Page 1 of Shaken and Stirred (Bottle Service Boys #1)

ALEX

Nothing sucked more than being the only underprivileged kid in an elite summer program full of spoiled, high-society rich boys who spent more on a haircut than my mom made in a month.

Nothing.

Unless, of course, everyone in the auditorium knew you were the one there thanks to a scholarship fund made possible by the generous donations of their parents, who not only paid the insane fees for them to attend but for my sorry self as well.

It seemed everyone knew I was the only kid who wouldn’t be there if it weren’t for their rich mommy and daddy’s need for a hefty tax write-off.

Yeah, that sucked more.

I could have turned down the scholarship, told the school and its wealthy donors where to stick their money, and turned my back on the prestigious NexGen Innovators Summer Program.

I could have spent this summer after my junior year like I had the previous five before it—working the entrance kiosk at the Calum River State Park, handing out day passes to sunburned families and eager hikers.

The job was boring as hell, mind-numbing, really, but it gave me plenty of time to read in the booth between park visitors.

So, I could have done that again, and I almost did.

We sure as hell needed the money, but I’d swallowed my pride and accepted the slot at NGI along with the full summer scholarship—$20,000.

Every student here had paid $20,000 for six weeks of college-level engineering and robotics instruction.

I’d swallowed my pride and done the smart thing, even if it meant I’d be working a night job to make up for it.

In the fall, when I started applying to colleges, I needed NGI on my application to secure a spot in a robotics engineering program.

This was the final missing puzzle piece to ensure I got the future I wanted.

One that didn’t resemble my childhood.

No shitty rented house with broken appliances and a landlord who never answered his phone. No fifteen-year-old car that ran less than half the time. No stack of unpaid bills or a host of unheard voicemails from debt collectors.

I refused to live my adult life the same way I’d spent my childhood, and that meant I had to secure a decent-paying, stable job with growth potential. Given that I was already obsessed with technology and robotics and excelled in math, robotic engineering was a perfect fit.

So, there I was, surrounded by nepo babies in their pressed designer khaki pants and starched polo shirts, wearing my wrinkled donation bin’s finest. That’s right, I didn’t even wait for this fit to make it to the thrift store. I looted them right out of the bin.

I was classy like that.

“In five minutes, we are going to break off into our lab groups,” the program director said from the stage.

He was an average-height man, probably in his fifties, with an awful graying combover and the beginnings of a gut testing the strength of his shirt’s buttons.

He introduced himself as Dr. Doaks, an MIT professor who’d been leading this program for years.

“Your lab groups will become your robotics family for the next six weeks. The groups are labeled A through E for now.” He smirked, making the laugh lines around his eyes deepen.

“Choosing new names once you congregate in your laboratory has become a tradition in the program. Anyway, you can find your assigned group in the folders you received when you checked in, along with your schedule. Lunch is daily from noon to one o’clock for all groups.

Feel free to leave the campus to eat if you’d like.

No one will check on or monitor your attendance.

This is a taste of what it’s like to be in college.

You are responsible for yourself. Each of you is paying a lot to be here, so we assume that means you want to learn from us. ”

Someone snorted behind us. “Not every one of us,” some guy muttered. A chorus of whispered chuckles followed the statement before someone kicked my chair, nearly sending me to the floor. I grabbed the armrests to keep from flying out of my seat.

“Dude, what the hell?” the guy next to me—a real serious type with a bowtie and polished loafers—grumbled as he shifted farther away in his seat.

Great, I was already making friends. More laughter came from the row above. Fuck that shit. These pricks would learn fast that I might be poor, but I wasn’t anyone’s doormat. I whipped around and glared at the row behind me.

“What are you staring at, freeloader?” A guy with perfect teeth and a damn chin dimple leaned forward with a sneer. His dark hair didn’t move at all as his friend, a redheaded girl with too much makeup, slapped his arm.

“Kirk.” She giggled as she whacked him again. “Be nice.”

“Yeah, Kirk,” the guy on the other side of him said in a mocking tone. “Be nice. You can’t be sure this is the guy who’s punching up.”

I shifted my attention to the new mouthpiece and—Christ.

Of course, of freaking course, he had to be a damn Ken Doll come to life.

Perfect blond hair swept to one side of his head without a strand out of place as though they wouldn’t dare defy him.

I took in his tanned skin and set of pearly whites so straight and even that his dentist probably featured them on his brochures.

His nose was straight and strong, the kind that had never collided with another man’s fist. Lucky guy.

Then, there was a set of sparkling blue eyes that the Caribbean would be jealous of.

Most likely, he had an entire torso of rippling muscles under there too.

This guy looked like the type to be captain of his school’s lacrosse team or maybe water polo.

Why? Was it too much to hope for an ogre among the sea of rich perfection?

Money and looks. Some guys had all the damn luck.

Too bad he was a dick.

“Fuck off. You don’t know shit about me.”

Ken Doll smirked. “We know you’re not one of us.”

“Thank God for that,” I muttered as I spun back and slumped in my seat to the jeering cackle of their laughter.

Screw those rich jerks. As much as I’d love to jump up and rearrange those symmetrical faces, I couldn’t risk expulsion.

Six weeks. I could put my head down and endure their mockery for six weeks.

Easy-peasy. Hell, I’d survived worse for longer.

Two summers ago, I took a second job to help pay for Mom’s medication costs.

I spent eight weeks cleaning portable toilets at the outdoor concert arena.

There was no way spending the summer getting belittled by rich mommy’s boys could be worse than that.

“Okay,” the director said as he clapped his hands together once. “I’ve rambled long enough. The first sessions begin in fifteen minutes. Take your time finding your labs and introducing yourself to the other students in your group. You’ll be seeing a lot of each other this summer.”

With that, he nodded, then strode offstage to the echo of scattered applause from the few still paying attention.

I grabbed my worn backpack and stood as fast as I could. “Sorry,” I said with a wince as my bag smacked into the guy next to me. “Sorry, excuse me.” Without waiting for him to move, I struggled to sidestep out of the row between his knees and the row below us.

“What the hell, man?” he grumbled as he tried to shift his legs out of my way.

“Sorry,” I mumbled.

“Careful, man,” Ken Doll said with a laugh. “You might not have enough money to pay your ER bill if you trip and break an arm.”

He had no idea.

Asshole .

The others laughed again.

Just what I needed, those jerks watching me scurry off like a damn frightened mouse.

I wasn’t frightened. And I wasn’t a mouse.

But I couldn’t afford to say what I really wanted and have one of them run to the program director, complaining about the rude, impoverished kid with a bad attitude.

Risking my scholarship wasn’t an option.

They could think whatever they wanted about me.

All that mattered were my goals. And I’d only achieve them by working my ass off and getting accepted into a robotics engineering program.

Thankfully, I lived in a city with exactly what I was looking for.

Even with scholarships and grants, I couldn’t afford to go to college out of state or even in another city.

For more reasons than my family’s dismal lack of finances.

Only when I reached the hallway outside the auditorium could I finally take a full breath. My lab group met in the Emerson Lab on the building’s third floor. I hoped to make it my future home away from home for the four years of my undergraduate studies.

I jogged the two flights of stairs to the third floor and arrived huffing and puffing.

No one had beaten me to the room, so I had my pick of lab tables.

As much as I wanted a front-and-center spot to see and absorb every word out of the instructor’s mouth, I didn’t want to paint a second target on my back.

A scholarship kid and a teacher’s pet were a bad combination.

Instead, I chose a safer option at the center lab table in the third of six rows.

As the room began to fill with summer students, I gazed around at the impressive equipment lining the shelves along the walls.

Each table had two laptops, one for each lab partner, and two printed syllabus packets.

Hopefully, Intro to Robotics wouldn’t be boring since I’d been studying the subject on my own for years. Time would tell.