Chapter 1- Open Mic Hangovers
“Oh dear God, you’re how old?!”
She bolts out of bed, a cold sweat already forming.
“Eighteen,” he answers, looking genuinely confused.
To Daisy Peters, this was a huge deal.
“Fuck.”
She looks around for her shirt. She knew he was young, but eighteen-years-old young?
“I’m legal.” He scratches his head, trying to figure out what the problem is. It’s not like he’s a kid anymore. It wasn’t his first time, and he was pretty positive she enjoyed herself last night. Unless she was older than she looked.
Maybe she was thirty.
That would be a little weird.
Standing up, he towers over her, yet his face still hasn’t lost all its baby fat. Remnants of acne linger across his forehead and he has about five chest hairs. Compared to her petite frame, premature gray hair, stress-induced wrinkles, and permanent dark circles under her eyes, they look like an odd pair standing together.
In his dorm room.
“Was last night your first time?”
The question blurts out before she can stop it.
Anxiety forces a million thoughts through her head at once. Teenage boys often mistake sex and lust for love. Daisy is in no shape to untangle that mess right now.
Especially right now.
Shit.
What have I done?
Whiskey.
“Hell nah, did it feel like it was?”
He says it in a faux-ebonics accent, trying to sound annoyed and confident, but she’s not fooled. His curiosity is genuine.
His confidence is slipping through his fingers. He’s pretty sure she was satisfied last night. Was she that good of an actress?
No.
He was sure.
“What have I done? Are you in any of my classes?” She presses the heel of her hand against her forehead, trying to keep both the hangover and panic at bay.
Maybe she really is older.
A professor?
Is she going to get in trouble?
Is he?
He can’t get kicked out. This was the only school that offered him a full scholarship.
No, last night she mentioned graduate school. Something about a thesis.
Can you be a graduate student and a professor at the same time?
“Not that I know of.” He shakes his head. “Wait, you’re a professor? I thought you were a student.”
Taking a closer look at her, no way she was a professor getting another master’s degree. She looked too young.
Maybe she’s a genius.
Got a college degree at eleven.
Nice.
Snagged a genius.
“I’m in a dorm?”
She looks around, trying to remember how she got here. Whiskey and no food always did this to her. It wrecked her memory and left her piecing together the night the next morning.
Did I drive?
Fuck.
I hope not.
“Yeah.” He hands her a stray sock.
“Thank you.”
She snatches it from his hand hard enough to make him flinch.
The reaction tears at her.
“I’m sorry.”
She takes a deep breath.
It wasn’t his fault.
She seduced him.
She always seduced them.
“For which part?”
The question catches her off guard. Most people accepted apologies without asking questions.
He sits back down on the bed, and for the first time she actually looks at him.
Poor kid.
He has no idea.
“The first, second, or third time we did it last night?”
His humor is dry and blunt.
She finds that combination incredibly sexy.
His smile makes her pause long enough to compose herself. A Cheshire-cat grin. The same grin that made her knees weak enough to end up in a dorm room.
The kid is cute.
More than cute.
The best-looking thing she’s seen in a long while.
“I admit, youth gives stamina.”
She cracks a smile, trying to soften her reaction to discovering he’s five years younger than her.
“Age gives experience.”
He leans back, making no effort to hide the fact that he’s showing off.
“Careful,” she warns.
Mostly to herself.
“Want to meet up again?”
The cocky look should annoy her.
Instead she likes it because she knows it’s fake.
“I’m down for some more hookups,” he adds when she doesn’t answer.
She rolls her eyes.
There it is.
He almost had her.
Experience also teaches men how to talk to women instead of girls.
He’s clearly still learning.
“Shawn, was it?”
She knows his name. It’s written across the corkboard beside her and she distinctly remembers screaming it last night.
But he needs knocking down a peg.
“Yeah.”
The hurt flashes across his face before the practiced smile returns.
Perfect.
Back in his place.
“Last night was not a mistake, and I don’t regret it. But you should probably find a girl your own age.”
“Why? I liked meeting you.”
I liked meeting you.
Over and over again.
Might even be able to squeeze out another round if you let me.
She tries to remember how she ended up here.
Her thesis had been ripped apart.
That led to a glass of wine.
Okay, half a bottle.
Then loneliness.
Instead of driving to a bar, she drove to her favorite coffee shop with a flask of whiskey. Sometimes she found interesting people there.
Usually she didn’t.
Last night felt different.
She almost left when she saw the Open Mic Night sign.
Then there was this boy on stage making fun of himself while tuning a guitar, wearing that same Cheshire-cat smile.
After that?
Things got fuzzy.
Should’ve gone to the bar.
Then you wouldn’t be standing in a dorm talking down to an eighteen-year-old freshman.
“If I hadn’t told you my age, we’d probably be on round four right now.”
The bluntness catches her off guard.
Most boys dance around sex. They make jokes. They get embarrassed.
He doesn’t.
And worse, he’s right.
Even hungover, she would have slept with him again.
Without hesitation.
The chemistry doesn’t come around often. The kind where both people instinctively know what the other wants. The kind that makes everything feel effortless.
She hasn’t had that in over three years.
“I know you liked it.”
There’s the fake confidence again.
She gives him a full-body eye roll.
“I’m in a dorm,” she groans.
“We can go to your place. Doesn’t have to be the dorm. No strings attached. Damn girl, you—”
She raises a hand.
“Don’t finish that idiotic sentence. Talk like the boy that was on stage last night. The humble, shy one. That guy will get you a lot farther than the playboy act.”
The words sink in.
He nods.
She pulls out her phone and hands it to him.
“Put your number in there and take mine.”
“Really?”
He grabs the phone before she can change her mind.
“Yes. But don’t text me a hundred times a day for sex. I have a life. A very busy life.”
She’s laying the groundwork now.
He doesn’t seem clingy.
He absolutely seems like an overthinker.
“So you liked what I gave you?”
He hands back the phone with an expression that belongs on an abandoned puppy.
She sighs.
“We’re going to have to work on your vernacular and your understanding of what women want.”
“Going to be my teacher?”
Still the same playboy expression.
Still trying way too hard.
She extends an arm and keeps him at a distance.
“Women do not, and I repeat do not, enjoy role-playing where they have to pretend they’re a pedophile. It’s bad enough I basically am right now.”
“I’m eighteen.”
“Yeah. I know. You mentioned it.”
She leans forward and kisses his cheek.
“Don’t over-text me.”
Grabbing her bag, she heads for the door.
She leaves the dorm as quickly as possible without drawing attention, pulling her jacket collar higher and hiding behind sunglasses.
By the time she gets back to her studio apartment, she collapses onto the bed.
Memories of the night flicker through her head.
Young or not, the boy knew exactly what he was doing.
She slips a hand into her jeans, chasing the orgasm that morning panic interrupted.
The result is disappointing.
Pathetic compared to what he managed last night.
Her eyes snap open.
“Shit.”
