Sweet Little Nothing

by Farlow, LK

  Melanie beams up at me, not picking up on my tone in the least. She’s an attractive woman, but the marry-me-and-give-me-babies streak runs a little too deep with her.

  We both start to speak at the same time, and I quickly offer for her to go first.

  “We should catch up some time,” she murmurs, stepping closer.

  Instantly, I regret not speaking first. Because now, instead of some generic parting words, I find myself reluctantly saying, “Sure, what did you have in mind?”

  She nibbles her glossy lower lip. Instantly, I compare it to Emmalyn’s much fuller ones, which only serves to piss me off. Hot or not, Emmalyn Price is a fucking she-devil. “Well, there’s a party this weekend at the Delta Psi house.”

  The thought of partying with her again sends a shudder through me. Until she adds, “It’s the first party of the year, and me and the other RAs are getting all of the girls to go.”

  “Girls as in the ones who live in your dorm building?” I ask, suddenly interested.

  “Yeah, we like to think it’s a good way to ease them into the college party atmosphere.”

  “Text me the details,” I tell her, mentally reminding myself to unblock her number as soon as I walk away. “And I’ll meet you there.”

  “It’s a date.” Melanie pops up onto her tiptoes and presses a kiss to my cheek.

  She says something else, but I’m too busy plotting to pay her any more attention.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Emmy

  “Do we have to go?” I whine, tossing myself back onto my bed.

  “Babe. It’s our first real college weekend. It’s a rite of passage. We have to,” Stella continues rifling through my closet. “Plus, Melanie said she really wants us all in attendance.”

  “Ugh!” I throw my hands over my face. “Fine.”

  “Yay—oh! You have to wear this skirt with a top I have!” She tosses my oldest, most favorite denim skirt my way. I’ve had the damn thing since I was fifteen. It’s distressed and soft-as-silk from wear.

  “What top?” I ask, suspicious.

  “Just trust me?”

  I bark out a laugh. “Solid maybe.”

  “Please?” She pouts with big puppy eyes.

  “I’ll try it on,” I concede, “but no promises.”

  She shrugs. “Good enough. Do you need to shower?”

  “I’m good,” I say, having showered this morning. Plus, I can use the free time to do some research for my psych paper, since I’m doing the work of two people.

  An hour later, Stella emerges from the bathroom looking like a Victoria’s Secret model with her blonde hair styled in soft, beachy waves and her face made up in a way where it’s hard to tell if she’s wearing makeup or is simply blessed with perfect skin.

  All I have to show for my sixty minutes is a sizable list of source documents to hunt down in the library and online.

  “Do you want me to do your hair?” she asks, but I wave her off.

  “Nah, I’ve got it. You finish getting ready.”

  I plug my flatiron in and begin the process of smoothing out my long, thick, nearly waist-length hair. Once it’s silky-straight, I start on my makeup.

  I waffle for a moment between subtle and bold. Old me would have gone bold, with dark eyes and bright lips. Current me prefers to blend in. But tonight, I think I’ll marry the two sides of my soul and do a smoky eye with a nude lip.

  It’s a silly thing to read so far into, and yet somehow, it feels like one of many baby steps to reclaiming myself.

  “Okay,” Stella says, walking back into my room dressed and ready. If my top is anything like hers, it doesn’t bode well for me. “Put this on.”

  She passes me a top; well, a scrap of cotton fabric masquerading as one, anyway.

  I give her a dubious look, but she’s not having it. “You promised you’d try.”

  She has me and she knows it. I grab the top from her and toss it onto my bed alongside the skirt. I hesitate for only a minute more before stripping down and pulling on the outfit of Stella’s choosing.

  The top almost fits like a sports bra, with the hemline hugging the top of my rib cage. My skirt sits at my waist, leaving a strip of flesh on display.

  “You look hot!” Stella exclaims.

  “I feel naked. And it’s cold outside.”

  “It’s like fifty.”

  I give her a deliberately blank look. “Cold.”

  She huffs and grabs a flannel shirt from my closet. “Here, wear this, too.”

  “And boots?” I ask, sliding my arms into the sleeves of the oversized button-down.

  “Fine.”

  Between my lace-up boots and the flannel, I feel a little more like myself. “What time are we heading over?”

  Stella checks the time on her phone. “Now!”

  We each grab our ID badges and step out into the hall. Melanie is already there, along with the other girls on our floor.

  “Okay, ladies, a few guidelines before we head over. Your roommate is your buddy. Stick together at all times. I mean it. Gotta pee? Go together. Gotta puke? Go together. Found a hottie you want to hook up with? Well, maybe don’t bring a friend, then, unless that’s your thing.”

  She winks before continuing, completely clueless to her contradicting and dangerous advice. “I’m technically supposed to tell y’all not to drink, but I’m not an idiot. So, while I am heavily suggesting that you not, keep these tidbits in mind if you do. Do not accept a drink from a stranger. If possible, make your own. Do not be the drunkest person at the party. Do not fall asleep at the party. And most importantly, beer before liquor, never been sicker—that saying exists for a reason, ladies.”

  Melanie begins walking toward the elevator. “Oh, and, ladies, have fun!”

  Most of the girls break into excited chatter, but I’m a big ball of nerves. I haven’t been to a party since my junior year of high school. I went from being the life of the party to a social pariah almost overnight.

  The thought of attending one now has me feeling a little queasy and a lot keyed up. My only saving grace is that aside from a handful of girls from the dorm, I won’t know anyone. And more importantly, they won’t know me.

  There’s a bite to the night air, but the walk to the Delta Psi house passes quickly—probably because we’re all underdressed for the weather.

  The sound of thumping bass hits half a block before the frat house comes into sight. The music is cranked up so loud it nearly shakes the ground beneath our feet.

  Anticipation rockets through me. Just breathe, Emmy. You’ve got this.

  By the time the house comes into view, the sounds of laughter and yelling can be heard over the music, but just barely.

  People spill out onto the lawn, some drunk, some dancing, all having a good time.

  Stella nudges me with her elbow, and I look over to see her grinning like a fool. “This is my first party,” she confesses. “I wasn’t ever allowed to go to any in high school!”

  She sounds downright giddy. Her enthusiasm is contagious, though, and before I know it, I find myself smiling back at her.

  We’re each given a red Solo cup at the door and instructed not to lose it. Inside, there are more people than I ever thought possible. It feels like the entire campus has to be in attendance.

  “Drinks or dancing?” Stella asks, as eager as a puppy.

  I don’t drink. Ever. So, dancing is an easy answer.

  She doesn’t think twice about my preference and happily drags me out to the dance floor—a.k.a. a section of the living room where all of the furniture has been shoved against the walls.

  The song changes to something fast with a heavy bassline. I feel self-conscious at first, only gently rocking my hips in time with the beat. But Stella dances like she’s auditioning for a job at a strip club. She swings her hips and shakes her ass like her life depends on her getting the job.

  Seemingly fed up with my mild moves, Stella wraps an arm around my waist and pulls my body in close
to hers. She locks our hands together and twirls herself in a wide arc.

  We’re both laughing and grooving by the time the song ends.

  “You’ve got moves,” she accuses.

  “I used to love to dance.”

  “What made you stop?”

  “I love this song!” I cry, rolling my body to the beat, hoping it will distract her from questioning me further.

  “Me, too!” She begins twerking, not caring for a single second that she’s horrible at it.

  As we spin and twirl, I envy Stella’s free-spiritedness. I have no clue what trials she’s faced in her life, and I’m certainly not so self-involved to think I’m the only person with an ugly past. But her ability to be so in the moment is one I envy. A lot.

  “Oh my God!” Stella pants as yet another song comes to an end. “I need a drink!”

  Miraculously, we both still have our cups clutched in our hands. I let her lead the way through the house and into the kitchen. While still crowded, there are considerably fewer people in here. We don’t have to shout to be heard.

  “What’re you drinking?” she asks, her eyes flitting from the keg in the corner to the liquor bottles lined up on the island.

  “Water.”

  “Water?” Stella’s eyes practically bug out of her head.

  “Yup. I don’t drink.”

  She looks at me speculatively, and I’m sure at any moment she’s going to ask the same question everyone asks... ‘Ever?’

  Because the thought of someone not wanting to drink, even socially, is so foreign to them. But to my surprise, she simply nods and says, “Cool.” She grabs my free hand, tugging me along behind her. “Let’s ask the guy manning the keg where to find you some water.”

  “Hello, ladies. Two?”

  “One,” Stella says, batting her lashes, turning up her Georgia charm. “And my friend here would like water. Preferably in a sealed bottle.”

  He fills her cup and then directs us to check the sink. At first, I think he’s being a smartass, but quickly realize the sink is being used as a cooler and is packed full of ice and bottled waters.

  “You wanna check out the rest of the party while we hydrate?”

  “Um.” A soft laugh escapes me. “I’m the only one hydrating.”

  Stella rolls her eyes. “Same difference.”

  We take a lap around the house, exploring the different areas. For the most part, it really is like every college party I’ve seen in movies. There are drunk students engaging in all kinds of questionable activities everywhere I look. Two beer pong tables are set up on the back deck, and there’s a fire burning in one of those fancy pits in the lawn beyond it. The basement is nothing more than a haze of pot smoke; the skunky smell makes me scrunch my nose. We don’t venture upstairs, but judging from the PDA happening as couples venture up the grand staircase, I can easily assume the rooms up there are reserved for hookups.

  By the time we make it back to the living room, Stella’s cup is empty and she’s ready to dance again, if the sway in her hips is anything to go by.

  Me, though? I’m ready for my jammies, my bed, and a good book.

  But I know Stella won’t be ready to leave for at least a few more hours, and since she got stuck with me as her party buddy, the least I can do is stick around long enough for her to have a good time.

  A guy approaches as she dips and sways. He wraps a beefy arm around her waist and pulls her body flush against his. She startles momentarily and then catches sight of the Greek god of a man behind her, welcoming him with a blinding smile.

  “I’m going to be right over there!” I yell, gesturing vaguely to the other side of the room. “I won’t leave. You don’t either.”

  She nods as she grinds her ass into her dance partner’s groin. Stella was adamant she wanted the full college experience, and she’s well on her way to getting it.

  I weave my way across the room, bobbing and dodging my way through the throng of revelers until I reach the expanse of wall I plan to occupy until it’s time to go.

  The spot offers me a clear view of the room. I pick out familiar faces here and there: girls from the dorm and people from my classes. No one I want to speak to, though, so I keep my place against the wall, watching and taking it all in.

  “Waiting for your next victim?” a cool, dark voice asks from my left.

  “What do you want?” I ask without turning around. His voice alone sends shivers down my spine. God only knows what seeing his smug smile and sharp jaw would do to me right now.

  Stupidly, I let my guard down tonight. Every single fiber of my being is telling me to run, but I refuse—partly because the thought of making a scene in front of all of these people has my skin feeling tight and itchy, and also because I refuse to give him the satisfaction of seeing me run away... again.

  Sterling leans in, his breath tickling my neck and his body warming mine. “I’m just saying. Dressed the way you are, you must be looking for a good time. And I can’t help but wonder...” He trails off, skimming his nose down the column of my throat before scraping his teeth against the sensitive flesh where my neck and shoulder meet.

  “Stop it!” I pray for my voice to come out firm and commanding, but seeing as God abandoned me long ago, I sound raw and needy. Which is a lie. I am a lot of things in regard to Sterling Abbot—angry, frustrated, hurt—but definitely not needy.

  I try to shoulder-check him, but he bands an arm around my waist and pulls me in closer, bringing my back flush with his front. The feel of our bodies pressed together has my heart slamming against my ribs as arousal and disgust battle for dominance inside of me.

  Judging from my roiling gut and damp panties, it’s a tie.

  “I don’t really think you mean that, little mouse.” He rubs small circles over my exposed midriff with his thumb, and I nearly sigh in pleasure. It’s been so long since someone’s touched me with a soft hand that I can almost convince myself he’s someone else. Someone kind and caring. Someone who will value me and help me and most importantly of all, believe me.

  But then he keeps talking and breaks the stupid spell. “I think you like having my attention. You probably like any guy’s attention. Don’t you?” He nudges his erection into my back, as if to prove his point.

  Tears brim my lashes as I clench my thighs together. Here and now, I’m not sure which of us I hate more. Probably me, because what in God’s name is wrong with me that I’m getting turned on by the touch of a bully?

  Because that’s what Sterling is, isn’t he? A bully.

  “Get away from me!” I growl, my voice stronger this time around.

  But Sterling only chuckles.

  “Why are you doing this?”

  “You know why,” he murmurs the words in my ear, dipping his index finger beneath the waistband of my skirt. “You deserve every single thing coming your way.”

  “What?” It’s like I’m caught in some kind of limbo; I’m here physically, but my mind... it’s in some kind of alternate universe. It’s somewhere harsh words and soft touches belong together.

  I’m so preoccupied trying to unravel the what of the night that I don’t see it coming. I don’t see her coming.

  “Get away from my date, you slut!”

  “What?” I ask again, still feeling untethered, like I’m floating through space, barely able to make out what’s happening right in front of me.

  The feel of ice-cold liquid dripping down my face yanks me back to reality.

  I swipe a hand over my eyes, wiping away both the beer and my tears. “What? Why?” I swing my gaze back to Sterling, who’s no longer touching me.

  “Don’t fucking look at him!”

  “Melanie?” I ask, bewildered at my RA’s behavior.

  She scoffs. “I don’t know how they did things at your high school, but it’s shitty to make a move on someone else’s date!”

  “I didn’t know. I swear!”

  Sterling scoffs as he rounds me to stand beside Melanie. “I told her
to stop. To leave me alone.” He sounds so convincing that I almost believe him. “I told her to go away, but she wouldn’t listen.”

  Melanie plasters herself to his side and glares at me.

  “That’s... no. That’s not true!”

  “Girls like you are the reason good men cheat and marriages end!”

  Lamely, all I can think to say is, “Good men don’t cheat.”

  Melanie presses her fingertips against my chest and shoves me back into the wall. “If I ever see you anywhere near him again, there will be hell to pay.” She pushes me again and I whimper, which makes her grin. “Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” I whisper, desperately looking over her shoulder for Stella. But I don’t see her anywhere.

  “Good,” Melanie spits the word at me before turning to Sterling. The sight of them together turns my stomach—and not with jealousy.

  They’re a perfect pair, seeing as they’re both sociopaths. Who in the hell behaves this way?

  Who lets their tormentor touch them the way you let yours touch you? the small, ugly voice in my brain asks. Not just one man, but two.

  Black spots obscure my vision and the floor shakes and rolls beneath my feet. Just breathe, I tell myself, but I can’t seem to take in a breath.

  My chest heaves as I gasp and sputter. I tug at the high neckline of my shirt, desperate for air. But it’s no use. I stumble against the wall and collapse down onto the floor.

  Someone in the distance calls my name, but I can’t move. I can’t breathe. I can’t do anything other than lie here and beg the universe to help me. Because once again, I’m that eight-year-old girl in the closet, unable to help herself.

  “Emmy!” Cool hands wrap around my shoulders, gently shaking me. “Oh my God! Emmy, are you okay?”

  My head lolls to the side and I stare blankly, not really seeing.

  “Did you take something? What’s wrong? We need to get you out of here.”

  “Is your friend okay?” an unfamiliar masculine voice asks.

  “I don’t know!” She shakes me again. “Will you... will you keep an eye on her while I call someone?”

  “Yeah.”

  The party continues around me, but I’m not here anymore. Not really. I’m back in space, only this time, instead of floating, I’m hurtling toward a black hole.