Boyfriend Material (Hawthorne University, #2)(3)

His eyes thin as he looks at me from over his shoulder. “Get lost. You’re not even that hot.”

He turns away, adjusting his shirt and running both hands through his longish dirty-blond hair.

I stand there for a beat, then follow. When he reaches the edge of the alley, I catch up with him.

“I came out here with you. We made an agreement in the club. You said one private dance. I’ve never done that before. You owe me.”

He scoffs. “For what? The pleasure of your company? Why would I pay for that? I don’t owe you a damn thing.”

“Scott!” a female voice cries in excitement from the porch of the Kappa house. We’ve reached the end of the alleyway and houses sit on each side, all of them Greek at Hawthorne University.

Kappa is the biggest mansion, complete with imposing columns a la the White House. Our current dean of the university was a Kappa here. A sitting senator was a Kappa here. Whatever. Maybe those guys are okay, but now it’s home to some of the biggest pricks on campus. Most of it because Parker is their leader.

I follow the female voice to a gathering of co-eds with perfect tans after Instagram-lake-life summers. They’re drinking beers from Solo cups.

I look down at my pale skin from studying at the library and dancing inside a club with no windows.

It’s the first party weekend of the fall semester at a small school, but these people feel like strangers.

The girl at the front, a petite girl with red corkscrews down to her shoulders, waves at him. With her hand cocked on her hip, she’s dressed to kill in a strapless black dress and heels. “Pookie Bear, I’ve been waiting for you. What were you doing back there?” Her red lips make a pout.

Scott shrugs then jogs up the steps, meeting her on the porch. He kisses her on the mouth and I grimace.

A frat brother hands him a beer.

“Just coming back from the bars,” he says cheerfully. “Closing time.”

It’s true; two is closing time for the bars, and it sends a wave of people to this side of campus where the parties go all night.

Platinum Nights, relatively new to Sparrow Lake, is also closed. My stripping career began at the Boobie Bungalow, a decent place I liked, plus my old roommate Sugar worked there as a bartender. Unfortunately, it’s several miles off campus and requires a car. I had to sell mine for the cash. The Bungalow’s clientele was mostly older men escaping their lives. Sometimes there would be a bachelor party that included some douchebags, but the regulars knew the drill. Watch the girls, then leave.

Platinum Nights is within walking distance of campus and has an entirely different animal: frat boys. This brand of douchebag doesn’t follow any rules.

My head churns. My stomach rolls. I can’t leave empty-handed.

I have to pay Connor so his goons don’t take it out on me or my mom.

I feel eyes on me. Assessing. Mostly male. I stiffen as I smooth down my shirt. It’s sleeveless but covers my ass, something I slipped on after my last set. There’s a monarch butterfly on the front with the caption: Give up being a caterpillar and fly.

My throat tightens. I’m never going to fly at this rate.

“Hey, Scott,” I call from the front lawn of the Kappa house, feigning confidence even though I keep plenty of space between us. The bass inside the house pumps hard, mirroring my own heartbeat.

Scott must have amnesia because he stares at me like he doesn’t know who I am.

I cock my hip. “Yes, you. Asshole with the vomit on your shirt.”

Red turns to look at him, a frown on her pretty brow. “Scott. Who is she?”

I laugh bitterly. She knows me. We used to party together sophomore year. I had no idea she was dating Scott now.

He drapes an arm around her. “No one,” he says, glaring at me.

Challenge accepted. A grim smile flashes over my face.

He doesn’t get it.

I owe none of these people.

I’m at the end of my rope.

And I sure as hell don’t have a reputation to uphold.

“Who am I?” I scoff. “I’m the girl who was just dancing for your boyfriend. He wanted a little something extra in the alley. I gave it and he owes me.”

The girl’s jaw drops.

A low murmur picks up as several brothers laugh and razz Scott.

Red’s lips twist. “You’re one of those girls from Platinum Nights. What are you . . . some kind of whore?”

The word is like a fist in my gut.

“No” I want to scream. Never. How dare she?

What is the difference between me and her?

I’ve seen her dancing on a pool table in her underwear while frat boys cheered her on.

Another girl speaks, her gaze raking over me. “I think they prefer sex worker. Where are her shoes?”

The girls giggle.

“Maybe she’s so poor she doesn’t have any,” Red says.

Another round of laughter.

“I took them off in case I had to run away from Scott,” I say. “He tried to force me to do something I didn’t want to.”

“That’s what you get when you put yourself in that position,” a willowy brunette says. She was in one of my art classes freshman year, but that time period feels so distant now. “It’s your own fault, honey,” she continues. “When you act like a slut, guys don’t know what to do. It’s their hormones.”