipped pantyhose, but my legs glint with a fine dusting of silver-and-white glitter, which Michelle has also just finished sprinkling onto my white feathery angel wings. Everything looks good.
Skimpy. But good.
I wrap my arms around myself and rub my hands up and down my upper arms, blowing out a noisy breath. “I don’t know, Michelle. This ... isn’t very much clothing.”
“You are correct,” she says, sounding completely blasé. “It isn’t. That was the plan, wasn’t it?” Easy for her to say; she’s not half-naked. Michelle, who is clearly much smarter than me, is a cat tonight: full-body catsuit, tail, headband with ears, and glued-on-whiskers.
She looks sexy—and, god knows, if she had an ounce of fat on her she couldn’t pull it off—but none of her business is just hanging out.
Unlike my asscheeks.
I shrug a little, embarrassed. “Yeah, that was the plan, but ....”
“But what?”
“But I didn’t realize how naked I’d feel. How naked I’d be.”
She laughs, and her blond curls fall onto her pretty face. Her blue eyes sparkle. “You picked out the costume, Alyssa. What did you think was going to happen? That the modesty fairies were going to sneak in last night and add a cardigan, maybe some cargo pants?”
“No.” I look at myself one last time, then turn away from the mirror. I look how I look; continuing to stare at myself isn’t going to make this any easier.
“Good. Because no more sweaters, no more baggy pants.” Michelle starts to screw the cap back on the bottle of glitter but stops and dumps a little bit more in her hand. “Come here and close your eyes.”
I do as she says and feel the fine grains settle on my nose, on the curve of my cheekbones.
Michelle blows gently on my face, then says “Okay, open.”
I blink my eyes open and smile at her. “I sparkle everywhere,” I say.
“Well,” she says, winking, “not everywhere.”
“Yeah, well. Some places were never meant to be glittery.”
“Fair enough. Now turn so I can see you.” She spins her finger in the air over my head—easy enough, since she’s a good six inches taller than I am.
I turn slowly, trusting that she’ll tell me if anything is askew or, god forbid, something is showing that shouldn’t.
“This is great,” she says. “Seriously, I would barely recognize you if I didn’t know who you were.”
And that, even more than get your tits all up in everyone’s business, is indeed the plan. I’m tired of being mousy little Alyssa. Tired of hiding in oversized men’s sweaters and loose pants, tired of being the cliché glasses-and-ponytail girl who needs a makeover.
Pledging Mi Alpha Alpha was Step One; if I hadn’t gotten in, I’m not sure I would have ever moved on to Step Two, but I did—we did, because Michelle pledged with me.
So now we’re at Step Two—become a whole new person. Big goal, but I think I’m up for it.
I’m a sorority girl now—a Mi Alpha Alpha sister, and that means … well, it means a lot of things. But for tonight, what it means is that I get invites to frat parties, and tonight’s party is at Alpha Delta Phi.
It’s as good a place as any to reveal the new Alyssa. The brave Alyssa.
I rub my arms again. The Wow, I’m chilly Alyssa.
“Let’s go,” I say. “Let’s go show those Alpha Delts what we’ve got.”
Michelle holds up a fist; I bump it with my own and we turn as one and head for the door.
Devlin
“Dude, I look ridiculous.” I turn from the mirror and pull the silly devil horns off my head, handing them back to Jake. “No way am I wearing those.”
“Well, you have to wear something.” He stabs a finger at the alien antennae he’s wearing. They bounce above his head, two silver-and-green sparkly orbs on long stalks protruding from a green headband. “Do I look anything less than ridiculous in these?”
“No, you look exactly that—ridiculous. And you can be ridiculous on your own, man.”
“I’m not going to this party alone,” he says. “I need a wingman.”
“What you need is a full frontal lobotomy, if you think I’m going to this party—especially wearing plastic devil horns.” I drop into the overstuffed chair next to Jake’s unmade bed. “I’m not sure I want to go at all, but if I do, I sure don’t plan to turn up looking like an idiot.”
“Everyone will look like an idiot, Dev. It’s Halloween.”
“Can’t I just go as me?”
“Sure, no problem.” He tosses the devil horns on his desk. “Gangly Frankenstein is the hottest costume this year. The Mi Alpha girls will be on you like flies on rice.”
“I think that’s ... never mind.” I let it go. Jake’s always mixing up his metaphors, and if I remind him that it’s flies on shit and white on rice, he’s liable to talk about white on shit next time, and I just don’t have time for that. And anyway, flies probably like rice. “I don’t need any girls to be on me,” I say. “I’m too freaking busy for girls.”
Jake gives me the hairy side-eye—great, now I’m doing it—and says, “Okay, suuuure. Too busy for girls.”
“I’ve got a lot going on.”
“Yeah, I know. It’s a lot of work being medium-good at track and teaching Romeo and Juliet to freshmen.”
“I’ve also got a scholarship to keep.”
“Christ, Dev. Old Seward himself would tell you to carve out a little personal time, and that dude was pretty busy being Secretary of State for Lincoln.”
“Johnson,” I correct him. “His father worked for Lincoln.”
My scholarship is named for Clarence Seward, who took over as Secretary of State after an assassination attempt almost killed his father the same night Lincoln was killed.
And the fact that I not only know stuff like that, but correct other people when they get it wrong, is
probably why I don’t get more dates.
“Oh, of course, thank you for edifying me,” Jake says, every word dripping with sarcasm. “And people say you’re not fun at parties.”
That gets my attention. “They do?”
“I don’t know. Probably not, since you never go to any.” He sits on his bed and leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees and glaring at me. “Come on, dude, loosen up just a little, why don’t you? Did you join ADP so you could sit in your room and listen to everyone else having fun?”
“Maybe.”
“Put on the stupid devil horns. Come to the stupid party. I mean, will you even be able to get anything else done while it’s going on anyway? It’s gonna be noisy.”
“Great.” He’s got a point, though. My room’s only on the second floor, and I saw the size of the speakers the guys carried in.
“Jesus, Dev. Your GPA isn’t going to drop if you relax for a few hours.”
“And if it does?”
“I guess you can burn that bridge when you come to it.” He shrugs. “For now, let’s just drink a few beers and freaking relax. I might not have a fancy scholarship to worry about, but I’m working hard, too.”
I sigh. The thing is, I think I would like to relax a little—but I’m not sure I even remember how. Between keeping my grades up for the scholarship, running track, teaching ... I don’t do a lot of relaxing even on good days. On the bad days? I’m lucky if I even sleep.
And that’s bullshit. I’m not saying I want to be a party animal or anything, but isn’t college supposed to be at least a little fun?
“All right,” I say. “I’ll go. Just for a few hours, though.”
“Of course,” Jake says solemnly. “We can’t have you turning into a fancy carriage at midnight.”
“That’s not—” Never mind, I think. “Yeah, Jake. That would suck.”
“And dude—it’s a costume party. It won’t kill you to wear the horns.”
“I’m not wearing the fucking horns.”
Alyssa
The Alpha Delta house is draped in paper streamers, inside and out, and the music is already pumping out the open doors. I hang back for a moment as we turn up the walk, and Michelle turns to me with an impatient expression.
“Come on,” she says. “You wanted to do this. Now let’s go do this.”
“It’s just …” I gesture, sort of vaguely. At everything.
“I know,” she says, and comes back to grab my hand. “Let’s go.”
We head up the walk, and as soon as we’re through the door an Alpha Delt hands each of us a black Solo cup. I take a tentative sip. Probably Budweiser or something, because it’s pretty terrible. Still, free beer. I swallow some more and hope my taste buds die soon.
We make our way into a large room beyond a pair of double doors. It’s got a high ceiling and polished wood floor, typical of these nice old houses on Frat Row, and more streamers hang from the crown molding around the tops of the walls. There’s a skeleton in one corner, probably stolen from a biology classroom, and someone has put a pointy witch hat on it, though the rest of it is still nothing but bones.
People are mingling around the edges of the room, especially at the far wall, where long tables are set up with finger food and a giant cut crystal punch bowl.
“That’s gonna be spiked before the night is out,“ Michelle says, nodding toward it.
“If it’s not already.“ I point at the huddle of kegs next to the tables. “I’ll stick with the beer.“
“Oh, is that what it is?“ she says. “And here I thought it was squirrel piss.“
From behind us, a male voice says, “Can’t it be both?“
We turn and there’s a good-looking, dark-haired guy standing there. He’s wearing all black clothes, with a pair of sparkly green-and-silver alien antennae on his head. He salutes us with a cup just like ours, then tosses back the last of whatever’s in it.
“No,“ Michelle says, pertly. “It can’t be both. That doesn’t even make sense.“
“Have a couple more beers,” the guy says, “and it’ll make perfect sense.“
“Scary thought,“ I say.
“Indeed.“ He smiles at both of us, but he’s especially smiling at Michelle.
I can’t say I blame him; she looks fantastic. But I do have my tits and ass hanging out, so it would be nice to get some attention too. I look around, wondering if I know anyone here. I mean, I know a few of the ADP guys, just to wave to in class or whatever, but this is my first big party since rushing Mi Alpha. Not too many people look familiar.
Then I see him, stepping through a doorway next to the snack tables. I know that lean build, that unruly mop of dirty-blond hair—although it’s not usually topped by silly little devil horns. I’ve been looking at it since classes started last month. Admiring it from afar, if I’m honest.
Devlin Cole teaches—or more accurately, is the teaching assistant for—my Intro to Shakespeare class. My major is Communication Sciences, because I’m going to be a speech therapist, so I haven’t really been one for English classes. But I needed a literature elective, and ItS meets immediately after my linguistics class that meets two floors above it on the same days, Tuesday and Thursday. I figured I’d be less likely to skip it if I was already right there, and literally had to walk past the lecture hall to get out of the building.
So far it’s been about as interesting as I thought it would be—which is to say, not at all—but Dev’s nice to look at, and it’s kind of sweet to see a guy talk about romantic Shakespeare stuff like he means it.
Which, let’s be real here: no guy does. All that “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day“ or whatever? Yeah, right. Sounds to me like a way to try and get in girls’ pants.
I wonder if it works?
“Who’s that?“ Michelle asks.
I look back at her and see that the dark-haired guy has moved away a little. Not too far, though, and he’s still looking at her like he’d definitely like to get to know her better.
“Who’s who?“ I ask.
“That tall drink of water you’re staring at.“
“Oh.“ I look away, embarrassed to have been caught. “He’s a TA in one of my classes. I don’t know him.“
She gives me her Oh really? look. “You look like you might like to,“ she says.
“That’s enough of that,“ I say, laughing. “It’s not like that.“
“Looks like it might be.“
I shrug. Michelle’s my BFF; there’s no reason to be coy with her. “He’s cute, and seems nice enough, but who knows what he’s really like?“
“Have another beer,“ she says. “Maybe after a little liquid courage, you’ll go over there and find out what he’s really like.“
Yeah, I think. Isn’t that why I got all dolled up and came over here? To be bigger than I am, bolder? To be the kind of girl who can just walk up to a guy at a party and ask him to dance?
Maybe, I think. Maybe I really can be that girl.
Devlin
It’s coming up on midnight, and I’m not what you’d call drunk, but neither am I feeling any pain. Jake disappeared half an hour ago, to who-knows-where. Probably somewhere with that chick in the cat costume. They seemed to be getting along pretty well. He was still wearing the stupid alien antennae, but it didn’t seem to bother her, so good for him, I guess.
Me, I’m over here in my dumb devil horns—because yes, I lost that argument—but at least the party’s pretty bumping. Loud music, strobing lights, a flotilla of orange and black Solo cups. I stand near the edge of the makeshift dance floor, scoping out the costumes. Most of the women are dressed in the typical “sexy Halloween” theme. It’s so weird to me how Halloween gives people an excuse to make anything sexy. Swear to God, a girl just walked by dressed as Sexy SpongeBob.
“Hey, you look lonely,” says a voice at my elbow. Literally at my elbow; I look over and down—and down. She can’t be more than 5’2”, a full twelve inches shorter than me, and she
’s dressed as an angel, all sparkles and feathers and—of course—lots and lots of bare, almost luminous skin. Bare satiny shoulders, a peek of smooth midriff, legs for miles. She could be cast in porcelain, or bone china.
She looks up at me with wide, chocolatey brown eyes. Rich, cocoa-colored hair tumbles around her heart-shaped face. Those eyes dominate, but she’s also got a smattering of very faint freckles across the tops of her cheeks and a wide, generous mouth that’s smiling flirtatiously at me ... while I stand here not saying anything, like the idiot I absolutely am.
“Uh ... yeah,” I say, because one thing that definitely can’t be disputed is that I’m a brilliant conversationalist. “I don’t know about lonely, but definitely on my own here.”
“You want to dance?” she asks, gesturing at the dance floor. Beer sloshes out of the black plastic cup in her hand, and she giggles. “Oops!”
“Uh, sure.” I set my cup down on a nearby speaker, and she does the same. After a moment, she takes me by the hand and leads me onto the parquet floor.
The music is something I don’t recognize—whatever the kids are listening to these days, I’m woefully out of touch with it. But it bumps and throbs, and we manage to find a not-too-awkward rhythm pretty quickly. Which is no small feat, considering that she’s such a teeny little thing. I tower over her, and I’m surprised by something primal rising up in me, some urge to curve myself around her and protect her. From what, I don’t know.
There’s barely an inch of space between us, and up close like this she smells amazing, like dessert. Vanilla, maybe cinnamon or honey or something. It’s hard to say; I’ve had a few beers and I’m a little fuzzy. The phrase Good enough to eat flits through my head and I feel myself smile.
