With short black hair, a Latino complexion, and a set of dimples girls can’t seem to resist, Zack is a legitimate lady-killer—and he knows it. I watch as he winks at a nearby brunette before turning back to the crowd with a smile in his dark brown eyes.

“My good people!” he shouts. “There is plenty of beer to go around, but there is only one”—he holds up a finger dramatically—“cornhole champion!”

The crowd raises matching red cups with drunken cheers and hollers, everyone eager for the tournament to begin.

This is Zack’s thing. Cornhole.

The game of cornhole is basically a glorified beanbag toss where players take turns tossing bags at a hole in a wooden board. Throw in a few rules and drinking consequences, and you’ve got yourself a party favorite. I’m pretty sure Zack would abandon his potential football career if it meant he could play professional cornhole for the rest of his life.

From across the room, he catches sight of me and tips his chin. I nod back before I realize his face has morphed into a shit-eating grin.

Ah, hell.

“And for your viewing pleasure,” he yells above the noise, pointing to me, “I give you ASU’s favorite quarterback, Levi Andrews!”

Eyes and red cups turn in my direction, and more cheering ensues. I shoot him an I-hate-you smile as dozens of people rush toward me.

I spend the next twenty minutes fielding an onslaught of pats on the back, sexual invitations, and inquiries about where the hell I’ve been for the past six months—a question I still don’t know how to answer—before untangling myself from the well-meaning strangers and heading to the backyard.

Backyard is an understatement.

What I’m looking at resembles more of a golf course with a water park. Acres of green grass stretch behind the house broken up by a series of pools and small waterslides. I’m surprised I didn’t have to pay admission at the door and sport a neon wristband to get back here.

The cornhole tournament is already under way, with a dozen boards set up in a large, flat square of grass just off the back porch. Ornate lanterns hang strategically about the yard, shining brightly on the game and spectators below as music plays into the night from a well-hidden surround sound system. And a guy wearing a Speedo, a top hat, and a plastic margarita cup around his neck is manning a large scoreboard on the patio.

Zack’s voice sounds into the yard. “And… Kirkland misses the board completely like a wimpy little girl. Drink up, douche bag.”

Looking to the side, I see Zack standing on a raised wooden deck holding a megaphone to his mouth as he officiates the tournament.

“Jensen!” he scolds. “Quit rubbing the beanbags on your balls for good luck. I’ve seen you with the ladies, dude. Your balls are anything but lucky.”

I make my way over and step onto the deck just as he’s lowering the megaphone.

“Thanks for the spotlight introduction,” I say. “You’re a dick.”

Zack smiles and hands me a beer from a cooler at his feet. He gets himself one as well. “Good to see you too, fucker. What took you so long?”

“Your shitty directions.” I open the beer and take a drink. “Did I see a goat earlier?”

“Yeah. That’s Marvin.”

“Sure.”

“I’m goat-sitting him all summer for this hot brunette I met at mass on Sunday.”

I squint at him. “You’re not Catholic.”

He grins. “I know.”

This is Zack’s other thing. People.

He’s a chronic people-meeter. Church, school, sporting events, estate auctions, gas stations. He goes everywhere and meets everyone.

“Is that where you met the poor sucker who owns all this?” I gesture at the yard and mansion. “Church?”

“No. That guy I met at a poker tournament. He sucked at blackjack, so this place is mine until fall semester starts.”

“So you have a goat and a mansion all summer?”

“Yes. My life is awesome.” He pulls the megaphone back up. “I saw that, Angela. Your pretty ass has to drink.” He scans the lawn and scowls. “Motherfu—someone take the beanbags away from Jensen!” Pause. “You’re out, Mathers! Bested by the tiny chick with the weird yet strangely erotic blue pigtails.” He turns back to me and lowers the megaphone again. “So where’ve you been lately? I’ve been inviting you to shit for weeks.”

I shrug. “I’ve been busy.”

He takes a drink. “Funny how you didn’t seem to get busy until your new neighbor moved in. How is our little fairy, anyway?”

My thoughts go straight to Pixie’s ass in that little black skirt. “I don’t know.”

“Is she still yelling and painting and breaking hearts?”

“I don’t know.”

“God, she was a riot.” He chuckles. “Is she still going to ASU?”

“I don’t know,” I bite out, bringing the beer back to my mouth.

“Ooh. Sensitive.” He eyes the cuts on my knuckles. “What happened there?”

I glance at my busted hand. “Some drywall pissed me off.”

“So you beat the shit out of it with your throwing arm?”

“Something like that.”

“Right,” he says slowly. “Speaking of your throwing arm…” He moves his eyes back to the tournament. “Training starts soon.”

I try to look uninterested. “So?”

“Coach says you’re not enrolled.” He keeps his eyes on the game while I silently curse Coach McHugh and his fat mouth. “Now, how the hell are we supposed to have a kick-ass team when our quarterback doesn’t even go to the school?”

I rub the back of my head. “I was kicked out, remember?”

“No.” He draws out the word. “You were put on academic probation. Dean Maxwell said all you have to do—”

“I know what he said.”

“Good.” He nods once. “Then do it and I’ll see you at practice. In the meantime, let’s get you relaxed.” He smiles at an attractive blonde walking by. “Hey, Savannah. Have you met Levi?” He pulls her closer and gestures to me. “Levi is our starting quarterback.”

The blonde’s face brightens at the word “quarterback,” and she turns eager eyes my way. “Nice to meet you, Levi.”

Zack leans over and says, “You’re welcome, buddy,” before bringing the megaphone back to his lips and resuming his officiating duties. “Aw, come on, Jensen…”

He steps away, leaving me with the blonde, who has already started giggling and touching my arm for no reason. Let the distracting begin.

9 Pixie

Two college girls with fake IDs walk into a bar…

So cliché.

The bouncer didn’t even check out the birth dates on our IDs. He simply checked out Jenna’s butt, which beats mine in the bootylicious department by at least two jiggles, and waved us in.

Behold, the power of the booty.

I follow the cherry blossom tattoos on Jenna’s exposed lower back as we weave through the almost-drunk, pretty-drunk, and has-anyone-seen-the-floor-oh-wait-I’m-lying-on-it-drunk crowd.

I ditched the cardigan at the door and shoved it in my Purse O’Plenty, so I’m looking perfectly slutty in my push-up bra and low-cut tank top. I don’t usually take such liberties with my wardrobe, but I was feeling feisty when I got dressed tonight.

Jenna and I squeeze our way through a cluster of people and my feisty boobs accidentally brush against a nearby stranger. His eyes drop to my chest.

I had my boobs long before I had my scar, so I know the difference between a guy checking out my rack and a guy feeling sorry for me. And this guy’s not checking out my rack.

Whatever.

I move forward and keep my eyes on the cherry blossoms. They’re pretty. Very girly and delicate and not at all like Jenna, yet somehow they suit her. I wonder if cherry blossoms would suit me.

“You made it.” Matt’s face lights up as we approach the bar. He’s already there with his roommates, Ethan and Jack, saving us seats. He pulls me in for a quick kiss, then pulls back and whistles as he looks me over. “Nice outfit.” His eyes rove over my very visible scar.

I quirk a teasing brow. “Am I showing too much tragedy?”

He meets my eyes and smiles. “Not at all. I think you look badass. Like a pirate or something.”

“A pirate?”

“Yeah. Like a sexy Captain Hook.”

“He’s the least sexy pirate ever.”

“Okay, Jack Sparrow, then,” he says.

I frown.

“Captain Morgan?” He looks supremely uncomfortable, like he’s not sure if it’s okay to joke about my scar, and I almost feel sorry for him.

I wrinkle my nose. “How about we stop comparing me to sea criminals and alcohol mascots?”

“Brilliant idea. I’m a stupid boy.” He smiles at me, but I can see small red splotches of nervousness creeping up his neck.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Ethan looks at Jenna as she squeezes into the barstool between him and Jack. “You can’t sit next to me. You’ll ruin my game.”

“What game?” she says. “You’re a white guy wearing a gold chain. You have no game.”

“Oh, I have game. And you’re cock-blocking it. How am I supposed to pick up hot chicks when a hot chick is sitting right beside me?”