I fiddle with the cup in my hand, conscious of the fact that once again, I’ve been left alone to fend for myself while my childhood friend works the room, having ditched me within minutes of our arrival.

It stings a little, if I’m being honest.

I wouldn’t have come tonight if I had known she was going to once again leave me hanging.

She never used to be like this; in high school, we were inseparable. When we began applying to colleges, against her parents’ and my mom’s better judgment, we applied to all the same schools. Lived together in the dorms our freshmen and sophomore years. Now, it’s our junior year.

We used to be attached at the hip, and now it seems I’ve become a second thought where Mariah is concerned.

In any case, I’m not going to get stuck standing by the keg tonight and risk the chance of being caught by that…that…

Guy.

He weirds me out, not because he’s creepy or perverted, but because he’s way too honest, and it makes me uncomfortable. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t need to have things sugarcoated, but he did bring up a subject that’s been on my mind a lot lately and that I’ve been a bit salty about.

Mariah taking advantage of our friendship. Of me.

The fact that a complete stranger picked up on it is embarrassing. I’d like to avoid him if humanly possible. Tonight, I want to have fun, not have it thrown in my face that my friends keep throwing me over for boys.

I move along the perimeter of the room, putting up the pretense that I’m not scanning the room for him.

Him.

That guy—whatever his name is.

I wonder about that as I grip the cold red cup in my hand. Try to picture what a guy like that could possibly be named.

What would I name a lumberjack baby if I had one?

Billy Ray. John Boy? Duane.

Cooter—that one makes me laugh, and I choke on the foam rimming my cup. The name Woody makes me laugh too, and by the time I look up and meet his eyes, I’m almost stupid giddy.

He’s scowling at me, of course, and wearing a plaid flannel shirt, sleeves rolled and pushed to the elbow.

His hair is up, twisted into a messy mop, long strands escaping at his temples, curling up and around his ears. It’s a gorgeous dirty blond, naturally streaked from the sun, a hue any girl would kill for and few could recreate.

Skin tan, high cheekbones pink. Not ruddy, but close.

The beard still long, although from here, it does look like he might have cleaned it up a bit? I have no interest in finding out—the last thing I want is for him to come over.

God no.

I rotate my body, presenting him with my back, and come face to face with the keg.

Dammit.

Move to the side a few feet, creating more distance between us, not sure what to do with myself because once again, I’m standing in the middle of a party alone.

I should be pissed at my friends, but the truth is, I’m relieved; standing with them is too much pressure. Too many people coming up to chat, too many guys coming up to flirt. Drunk guys make me nervous. Guys who are hitting on us make me nervous.

Drunk guys who are hitting on us make me nervous.

Unfortunately, that’s what I’m surrounded by, and unfortunately, I’ve been left to fend for myself.

The party is packed—third weekend in a row. I make a silent vow not to return for a fourth, not if I can help it. I’m bored and, stifling a yawn, take a drag of my beer for lack of anything better to do.

Stop watching me, I implore the hairy guy, still feeling his eyes on the back of my head.

The skin on my neck prickles.

Stop it. I’m not turning around.

My nose twitches despite itself, my head gives a little shake.

No.

Jeez. Doesn’t he have anything better to do other than stand there and creep on people who want to be left alone? I mean, not that I’m alone, alone. We are, after all, in a room full of people.

My gaze wanders.

Is he still looking? I’m dying to look over my shoulder but square them instead, standing taller on the heels of my tall, brown boots. Tap a toe impatiently, craning my head to survey the room.

If I tilt it just so, maybe I can catch a glimpse of him out of the corner of my eye without actually having to turn my head? I test the theory, adding a hand to the column of my neck, faux-massaging it, lifting my cup to my lips.

So smooth.

Shift my eyes to the right.

Heart plummeting to my stomach because those sullen brown eyes of his are indeed locked on my short frame. I’m not facing him, but they’re so bright and striking I can make them out nonetheless. Even shrouded amongst all that hair.

Is he judging me? He must be—why else would he be attempting to telekinetically drill holes into the back of my skull? No doubt he thinks I’m a loser with no friends.

No—he thinks I’m a loser with shitty friends.

Big difference.

He doesn’t like them and doesn’t even know them. Or me, for that matter.

Judgy, arrogant asshole.

My throat hmphs indignantly.

A noise from the kitchen has my head jerking in that general direction. Two huge guys spill through the narrow door and into the living room. It looks like they’re fighting—or wrestling?

I recognize one of the moves as a half nelson, and the entire scene suddenly escalates when one of the guys maneuvers his meaty right arm, hooks it around the others guy’s neck, and pulls the guy down. Down onto the dirty, disgusting shag carpet.

Gross.

They’re both grunting, feet smashing into end tables. The wall.

One booted foot kicks. Entire body thrashes.

The guy on the bottom is unsuccessfully trying to untangle himself from whatever hold he’s in now, floundering like a fish out of water. Flopping, too drunk to remove himself but giving it the old college try.

Face bright red, he’s sputtering, getting pissed.

Steam practically rolls out of his nostrils as he throws his head back, trying to knock it against his opponent’s sweaty forehead.

No luck.

“Fuck you, Kissinger,” he slurs. “Let me the fuck up.”

Kissinger laughs, squeezing his arms like a python, wrapping them tighter.

The crowd shifts, girls gasping, people calling out. Cheering. Stumbling around, trying to make room as the boys tussle.

An elbow is released, nailing Kissinger in the gut. It’s not a taut stomach; he clearly hasn’t missed a kegger in months, beer belly pronounced.

A punch.

Someone gets kicked and falls over as blood gushes from his nose.

Girls scream—so dramatic—and a few guys on the perimeter of the room start shoving people forward, toward the fight. Why? I have no idea, but it creates chaos and more fists are thrown, this time from spectators, not the two dudes still on the floor.

The person closest to me stumbles backward, and I take a step back to prevent myself from getting jostled. Another and another and my back is almost pressed firmly against the wall, eyes bugging out when half the room erupts into right hooks and punches.

“Oh my god,” I say breathlessly as I exhale, the scene playing out in front of me a far cry from how the evening began.

I measure the distance to the front door, the bodies in my way. The noise. The chanting and cheering from the idiots watching instead of breaking up the brawls.

A large hand cuffs my arm and I barely have time to look down before I’m being ushered toward the exit, full cup of beer still clutched in my hand.

When that warm hand leaves my bicep and juts out, clearing the way, I have time to glance over my shoulder for a look at my rescuer.

The hairy guy whose name I haven’t figured out yet.

Roy?

Paul Bunyan without the ox. Without the axe.

Rescuing me.

But why?

I whip around, an errant elbow slamming into my body, sending me lurching forward—backward? I don’t know. I can’t stand straight and would have hit the wall if not for…

My beer cup goes soaring; his does too, splashing down the front of my dress. His chest. Cold and wet.

Soaking us both.

“Jesus H. Christ.” He sighs loudly enough for me to hear over the racket. The ruckus. “Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

A giant paw is at the small of my back, his mammoth body shielding mine as he shoves through the people standing in our way. Like a linebacker on the football field—or, a rugby player, I guess? Whatever position blocks people on the rugby field.