I’m not a big drinker, but I’m going to need something to take the edge off. As I step over the threshold, I search the hallway for someone I know. There are familiar faces, but no one I’m on a first-name basis with.
There are ten types of guys you’ll meet at a frat party. The stoners spend all their time slumped in the corner, getting high. The desperate guy will paw anything he can get his hands on and usually ends up too drunk to have any success with women. The player moves through the crowds zeroing in on potential targets, motivated by his horniness. The aloof guy exists just to let everyone know he’s too good for the party. The drunk makes alcohol his focus, disappearing after the first hour so he can sleep it off. The gamer will turn anything into a competition: who can drink the most, who can pull the best-looking girl, who has the best dance moves. Then there’s the DJ who’s obsessed with the tunes, the creepy guy who everyone does their best to avoid, the mature guy who thinks he can order everyone around, and the smug asshole with the girlfriend.
None of those types of guys do anything for me.
Tugging the hem of my dress again, I venture through the crowd, taking a left into the sprawling den, and bump face first into an insanely broad, hard chest. It must be one of Dornan’s teammates. I glance up, placing my palms on two dinner-plate-sized pecs as I ease back and find myself gazing into the mesmerizing emerald eyes of Colby Townsend, my stepbrother nemesis.
“Ellie,” he says curtly. “Didn’t your mom teach you to look where you’re going?”
“No,” I say. “She was too busy letting you lick her ass.”
Colby’s eyelids lower slowly, and he lets out an annoyed breath. “I don’t lick anyone’s ass,” he says darkly.
“Anyway,” I take a step to the left, trying to make my way around Colby’s massive frame. “As much as I’d love to hang around sharing happy family stories, I’ve got to find Dornan.”
I don’t wait for Colby’s snarky reply, but I feel his eyes on me as I make my way deeper into the crowd. His brothers must be here somewhere, too. They always move as a pack. I need to keep my eyes peeled to avoid them too.
People are dancing, and my feet end up covered with splashes of warm liquid, probably beer, from jostled red plastic cups.
I spot Celine slumped onto Eddie’s lap in the corner and Dornan perched on the tiny square wooden table, booming with laughter at something one of his jock buddies said. When he sees me, he’s on his feet in a flash, lifting me off my already sore feet and spinning me around without a care about who’s trampled in his excitement.
“Ellie-Belly,” he shouts, forgetting that he promised to forget my stupid nickname when we came to college.
“Ellie-Belly,” three of his friend’s yell, holding up their cups and downing the contents.
“Dornan!” I slap his shoulders. “You promised you wouldn’t.”
As I slide down his body, his smile drops, and his hand flies to his mouth. “I’m soooo dumb when I’m drunk,” he slurs. “I forget everything.”
“Not everything,” I say, tugging him around the back of his neck so he stoops low enough that I can plant a birthday kiss on his cheek. “You remembered my stupid nickname!”
“Hey, I made up that nickname,” he says. “And it’s affectionate, not stupid!”
“Affectionate and embarrassing as hell.”
“You need a drink,” Dornan says, looking around. “Here…come on.” Grabbing my arm, he pulls me over to a table in the corner, where enough alcohol to kill a small army rest precariously. “Vodka, beer, or wine?” he asks. “Or some of this…what the hell is this?”
Holding up a bottle containing liquid with a greenish tinge, he squints at the label. “Absinthe!”
“No fucking way,” I say. “That stuff is lethal…and probably illegal. And anyway, I need to keep my wits about me in this place.”
“Wits need to get left at the front door,” he says, pouring a large amount of vodka into a cup and topping it with warm lemonade. “This is a party, not a courtroom. And it’s my birthday, so you can’t say no.”
“Seriously, dude! How many times are you going to bribe me with the ‘it’s my birthday’ routine?”
“As many times as it takes,” he laughs, pushing his floppy hair from his face. “Now, drink that one, and I’m going to pour you another before you make your escape.”
“You know me too well,” I laugh. Despite the drink being a little warmer than I’d like, it tastes okay. Dornan, in his drunken state, still manages to mix exactly the right balance of bitter alcohol to sweet soda. “You’d better get the selfie out of the way now, too,” I say.