by McKinley May
I gaze at my reflection in the dark TV screen, feeling foolish as I take in my plaid pajama onesie and my messy-but-not-in-a-cute-way bun.
I try to think of another excuse, but nothing comes to mind. I’m 99% finished with my homework, so there’s not much more I can do here tonight that doesn’t involve binging on bad reality TV and the half-full carton of cookie dough ice cream calling my name from the freezer.
And as much as I don’t want to, it would be nice to get this initial meet up out of the way and start getting to know Vaughn for the piece. Hopefully he’s less obnoxious in person than over the phone.
Fat chance.
He speaks again, voice barely audible over the noise of the bar. “So what’s your ETA, Rayne?”
“Give me twenty minutes.”
4
A quick change of clothes and a ten-minute cab ride later, I arrive at Rabbit’s Foot—the downtown “it spot” for Greek Life. Not exactly my crowd, but I don’t care. Feeling a little out of place isn’t going to stop me from going inside.
But when I walk through the entrance after showing the bouncer my ID, I’ve become fully aware that I’m not a “little” out of place—I’m completely out of place.
The stuffy bar is jam packed with drunk-out-of-their-mind students, some swaying to the hip hop blasting from the speakers and some slamming back shots like they’re water.
A group of girls in bodycon black dresses and full faces of makeup look me up and down, expressions that scream Are you lost? passing over their faces.
I glance down at my black yoga pants and white cotton t-shirt. My neon orange Nikes stand out like sore thumbs amidst the high heels and wedges. Apparently it’s a crime to show up downtown without dressing to the nines, and I’m the only one who didn’t get the memo.
Oh well.
I shrug it off. I’m here to do one job and then leave. A quick introduction, a few basic questions, and voilà—I’m outta here.
I make my way through the mass of wasted people, trying not to breathe in the unpleasant smell of cheap beer and attempting to convince myself that my shoes are sticking to the floor because it’s a trendy new floor design and not the combination of spilled drinks and sweat building up on the ground.
I come to a clearing in the dance floor and begin to look around when I realize something. Something really freaking stupid. A rookie mistake on my part.
I’m not exactly sure what Vaughn looks like.
I think back to the couple of soccer games I attended last year, trying to conjure up an image of his face. Obviously he has blue eyes, but I highly doubt I’ll be able to spot those from across the room. The only other thing that comes to mind is that he has dark brown hair.
Along with about seventy percent of the dudes in this bar.
Thanks, Brain. Very helpful stuff there.
I’m pulling out my phone to google his picture when loud yelling catches my attention, and I turn to the source of the noise. I spot a group of tall, athletic guys with a dozen cute girls scattered amongst them in the corner of the bar.
They’re beyond rowdy, all of them cheering as one of the guys chugs a full pint of beer. When he finishes, he slams it down so hard I’m surprised it doesn’t shatter into a million pieces.
Bingo. That’s definitely the soccer team. And they all look drunk as hell.
Great.
As tough as I claim to be, I’m kinda afraid to approach them. I silently chastise myself for being idiotic enough to agree to a bar interview on a Thursday night to begin with.
For a second, I consider bailing on Vaughn and rescheduling, but ultimately decide to suck it up. I’m already here and ready to go. Not to mention I just paid a bank-breaking cab fee, and I’m not about to let that go to waste.
Besides, I need to act like a professional. If I want to be a reporter, I’m going to have to get used to interjecting myself in all types of situations. It’s part of the job.
I’m almost to the group when one of the guys spots me. His glazed over gray eyes shine as he points in my direction. He’s freakin’ tall, dirty blonde, and his left arm is covered with a full sleeve of intricate tattoos. Definitely a good-looking guy.
“Here she is! What’s up, Sportscaster Girl?”
Before I can answer, another soccer player pops up next to him, an Adriana Lima look-alike on his arm. And—holy shit—he might be even more attractive than the first dude with his sparkling hazel eyes and strategically tousled chestnut hair.
He winks and shoots me a charming grin, a dimple forming on his right cheek. “Nice to meet you, sweetheart. I’m Weston, and that’s Cameron.” He nods towards the first guy before looking over his shoulder. “Vaughn’s back there somewhere. You’re lucky, I don’t think he’s shit-faced just yet.”
I frown. “He better not even be close to shit-faced. We have work to do.”
“I’ll help you find him,” Cameron offers, and I follow his lead.
He pushes his way through the crowd of boisterous boys before pointing to Vaughn in the corner booth.
The second I see him, I’m awestruck.
And also incredibly annoyed.
Because of course he’s drop-dead gorgeous.
I mean, it’s immediately evident why he’s the campus heartthrob. Tall, dark, and handsome is a complete understatement when it comes to this guy.
He’s got bone structure most people only dream about, hitting every mark of that glorious trifecta: strong brow bone, high, chiseled cheekbones, and a structured jawline accented with just a hint of stubble. Full lips balance out his sharp features perfectly, and his flawless complexion is just the icing on the cake that is his absurdly beautiful face.
His brown hair is so dark it’s borderline black, and it creates a striking contrast with those famous blue eyes.
And Jesus, those eyes. They’re the brightest, bluest things I’ve ever seen—a hypnotizing mixture of gray-blue tones ranging from gunmetal to slate. They're so blue I seriously could have recognized him from across the room if I'd tried earlier. I’m almost convinced he’s been fooling everyone this entire time with a pair of colored contacts because I find it hard to believe they’re real.
I hate to admit it, but Vaughn Steel is extremely attractive. There’s absolutely no room for argument there.
In fact, based on the players I’ve met tonight, I’m starting to question if you need actual soccer talent to make the team or if a face with perfect Golden Ratio features is the only requirement to secure a spot.
There’s a petite redhead planted on his lap, both of her arms latched around one of his, and her dainty, manicured fingers run up and down his bicep methodically. He leans in and whispers something in her ear. Based on the way she throws her head back and the obnoxious volume of her giggles, I’m assuming Vaughn is not only a superstar soccer player, but also a world-renowned comedian.
Cameron walks over and gives Vaughn a big slap on the back. “Do this dude justice, Sportscaster Girl. He’s the real deal.”
Again with the Sportscaster Girl?
I grit my teeth and force a polite smile. “It’s Rayne, thanks.”
He shrugs and heads off in another direction.
Vaughn takes his attention away from the fire-haired parasite, giving me a once over before flashing a wide smile at me. I start to extend my hand and introduce myself, but he speaks before I can get any words out.
“Nikes at the bar? Never thought I’d see the day.” He quirks a brow, that stupid perfect smile still etched on his face. “Not one for dressing up, huh?”
I quickly drop my arm back down and scoff at him.
It’s nice to meet you, too.
His eyes reveal he’s only teasing, but I’m not in the mood to joke around.
“I’m not here to impress anybody. I’m here to do my job.”
My voice comes out harsher than I intended, but I’m beyond ready to get this over with. The longer I’m here, the more difficult I’m finding it to hide my irritation with this e
ntire situation.
Vaughn’s smile gets bigger, obviously not expecting my blunt response.
“I’m just messing with you. No need for the hostility, Raynie.”
I take a deep breath before putting on another fake grin. “How would you like to do this? It should take less than half an hour.”
He taps Little Red on the behind and she scoots off, pouting as she walks away. He stands up and nods towards an empty table a few feet away.
“Let’s sit there and talk.”
I follow his nod to the stained, sticky table and shrug. Kinda gross, but it’ll do. “Sure, that works.”
Just as we’re about to take a seat, Weston comes over and throws an arm around Vaughn’s shoulder.
“Dude, the hot-as-fuck bartender says free shots on her. Come on, man.”
I cross my arms and stare at Vaughn, waiting for his response. I’m assuming he’ll tell Weston he’s busy and to go enjoy the “hot-as-fuck” bartender’s free shots without him, but nope. Instead, he starts walking with him towards the bar without so much as a glance in my direction.
Is he for real right now? Am I invisible? Or is he just completely trashed?
“Uh, excuse me?” I yell out after him. He turns his head, an apologetic expression flashing over his glassy eyes.
“Oh shit. My bad.”
At least he’s realized his mistake.
“You want a free shot?”
Or not.
I squeeze my eyes shut in frustration and shake my head. “I’m good.”
“Okay, be right back. This’ll take one sec.”
I drum my fingers on the table while I watch as “one sec” turns into four shots, each one followed by a burst of cheering and clapping from the crowd of fans and groupies gathered around the team.
So I’ll be getting the inebriated version of Vaughn for this interview.
Wonderful.
Ten minutes and almost all of my patience later, he finally saunters back over to the table, a beer in hand.
“Where were we?” His words slur slightly.
I narrow my eyes and scowl. “You know, most people do interviews sober. Just FYI.”
He takes a slow sip of his beer, eyes piercing mine over the top of the glass. When he’s done, he sets it down and raises a brow.
“I’m not most people.”
I let out a snort of disdain. How arrogant can you get?
“Yeah, okay. Can we get this going? I don’t want to be here all night.”
He gives a nonchalant shrug. I pull out my recorder, figuring I can ask him some super basic stuff. Hopefully he can handle that.
Just as I’m asking him the first question, Little Red is back and clinging to his arm once again. She doesn’t look in my direction or even acknowledge my presence as she purrs up at him.
“There’s a party at Blake’s house tonight. People are starting to head over. We should go.” She tugs on his arm and bites on her lip.
I hold my breath, giving Vaughn three seconds to tell her he’s in the middle of something before I lose my damn mind.
One..
Two..
He grins at her. “Hell yeah. I gotta finish this shit first, but it’ll only take like five more minu—”
This “shit”?
That’s the last straw. I’m done. I’m not dealing with this any longer.
He’s such a fucking asshole.
I throw my recorder in my bag and rise, my chair noisily scraping the floor. Vaughn looks up at me in surprise. Little Red seems to notice me for the first time.
“Let’s do this another time. Obviously you’re busy, and I’ve got other things to work on. Let me know when you’re actually available to sit down and chat sometime. This was a huge mistake and a waste of my time to come here tonight.”
I manage to keep my response reasonably professional and calm, but the moment I spin around and start stomping towards the door, I can feel the anger swirling inside of me.
Why the hell did he invite me here? To let me watch him drink? To thoroughly piss me off? Because those are about the only two things accomplished tonight.
I push my way through the crowd, and I swear I hear him calling out behind me, but I don’t stop.
I keep walking at a brisk pace until I’m outside. A group of pastel-clad frat boys are taking up the entire sidewalk, and I shove my way through the pack. I continue down Dublin Drive, storming past the overflowing bars and nightclubs as I call a taxi to come pick me up.
Once I’ve finally made it far away from the busy downtown area, I plop down on the curb and wait for my ride. I massage my temples, attempting to pacify the rage circulating throughout my body.
I don’t know why I’m so pissed because, really? Isn’t this what I should’ve expected? This has classic Vaughn written all over it, his antics making it damn near impossible to get any information out of him.
But there was some small part of me that hoped he had matured since high school, hoped things might be easier with him, that he’d be more willing to cooperate.
That was definitely wishful thinking on my part.
Because if this is any indication of what I’m in for with Vaughn, this article is going to freaking kill me.
5
“Blue! Get the hell over here and help!”
I turn my head just in time to see Cameron launch a ping pong ball towards a beer-filled red plastic cup. He groans as it hits the edge of the custom-built Beer Pong table and bounces across the floor.
Across from him, Weston pumps his hands triumphantly in the air, a beer bottle in each fist. A curvy brunette snakes her arms around his neck, pecking him on the cheek as he laughs at Cam. “Your aim is pathetic, Collins. Aren’t you a fucking goalie? Shouldn’t you have better hand-eye coordination?”
Cameron ignores him and continues waving me over. “Come on, man. I’m getting my ass kicked.”
I grin and take a pull of my beer, sinking down further into a brown leather armchair as I shake my head.
“Nah, dude. You need all the practice you can get. If I come over there and do all the hard work for you, how are you ever gonna improve?”
He flips me the bird and I return the gesture. As tempted as I am to go over there and assert my beer pong dominance, I kind of want to chill for a while.
I gaze around at all the partygoers, most sporting a glass bottle or plastic cup in their hands as they chat in small groups scattered throughout the room. The usual house party shenanigans are occurring: a few couples are grinding to the upbeat country song playing, Diego’s legs are in the air as he does a keg stand, and some of our rookies are playing Flip Cup against a group of massive offensive linemen who look like they could snap everyone at this party in half.
“Blue!”
I don’t bother meeting his gaze as I deny him again. “I’m not moving from this seat, Cam. Forget it.”
“Not that. It’s Superman again.”
That gets my attention and I turn. Cameron nods towards the far right corner of the room and my eyes follow. When I spy Parker Fitz, a sophomore outside mid, I try not to laugh, but shit, it's really hard not to. I love the guy like a brother, but he’s seriously something else.
He’s surrounded by three girls, each one a total smokeshow and each one pawing at him, trying to pull his attention away from his fucking textbook. Yep, the guy brought his Abnormal Psychology textbook to a party. And sadly, this isn’t the first time this has happened.
Look, I’m all for studying and good grades and shit. But there’s a time and place for doing your homework and class readings. A party on Thirsty Thursday is not one of those.
“Fitz,” I call out, somehow breaking him from his textbook-trance. He looks up, his signature black-framed glasses giving him a suave, Clark Kent vibe that girls go fucking gaga over. I raise my brows and flit my eyes between his textbook and his face accusingly. “Having fun?” He slams the book shut and sheepishly runs a hand through his honey-blonde hair. When he finally takes
notice of the girls around him, his face immediatly perks up, and I’m pretty positive he won’t be opening that book for the rest of the night.
“Dude, Weston, you’re on textbook duty next—”
I’m interrupted by the sound of the front door slamming open. A group of heavily tattooed guys enter the room, each one clad in dark clothing and looking shady as fuck. My suspicions are confirmed when the leader of the pack strolls over to a few football guys and pulls out some tiny baggies—the kind you know aren’t for storing a fucking snack. Hands exchange crisp dollar bills for the white powder, neither party caring that they’re dealing drugs in the middle of the damn living room like it’s no big deal.
Anxiety crawls across my skin as I catch Cameron’s eye. His mouth’s in a tight line, jaw tense as he lifts one of the beer pong cups and takes a long sip. Both of us have complicated pasts when it comes to this, and neither one of us wants to be in the same room as this shit.
I turn back to the dealers, making sure none of our boys are buying. When it comes to weed and off-season, I’m more of the turn my head the other way and let them do what they want mindset. But not only are we in season, this also isn’t just some harmless joint, so I keep a steady eye on the purchases. Luckily, the host of the party, Blake Woodson, comes into the room a few minutes later. His face darkens when he notices what’s going on. He immediately approaches the gang, breaking up the exchange with a few heated words.
The guys book it out of there as Blake shakes his head in disgust. When he catches my gaze, his expression relaxes and he strolls over to where I’m sitting.
“Vaughn, what’s up, man?” He smiles as he slouches onto the couch adjacent to me, raising his beer in my direction. “You guys gonna take it all this year?”
“Hell fucking yeah,” I say, clinking my bottle to his. “No way we’re getting that close again and screwing up. This year’s the year. I can feel it.”
