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What we did talk about is my position as his PA. He’s giving me twenty-four hours to get my life arranged before I have to “go where he goes.”

After the day I had in addition to psyching myself up all day in the background of my mind that I am crashing Galley’s partyalone, I need a nap. For all the planning and constructing of my life that I do, I am not ready to tackle telling Dare of my position as Taron’s personal assistant. Or that I told the football team I’m his professional snuggler. I also don’t have the energy to text Midnight.

I’m a glutton for punishment, but Midnight reaming me for “one on the house” is too much to handle at the moment.

As soon as I am inside my small rental, I crash hard on the bed, falling fast asleep.

When I wake up, it’s ten. Crap, I need to haul ass and get myself to Galley’s party. Not wasting precious time checking and answering text messages, I grab the paper bag that has Zeke Harrington’s rugby jersey in it and carefully slide it inside my oversized “party bag.”

God, no girl ever carries around a messenger-sized purse to a campus party unless she plans on carting off a few laptops. I remind myself not to blurt out that thought to Riley. I wouldn’t want to put ideas in her pretty head.

After I put on a dab of lip gloss, do my eyes in a smoky hue in case I get stopped on my way to Zeke’s bedroom and get roped into his #OneandDone IG post, and put color on the arches of my cheeks—don’t want to be mistaken for a ghost—I change into party clothes that are also practical.

There is a high probability of me climbing out of the window. By the time I arrive at Galley’s, the beer has been flowing and students are getting wasted or making out in whatever corner they can find.

Some bypass the corners and opt for a public show of an intense make-out session. I look away. I’m not here to ogle. Clutching my bag close to my body, I beeline for the kegs out back for a cup of liquid courage.

I stand in line and keep my head down to avoid getting noticed. Not that it helps me. I am one of a few girls here with short hair. I’m also not dressed to the hilt in an ass-hugging skirt, skimpy dress, or low-cut shirt. My attire is boring butpractical.

Blue jeans shredded at the knees and the left thigh. Loose-fitting blue-gray T-shirt. After I get my drink and down the contents before tossing the cup in the trash, I hurry back inside the house. The sooner I get this done, the sooner I can hit the sheets again. I am halfway up the stairs when big hands grab my waist and pull me back against a solid body.

I’m on the verge of headbutting the guy; is there no such thing as personal space, stranger danger, or fear of sexual harassment anymore? His deep voice near my ear stops me.

“Get it done, Syn. I need you.”

Dare. I reach back for him. He sets his hand in mine. At the top of the stairs, he presses me up against the wall, and dipping his head to accommodate our height difference, he says with agony in his voice, “It’s been a rough few days without you.”

“The playlist I put together—”

“Doesn’t cut it. I need to look at you. Close my eyes and feel the vibrations. You get me?”

I nod. My poor friend. The nightmares are getting worse. What else is there to do other than to go along with him more and more?

Dare is unwilling to try therapy. Unwilling to think over what happened the night he woke up to a bloody bed. He was drunk and high. He brought Gwen to his place and cannot remember what happened the rest of the night. Only that he woke up the next morning to a bloody bed. I begged him to talk to her, but he is so ashamed, he would rather bury those memories. Two years. That guy.

“Riley told you I’d be here?”

“Yeah.” His rubs his forehead on mine. “I fucking went to your place. Texted. Called. Why didn’t you pick up?”

I drop my gaze to my bag.

He blows out a breath. Alcohol. He’s been drinking. I inhale a deeper breath. Pot. Dare isn’t in a good place when he’s mixing his drinking with smoking a joint.

“Yeah, I get wanting to stay on the down low, but you forget no one will hear your cell, Syn. The music isblasting.”

“Come on, let’s haul butt and get you back home. Did you drive?”

“Uber.”

Thank goodness.

I duck under his arm and hurry to Zeke’s room. His room is easy to find. The guys have papers with their names on it taped to their bedroom doors. Zeke’s door is closed. I knock. No answer. I turn the knob. The door isn’t locked. I slowly open the door just in case he’s in there with a girl. Dresser. Window. Bed. Empty. Yes!

Grabbing his jersey from my bag, I rush to the closet and hang it toward the back. That’s where Riley said it was. On the way out of the room, I pull the door closed. Dare laces our fingers, and we make our way to the stairs.

Before we get there, the bathroom door opens, and I come face to face with Taron. A girl comes out of the bathroom too, and I recognize her from the sexuality class. Her face is flushed. His shirt is a wrinkled mess. As though some coed had her fingers bunched in the cotton.

“Come on, Syn. I need you, B.”