Page 5 of Beyond the Lines (Pine Barren University #1)

“Your hobby can wait.” Maine joins in, and I tense at his choice of words. “Come hang with actual people for once.”

I breathe through the irritation. They don’t get it. To them, art is just something I do to kill time between practices and games. They don’t understand how it consumes me sometimes, how a blank canvas can be as compelling as fresh ice.

“It’s not a hobby,” I say quietly, but firmly.

“One hour, man.” Mike’s voice is low. “I get it, but come on…”

I pull my T-shirt over my head, buying time. Mike is better than the others, but he still doesn’t really get it. Still, he’s important to me—my best friend— and the team captain, and with Princeton a week away, maybe a few hours of bonding will help us get the win.

Besides, there’s all afternoon to work on my art.

“Fine,” I sigh, giving in. “One hour.”

“Yes!” Linc pumps his fist. “Trust me, it’ll be worth it.”

“Where’s the party?” I raise an eyebrow, pulling on my jeans.

“Beta Ga?—”

“A frat party? Seriously?” I sigh. “Can’t we just get a few beers at O’Neil’s?”

“It’s not like that,” Linc protests. “It’s chill. Just some people hanging out…”

“Come on,” Mike nudges me. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

I think about the last frat party I attended—the sticky floors, the too-loud music, the smell of cheap beer and cheaper perfume. And, worse, the small army of freshman girls who throw themselves at anyone who looks like a student athlete…

“Fine,” I concede. “But I’m leaving if anyone pukes on me.”

“Hey, she was hot!” Mike laughs. “You could have?—”

“Linc did ,” I laugh, finally feeling comfortable again. “ After she puked…”

“Hey!” Linc slams his locker shut. “I gave her a breath mint…”

I can’t help but laugh as I finish getting dressed. These idiots might not understand my art, but they’re still my brothers. And maybe one night out won’t kill me.

But first, I’ve got some shading to fix.

The bass from the party thrums through the soles of my shoes, even from a block away. I’ve got dried paint under my fingernails, and the last thing I want right now is to trade the quiet of my apartment for whatever chaos the frat is cooking up.

“Come on, man.” Mike jogs backward in front of me, his enthusiasm making me want to turn around and head home even more. “It’ll be fun.”

“Your definition of fun needs work.” I sigh. “O’Neil’s is right there. We could shoot pool, drink beer that won’t give us brain damage…”

“Nope.” Linc grabs my shoulder, steering me past the welcoming glow of the bar’s neon sign. “You promised.”

The guilt hits its mark. “Fine.” I sigh as we round the corner onto Greek Row. “But it’s under duress.”

The music gets louder with each step, until we can barely hear each other. As we approach the Victorian monstrosity that houses the frat, I can see the wraparound porch is packed with people, red cups in hand, while more spill onto the front lawn.

But, worst of all, the bass is strong now, some EDM remix that probably started life as a perfectly good song before someone murdered it. “I’m out, guys… ”

“Dec.” Mike grabs my arm, pulling me to a stop. “Give us one hour, then you can go home and brood.”

“I don’t brood.”

Both of them stare at me.

“Much,” I add.

“Come on.” Linc starts up the porch steps. “First round’s on me.”

“It’s a frat party,” I point out. “The drinks are free.”

But they’re already dragging me inside, into the press of bodies and the deafening music.

The old house’s interior is exactly what you’d expect from a bunch of college guys living together—mismatched furniture, suspicious stains on the carpet, and what looks like a traffic cone being used as a hat rack.

We push through to the kitchen where, sure enough, there are several trash cans full of something that glows an unnatural shade of blue. I watch a guy ladle some into a cup, and the liquid actually leaves a trail of luminescence through the air.

“That can’t be legal,” I say to Mike.

He grins and grabs three cups. “Only one way to find out.”

“Pass.” I wave off the cup he tries to hand me. “I choose life.”

“Your loss.” He takes a big gulp and immediately starts coughing. “Holy shit.”

“Smooth?”

“Like lighter fluid.” Mike laughs. “But pain is weakness leaving the body.”

I’m about to explain the logical fallacy when Mike suddenly straightens beside me, his attention locked on something—or someone—across the room. I follow his gaze to see a group of girls by the sliding glass door, and even in the dim light I can tell his focus is on the tall blonde in the center .

“Dude,” Mike says, nudging me with his elbow. “Check her out.”

“I’d rather not,” I say.

“Come on, man. When was the last time you hooked up with someone?”

I snort. “When was the last time you had a relationship that lasted a week?”

He winces. “Low blow.”

“Truth hurts.” I laugh.

“Look,” Mike says. “All I’m saying is that you could use some fun.”

I follow his gaze again. The blonde is pretty, I’ll give him that. And if nothing else, it looks like she’s definitely looking for some fun. But there’s something calculated about the way she keeps glancing our way, like she’s sizing us up. Like she’s hunting.

“She’s all yours,” I say.

“Your loss!” Mike calls after me.

I turn to Linc. “You mentioned something about beer?”

“Locked fridge upstairs.” Linc gestures vaguely toward the ceiling. “My buddy’s got the good stuff stashed. Come on.”

We weave through the crowd, dodging drunk freshmen and what appears to be an impromptu dance circle forming in the living room, ready to pulverize what’s left of the furniture. The stairs creak ominously under our feet—this house has absolutely seen better days.

The bedroom is surprisingly neat compared to the chaos downstairs. Linc opens a mini-fridge tucked in the corner, revealing rows of actual craft beer. I grab a bottle of local IPA, silently grateful for something that won’t make my liver cry uncle.

“See?” Linc cracks open his beer. “Not so bad, right? ”

I take a sip. “The beer’s not bad. The party’s still terrible.”

“You’re just mad because you had to stop working on your art.”

“I’m mad because EDM is an affront to music everywhere.”

“Linc!” Someone calls from the ground floor. “Beer pong! We need a fourth!”

Linc’s face lights up. “Coming!” He turns to me. “You coming?”

“Hard pass.”

“Your loss.” He heads for the door, then pauses. “Try to have fun, OK? Talk to people.”

“I talk to people.”

“The team doesn’t count.” He disappears into the hallway, then calls out to me as he retreats. “Neither do classmates, professors, or your family members.”

I head outside the room and lean on the staircase landing, watching the scene below. The party’s become even more crowded, if that’s even possible. The living room is a sea of bodies moving to the beat, while clusters of people mill around the edges, shouting conversations over the music.

My attention catches on a group of freshman girls huddled together near the front door, their body language screaming discomfort.

One keeps checking her phone while another fidgets with her dress, tugging the hem down.

I remember that feeling—the awkward uncertainty of those first few college parties, trying to figure out where you fit in.

I’d been lucky; the hockey team had given me an instant in-group. But I still remember walking into that first party, feeling like an imposter in my skin. Then some drunk girl had stumbled out of the kitchen and promptly thrown up on my shoes .

Good times.

A commotion from the kitchen draws my attention. Some guy is projectile vomiting into a potted plant while his friends cheer him on. Classy, but at least my shoes are spared. Then I spot Mike heading upstairs, that predatory blonde from earlier in tow.

Time to make a strategic retreat.

I carry my beer downstairs and slip out the back, grateful for fresh air. The backyard is less crowded, though still dotted with small groups of people. I find a tree stump in the corner of the yard, far enough from the house that the music is muffled to a dull thud.

It’s the perfect vantage point for some quality people watching. It’s one of the better things to do at these parties, sometimes giving me inspiration for a painting or a sketch, and sometimes a good laugh.

One girl I vaguely know—Sarah? Sienna?—is having what appears to be a heated phone conversation. Her free hand slices through the air as she paces, and even from here I can see the flush of anger on her face. I assume the poor guy at the other end is having a bad night…

“No, you listen!” she shouts into her phone. “I don’t care if she’s not as hot as I am, you shouldn’t have put your dick in her mouth!”

Trying not to laugh out loud, I take another sip of my beer, settling in for what promises to be quality entertainment. One beer, ten minutes of watching Sarah/Sienna, and then I’m out of here. But then movement near the sliding glass door catches my eye.

A girl emerges from the house, and my breath catches.

She’s wearing a black dress that hugs curves that would make a saint sin, and she’s beautiful in a way that makes my fingers itch for a pencil—all elegant lines and graceful angles, with dark curls framing the kind of face that belongs in a portrait.

But it’s not just her body that draws my attention—it’s the way she carries herself, like she’s ready to defend herself in battle. Her arms are wrapped around herself—whether from cold or discomfort, I can’t tell—and there’s tension in every line of her body.

There’s something vulnerable about her expression that makes me want to… I don’t know. Help? Protect? Both seem condescending, especially since she looks perfectly capable of handling herself. But she also looks like this night has failed to live up to expectations.

I know that feeling.

She stalks across the yard in wedge sandals, her gaze fixed on the ground like it’s personally offended her. She continues her determined march until she pauses next to the pool of Jell-O a few feet in front of my stump, then looks at it in wide-eyed amazement.

Then she lets out a huff of exasperation that is as cute as hell.

I should leave her alone. She clearly came out here to get away from people, same as me, and a stranger calling out to her is more likely to scare her than anything. But there’s something about the way she’s glaring at nothing that makes me want to get to know her.

“Hey,” I say, before I can talk myself out of it.

She whirls around.

For a moment, I think she might actually bite my head off.

But then her eyes meet mine, and… oh .