Not to her.

And not to the blonde in the low-cut black dress. Or the one in the midriff-baring top and low-rise jeans. Or the one flipping her hair in ten different directions as she looks me up and down, blue gaze landing on my junk.

Jesus, these girls.

No class. No shame.

I have one semester and summer classes left before I can go through commencement; I’m not going to spend the time chained to some needy cleat chaser or a gold digger who’s only after my family’s money.

Not even one as pretty as the girl in the middle of the room.

I don’t know why I’m freaking staring at her. She’s not “hot,” or drunk, or the type that typically shows up when we have parties.

She looks more conservative, self-conscious and…out of place.

Long, straight hair. Black shirt. Jeans. Barely any makeup from what I can see from here, and she’s pushed the strands of her hair away from her face no less than four times already.

Yup, I’m counting.

Watching as Smith Jackson approaches her, I barely contain an eye roll when his blaring smile aims in her direction as he swipes one of his tan hands through his jet black hair.

Flirting.

Smith is on the soccer team and a giant douchebag.

Does hard drugs recreationally—shit like coke. Treats girls like crap, from what I’ve heard. Takes advantage of the services offered to athletes, like preferred class selection, then skips those classes.

Basically, Smith Jackson is a real cunt.

I have no fucking idea why girls drop their panties for him.

Oh—yeah I do: he’s an athlete and he’s good-looking. But who the fuck names their kid Smith? Who?

He’s sizing up the girl by the keg, but with a familiar air surrounding the approach that makes me think they’ve met. He taps her on the elbow. Smiles again. She nods.

Yup, they definitely know each other from somewhere. Class maybe? Definitely haven’t fucked or he never would have approached her; he’s not the double-dipping type, not from what I’ve seen.

The kid is well and truly a total dipshit.

I lean back, get comfortable, and watch.

The girl isn’t bothered by him or overly charmed, but she’s blushing—I can see the tint on her cheeks from here, damn near across the room, and I can see the brightness of her face. Her high cheekbones shine. Her teeth are white and blinding.

She’s nervous but trying to be nonchalant, as if she gets approached all the time, when it’s obvious to me that she doesn’t.

I wonder what Smith wants from her. Why he walked over.

He grabs the hose to the keg and holds it up, demonstrating to her that it’s tapped out.

“See?” He laughs, tipping his head back. Mocking her a little until her head bows a bit.

Fucker.

He gives her a nudge, dropping the black line to the beer. It falls to the carpet and he sets it on the metal barrel, crossing his arms and looking up at her. Puppy dog eyes? Really, Smith?

I can’t see the girl’s face anymore—just her back and the long brown hair spilling down it—but her arms eventually come uncrossed and her posture relaxes. Whatever it is Smith is saying, it’s easing her tension. It’s probably garbage, but she seems comfortable.

And another one bites the dust.

They always fall for his shit.

Content to watch the party from the corner of the room, I slouch so I’m not standing at my full height, scratching at the full beard growing on my face. It’s been about two years since I shaved the hair on my chin, cheeks, and jawline, and I have no intention of doing so any time soon.

I wouldn’t call it bushy, but it’s pretty damn close. Unkempt. Scratchy.

My mother hates it. My sister hates it.

Girls on campus hate it.

The beard serves its purpose perfectly.

Despite my size, build, and status on campus, I’m left alone all night. Not a single female approaches me, if you don’t count the girls in the kitchen who needed cups taken down off the top of the fridge earlier in the evening.

The mop of man bun on top of my head wobbles when I give it an agitated toss. For a hot minute, when I first transferred to Iowa, I’d actually thought about living in this dump.

Fortunately, I learned a few general rules quickly enough from spending time with my teammates:

Nothing is sacred if you’re a member of the team, so anyone living here better get a goddamn lock on their bedroom door.

It’s loud every damn weekend, whether a party is happening or not.

Guys are slobs when there is no one cleaning up after them. And no one is.

Even with a lock on your bedroom door, there is still no peace in this place.

Everyone is in everyone’s business.

Whatever.

Anyway.

I swipe at the hair in my eyes.

Bend at the waist, setting my half-empty beer bottle on the ground, resting it between my feet so it doesn’t spill. Pull the rubber band out of my hair and shake my entire head, dipping over to gather it in my hands. Yank it into a top knot and wrap the black elastic band around it.

“Looking good, Sasquatch. You really shouldn’t have gotten all fancy for us,” one of my teammates goads from a few feet away, having caught me doing my hair. “Want to blow me later?”

My hands are now free, so I flip him off. “Fuck the fuck off, Winkowski.”

“But you’re such a pretty girl.”

Yeah, yeah, yeah. Ha ha. Jesus, these guys. Constantly giving me shit about my appearance—as if I give a crap what they think about my hair. Nothing I haven’t been hearing the two years since I decided to let it all grow out.

It’s easier this way.

Less distraction.

Less of a pain in the ass.

The hair and the beard work because I’m not getting approached constantly, and no girls are trying to get themselves knocked up.

I’m no one’s sugar daddy and no chick’s meal ticket.

So, here’s the thing: my parents are…wealthy. And not the millionaire-next-door kind of rich. No. They’re the You want to have dinner in Vegas tonight? Let’s take the leer jet. kind of rich. Hilton rich. Rockefeller rich.

Sometimes it blows dick that Dad is one of the biggest employers in the state and owns one of the largest manufacturing plants in the country, located right here in Iowa. It’s like wearing a big, red target on my back, and eventually…I got sick and tired of it.

Don’t get me wrong—I love them like crazy. Our family is really close. But along with my parents, come the people; the assistants. The users. The ass-kissing employees.

It was time to distance myself from it all, at least for the time being—while I have the chance.

My sister got to change her last name when she got married; she didn’t even hyphenate like most socialites tend to do. Nope. Not Veronica. Lost the Carmichael name entirely, moved to Bumblefuck, USA, and only comes back for the holidays and big charity events—and even then, she digs her heels in.

Stiletto heels, but still.

My sister has a giant set of lady balls, and I’m trying to follow in her footsteps by becoming my own man—not the obedient scion my father expects me to be.

So.

The first middle finger to my lifestyle was me dropping out of Notre Dame—Dad’s alma mater—after one year and transferring to Iowa.

My parents have actually been pretty damn cool about it, albeit a little uptight from lack of understanding. They’re really regimented from habit and set in their ways, getting everything and anything they want. Their expectations of people can be ridiculous and often times impossible to meet. But, they worked their asses off to get where they are, building a company—actually, an empire—over the course of thirty years.

You get the picture; I don’t have to paint it for you.

The point is: I do what I want.

And when the time comes, when I feel ready, I’ll take my place at my dad’s company—and not a day before.

I asserted my independence and hid out, growing out my hair and beard and not giving a shit what I looked like.

Sometimes, no matter how rich a guy is, girls just aren’t willing to put up with all the unruly hair.

It’s the perfect fucking disguise.

Genius, really.

Smith Jackson is a trust fund baby too. Not like I am, of course—very few people are—but the difference between us is that I’m not a self-centered, narcissistic prick. I’m no shrink and haven’t diagnosed him, but because of how I grew up, I know a self-serving asshole when I meet one.