Hollis buries his face in his hands. When he lifts his head, he’s scowling. “You guys are the most unsupportive assholes I’ve ever met.”

“Dude, she cuts you down every time she sees you,” Hunter finally says, but I don’t miss the way his tone has softened. He’s trying to let Mike down gently.

I feel bad letting Hunter do this alone, so I speak up too. “It’s not gonna happen,” I tell Hollis.

“It might,” he protests.

We all look to the bar again. Brenna flips her long, dark hair over one shoulder. She’s still with the frat boy. I can tell he’s in a frat not just because of the polo shirt, but because a couple of his friends have joined him, and one is wearing a hoodie with the Sigma Chi logo on it. The other one is talking to Summer.

I notice Hunter’s shoulders stiffening as he watches Summer and the guy. Luckily, the bartender finally gives the girls their drinks. I didn’t see any money exchanging hands, which tells me the male barkeep is as enamored with them as everyone else in this bar.

They return with a second vodka cranberry in Summer’s hand, and a bottle of Harpoon in Brenna’s. This time Brenna squishes in beside and not on me, while Summer settles next to Matt on the end instead of between him and Hunter. Hunter flicks a contemplative look at her.

“Frat boys are the worst,” Brenna tells us as she raises her beer to her red-painted lips. “They have a sense of entitlement that really pisses me off. Even the poor ones.”

“Are there poor ones?” Nate cracks.

“Of course. Anyone can pledge.” She rolls her eyes. “You just have a better chance of getting in if you’re rich.”

Summer shrugs. “Those guys weren’t too bad.”

Jealousy stabs at my gut. Luckily, Brenna’s reply ensures that I don’t have to worry about Summer going home with one of those dudes.

“Polo Douche tried to slide his hand in my shirt and cup my boob, Summer.”

Her eyebrows fly up. “Seriously? Oh my God. Gross.” She shakes her head. “I thought the one in the salmon shirt was really nice.”

“Pink,” Hollis grumbles at her. “Just fucking say pink, Summer.”

“There are different shades of pink, Mike.”

“Yeah? Name ten.”

“Fine.” Like a pro, she starts listing hues. “Salmon, rose, blush, fuchsia, watermelon, flamingo, cerise, bubble gum, magenta—”

She’s on number nine when a blur of red and yellow rushes up to the booth.

I barely have time to blink before a pale arm flings out and a waterfall of liquid rains down on us. The intended target was Brenna, who receives the bulk of it, but Hollis, Nate, and I are victims of secondary splashing.

Brenna’s jaw falls open as a furious blonde glares down at her. “What the—”

“Keep your hands off my man!”

18

Summer

Brenna is soaking wet. Despite her initial shock, she recovers quickly, reaching for a napkin to wipe her face. “Who exactly is your man?” she asks calmly.

The blonde points to a spot about ten feet to her right. She’s got long fingernails, painted bright fuchsia (or pink, as a naïve Hollis would say) and one sharp talon directs my gaze to the polo-shirt-wearing guy who was hitting on Brenna. The attempted boob-grabber.

“Him?” Brenna’s disdain is written all over her gorgeous face.

“Yes.”

“Funny. He didn’t mention he had a girlfriend when he was offering to take me for a spin in his Lambo.”

Hollis snickers.

“You’re a liar. Davey would never do that.” The girl is still spitting mad, cheeks redder than the crimson tank top she’s got on. Her top clashes with her nails. I hate that. “He said you were throwing yourself at him.”

Brenna’s lips curve in a mocking smile. “Of course he did. His ego was bruised. But if I’d agreed to blow him in his fancy sports car after you went to bed tonight? I guarantee you never would’ve known he talked to anyone but you.”

“Truth,” Hunter drawls.

I hide a grin. She’s absolutely right. The only reason this loser even mentioned the existence of another woman to his girlfriend is because he needed his ego stroked. He probably knew she’d go apeshit on Brenna and stake a claim on her man, which makes him feel nice and wanted after Brenna laughed when he suggested they hook up in his Lamborghini.

Brenna gets to her feet. Her face is dry, but the front of her sweatshirt is still sopping wet. The clear liquid doesn’t reek of alcohol, so I suspect it was just water. With an annoyed breath, Brenna unzips the wet hoodie and peels it off her slim shoulders.

“Oh my fucking God,” Hollis groans, arousal darkening his eyes.

She’s wearing nothing but jeans and a lacy black bralette that’s more crop top than bra, and not much skimpier than what the blonde has on. She won’t get kicked out of Malone’s for indecent exposure, but she’s definitely about to be responsible for every hard penis in our vicinity.

Even Fitzy’s? a voice taunts.

I try to swallow my jealousy. I do not like the idea of Fitz getting hard for Brenna, no matter how incredible her boobs look in that bralette.

But a quick glance across the booth at Fitz reveals a harsh expression and sneer of distaste as he eyes the polo-shirt guy, who’s now creeping toward his girlfriend. Fitz’s big hands aren’t quite fists, but they’re curled on the tabletop. He’s on guard and not liking this escalating situation.

“Hey, sweetheart?” Brenna says to the blonde. “Your man is a fuckboy with a capital F. Drop him now before he hurts you worse.”

“Did you just call Davey a fuckboy!” is the outraged response. “You’d be lucky to have someone like him! If he tried to get with you, and you said no, then you’re a stupid bitch.”

Brenna’s brown eyes twinkle. “First you’re mad because you think I tried to steal him from you. Now you’re pissed because I turned him down. Pick one injustice and commit, sweetie.”

I can’t help but laugh. The blonde glares daggers at me.

“But if you want, I’d be happy to bang him,” Brenna offers. “His technique was wicked clumsy when he tried to grab my breast. I could probably teach him a few things.”

“Slut,” the girl spits out.

“Right. I’m the slut, not him.”

“You wouldn’t know a good man if he walked up and smacked you in the face.”

“Neither would you, apparently.”

Hunter chuckles.

The girl’s face is so red, I almost feel bad for her. Almost.

“Stupid slut!”

Just like that, I officially reach the maximum amount of slut I’m willing to hear.

I shoot to my feet. “Enough with this slut bullshit,” I snap at her. “Do you realize how many decades you set us back every time you call another girl a slut? We’ve spent years fighting to not be viewed as sexual objects or be judged and shamed if we happen to enjoy sex. It’s bad enough that men still do this to us. When you do it too, it sends the message that it’s fair game for women to be treated this way.”

“Shut up,” is her comeback. “You’re a slut too!”

I cross my arms tight to my chest. “Say that again. I dare you.”

She flashes a smug smile. “You’re. A. Slut.”

I might have let it go. I really might’ve. If she hadn’t stepped forward and flicked her razor fingernails against my cheek in a mocking, dismissive gesture that turns my vision into a haze of red.

I launch myself at her.

“Catfight!” Hollis yells, jumping out of the booth.

I’m too busy tackling the blonde to chastise Hollis for the enjoyment he’s receiving from this. Straddling her, I get one good punch in before her own fist flies out and connects with the corner of my mouth. I taste a burst of copper on my bottom lip, lick it away, and grab a hunk of her hair. She wails when I give it a sharp pull.

“What the hell happened to girl power? Did you never listen to the Spice Girls?” I growl in her face. “What’s wrong with you?”

She slaps at me with her taloned hands. “Get off me!”

Her wish is granted, because suddenly I’m being heaved off her body. Strong arms wrap around my waist to keep me away from her. She jumps to her feet and pounces again. “You broke my nail!” she screeches at me.

Davey grabs her and tugs her backward. She clings to his arm as if it’s the last remaining lifeboat on the Titanic.

I frown at the sight. “Your loser boyfriend tried to grab another girl’s boob—how is that not what you’re mad about?”

Holding his girlfriend protectively, Davey announces to the world that he’s a dumbass by picking this exact moment to join the conversation.

Because only a dumbass would point at Brenna and say, “Look at what she’s wearing! She was asking for it!”

Oh no he di’int.

I lunge forward again, but those big arms lock tighter around me. They belong to Hunter, I realize. But even if I’d been able to charge, I’m nowhere near as fast as Fitz. One second he’s seated, the next he’s got Douchebag Davey by the collar.

“She was asking for it?” Fitzy hisses. “Did those words really just come out of your filthy, rapist mouth?”