Graham Nichols’s main goal in life is to forget. Getting high, completely wasted, and running through a string of sexy blonds daily helps him achieve this task. But one night of partying lands him in a heap of trouble and sent back to the confinements of his hometown. Things can’t possibly get worse, right?
Sarah Morris can’t seem to run fast enough away from her past. She’s spent months trying to amend her ways, and is doing a pretty good job. She’s getting good grades, isn’t acting like a spoiled brat, and even works at the local grocery store. The last thing she needs is a distraction.
Enter Graham Nichols, the one mistake Sarah can’t escape.
I sling back another plastic cup of beer and chug all the contents down. Cheers fill the crowded room as I discard the empty Solo on the stained rug underneath the beer pong table. This place feels like a sauna from all the heat generating off the crush of people surrounding the game. I wipe a trickle of sweat from my brow. At the other end of the table my opponent stares me down like we’re in a draw or some shit. I have to stifle back my laughter. He twirls the small ping-pong ball in his hand and then it sails through the air.
It bounces twice and dings off the rim of the cup in the front, then rolls off the side of the table. Everyone makes “ooo” and “ahh” sounds. I smirk at the punk. I’ve only put away two cups, which weren’t completely filled, so all in all, one and half beers. Being that I’m no stranger to drinking or a lightweight, I’m practically sober. So his ass is going down. Him and his stupid Sigma Pi brothers. And yes, I’m going to make a show of it because I’m just that kind of person. Competitive and cocky.
I’m about to make my move when a tall blond with a display of cleavage slinks up to me. “Hey, you.”
“Hey, yourself,” I say. Her delicious lips look like they need to be kissed and bitten right now.
She runs her tongue along them, and I gaze like it’s the most fascinating thing I’ve ever seen. Someone shouts, “Let’s get on with the fucking game, pussy, or are you wimping out over there?”
Snapping my attention from the sexy blond back to the asshole at the end of the table, I say, “Jealous a pretty girl is talking to me and not you, limp dick?”
He flips me off with a growl. “Better watch it, running your mouth, freshdouche. You’re in our house.” Wow, and to think this is the best insult this troll fuck has, such a shame. Probably wise of me not to keep goading the little bitch on. Seeing as I am in “his house,” as he eloquently put it. But here’s the thing about being me: I stopped giving a fuck a while ago. So this guy and everyone else here can kiss my ass.
I flip him off just to show him how much his piss-ass threat sunk in.
The pretty girl leans into me. Her scent of cinnamon and sugar assaults my senses, and then her lips touch my ear while her hand skims my crotch. “I can be your good luck charm, handsome.”
I turn to her mouth and capture it with mine. Then I pull back. “Damn right you can.” I smack her ass with my free hand and toss the ball. It drops, swoosh like, right into my opponent’s cup.
And this is how my night went. At least that’s how I remember it.