Chapter 2: Prologue-2

"Five bucks! It's a freakin' cupcake, are you serious?" He shrugs. "Mom took me to a palm reader who also happens to own and run the gourmet bakery next to her fortune teller shop. It's a magic fucking cupcake made with imported cocoa from Brazil or some crazy nonsense like that. Whatever. All I know is, it better be good." We split the cupcake in half, wayward crumbs falling on my bed. For a second or two longer than is forgivable, I consider leaving the crumbs on Tori's bed, but I can't bring myself to do it. The cupcake is fluffy and moist and rich and the crumbs would be wasteful on Tori's side of the room when they could be in my stomach. "Ohmigod," I say with a mouthful, "this is really good. Maybe even worth your five bucks." He nods. "I'd have paid ten." He holds up a pointer finger, indicating I should wait while he swallows his morsel whole and stands. He picks his coat up off of Tori's bed, reaching into the pocket for a bottle of whiskey, unscrews the cap and takes a swig. I cringe as if it's my belly the liquid is burning and not his, while I lick remnants of icing off of my fingertips. X hands over the bottle of whiskey, "now to get the real party started." I look at the thing hesitantly. I'm not a college party girl. I'm a bookworm. "Really?" "Twenty-one," X says. "Enjoy it. Stop looking at it like it's filled with motor oil. Live a little, Lola." I snatch the bottle from his hands and bring it to my lips, downing a lot of it, hoping the faster I can take it in, the faster we can be done, and Xavier will be satisfied he's given me the kind of birthday party he's convinced himself I deserve. The fact that he came to my dorm on a Thursday night to celebrate with me is enough, booze isn't required but I don't want to disappoint. "Whoa," he says, "look at you go." Two hours, a bottle of whiskey and an impulsive jump on Tori's bed later, I'm no longer invisible. Xavier is slouched against the wall texting one of the girls that fill the pages of his little black book while I am waiting to the merry-go-round to stop. My legs are stretched across his lap and I'm watching him bite down on his lip as he types on his phone. "X," I say, "you're the best friend a girl could have." He look up and smiles. "I know, Mouse. You're the best friend a guy could have." "I know," I say. "I love you." Oops. Words fall from my mouth, which is loose with liquor. I pray he doesn't think I mean anything by it, otherwise I'd have to suffocate myself with my pillow before I die of embarrassment. But he doesn't so much as flinch, instead sliding closer to me to wrap his arm around my shoulder. He tugs, pulling me up and to him. "Love you too, Mouse. To the moon and back." 7:54 AM The next morning, a construction site has been erected in my head. A little man with a big jackhammer is working on my brain matter. Chipping away at it. I'm never drinking again. I have no idea what time X left or how I ended up drinking so much. I vaguely remember having one of those deep, philosophical conversations that seem to be in abundance when the people having them are under the influence. My saliva has all but evaporated. I'm parched so I stand, grab my robe, and head to the bathroom down the hallway to get a glass of water. Each step is a task in itself-my feet are bricks. I chug two glasses of tepid water before padding back down the hallway to return to my room. My eyes are nothing more than little slits, open enough to see out of but not enough allow light in to burn my brain. Even so, in their limited capacity, they settle on something, someone unsettling. An absurdly gorgeous male sits on Tori's bed. His back is propped up against the wall and he's observing me with a casual yet curious expression. His skin is sun kissed, his hair sandy brown and wind-swept. Light stubble shadows his pronounced jawline. I can't see the color of his eyes but a small bar with two steel orbs is on either side of his right eyebrow. He's wearing a red t-shirt, the skin of one arm camouflaged by ink, the other arm free of it. Was he there when I left? Where was Tori? The left side of his mouth curls in a half-smirk, the same kind X can give. "Rough night?" I clear my throat, look at my feet and mutter a hardly audible, "Oh. I didn't know Tori had company, sorry." "No need to be sorry," he says, "I'm not here for Tori." My heads snaps up, my stomach, heaving, unable to imagine any other good reason why he might be here. "I beg your pardon?" He twirls a watch in his hand. "I happen to know you are not in the habit of begging. Not usually, at least." My palms get sticky with sweat, my heart beat, a rapid thrumming that pulses in the side of my neck. God, I should have paid more attention at the campus safety orientation in the fall. Do I scream? Do I call 9-1-1 to report an intruder? I left the dorm room open and a hot, stranger has made his way in. I pull my robe snug against my body and look behind him, even though there is literally nowhere for Tori to be hiding. I try to disguise the worry in my voice, "Where is she?" "Who?" "Tori!" He sets the watch he's holding down, picks up the discarded pair of lacy underwear, and smirks. "I don't know but if these are hers, but I bet they'd look better on you." A lump lodges itself in my throat. "What do you want?" He winks. "You." My eyes dart around frantically for a weapon. Anything that can bring this guy to his knees should he stand to attack me. Instead I find my wallet, my car keys and a cell phone. Perfect; essentially useless. I throw the wallet at him. He's probably some Alpha Sigma Phi member here for beer money. "Here. That's all I have. Please. Take it. I don't want have to call the police." "I'm not here to rob you," he says calmly. "Put that thing away." I don't know if he's talking about the cell phone or the wallet. "Who are you?" "The name is Jackson," he says. "Jackson," I echo. "Jackson Nathaniel Sunday," he says "but you call me Jax, Lola." I freeze. I'm pretty sure my heart ceases to beat. How does he know my name? If I were any other girl, I'd be going through a mental count of the notches on my belt thus far in an effort to determine if he was some forgotten one night stand. But I'm not that girl. I'm the invisible one. I've slept, literally shared space with precisely one person; Xavier and I've had sex with precisely zero. "Do I know you?" "No," he says, "but you will." "Why are you here?" I demand. There are a million alarm bells sounding off in my mind. I should run, scream, hide. Jax shrugs. "I should be asking you that. You're the one who wished for me."