Lessons in Faking (Hall Beck University #1)

Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3

“You’re sure this isn’t a costume party?” Wren’s voice traveled through the barely lit street, accompanied by the music blaring through the walls of the colonial-style home we stood in front of.

Shifting my attention from the Greek letters sprawled above the entrance, I grinned at her. “Positive. Though even if it was—” My eyes danced across her: the military boots, the run in her dark tights that disappeared under a skirt—the same shade as everything else she usually wore (black). “You might still qualify for Halloween.”

“Fuck off.” Wren rolled her eyes as she matched my smile, probably rethinking the entirety of our three year-long friendship when I nudged her up the porch and reached for the door. I gave her one last look, lips turned up into a full grin by now. When she matched it again, I pushed the door open.

A few cheers erupted through the crowd, welcoming us—not because they necessarily knew who we were (or cared), but simply because, to them, more people equaled more fun. More singing, more dancing, more possible hookups.

“Athalia!” By the time my head shot in the direction of the sound, two arms already pulled me into a bear-like hug, before a big hand ruffled my hair in that way I hated.

Henry.

“Didn’t know you’d be here,” I muffled against his chest, already too tipsy from pregaming to care about the fact he’d just ruined an hour of hairstyling in five seconds. Probably too taken aback by the fact that I was in Henry’s arms. That he was hugging me.

My brother was hugging me and I did not remember the last time he’d done that. Had been affectionate beyond his hair-ruffling at all.

Before I could fully understand what was happening— why it was—Henry shrugged, letting go to embrace Wren just as enthusiastically. I took the time to consider my twin. His brown hair was styled just enough to seem casual, when I knew it took him almost as long as it took me to get ready. He wore a black polo tucked into tailored pants, somehow pulling off that ‘golf-course’ vibe as casual.

While Wren patted his back—waiting with an upturned nose until he was ready to let her out of his hug—I considered another fact. Henry was drunk, and Henry did not usually drink.

Help me , Wren mouthed, pulling me out of my thoughts before I could figure out what had gotten Henry to this point. Not that I could ever figure out anything about my brother in the first place.

He wasn’t usually around enough for that.

“All right!” I announced, wrestling Wren out of Henry’s grip. Falling out of his arms, she took in a deep breath—basically a gasp. I barely managed a “See you around!” shouted in Henry’sgeneraldirection before my best friend dragged me through the crowded living room of the frat house. The last thing I saw was Henry giving a “see-you” salute.

Wren huffed, dusting off her black top in a way that was justsoher, it had my heart swell with affection for no real reason. At the wide, distracted grin on my face, she did a double take. “Athalia—” she warned, taking a tentative step back that I immediately followed. “I know that look.Don’t—”

But my arms were slung around her before she could finish the sentence. In defeat, she grunted against my body. Her five foot two came up to my shoulder, on which she slumped her head in resignation. “This is my least favorite thing about you,” she muttered into my hair, relaxing into the inevitable.

“My great hugs?”

She barked a laugh before correcting my assumption. “That you get so touchy when you’re drunk,” she tsked. “Apparently, you and Henry have that in common.”Letting her go, I shrugged, delighted to find a lazy grin on her.

“Speaking of drunk…” I wiggled my brows. Wren sighed.

“Right. The drinks are over there.” She laughed, gently turning me toward the kitchen counter. “I’m gonna find the bathroom, then meet you there.” With a pat on the shoulder, Wren disappeared, turning back toward me only when the crowd had almost swallowed her whole.

My best friend pierced me with a look I knew all too well. One that had the corners of my lips edge up. “Take. It. Easy!” she shouted over the music, her voice taking on that motherly tone as she enunciated every word. What she meant by that was, don’t be black-out drunk by the time I get back.

Naturally, I honored her words with a shot.

If there was one thing about Wren Inkwood that was almost as certain as death and taxes, it was the fact that she’d be looking for a bathroom within the first ten minutes of arriving at any party.

She didn’t drink alcohol––never had––but while I’d been pre-drinking to our ‘getting-ready’ playlist at home, she couldn’t not drink something. It’s the principle of it, Athalia , she’d always say. So, she opted for water.

Gallons and gallons of water. I suspected that’s why her skin was porcelain-like. Inevitably, it also sent her looking for the nearest bathroom by the time we got to our destination. Like clockwork. She went to pee; I waited wherever she’d park me that night.

Tonight, it was the makeshift bar on the granite counter of the open kitchen.

I shook as the alcohol burned down my throat, wiping the residue off my lips. Turning back toward the counter, I knew (before I even touched anything), that the drink I was about to mix myself would end up way too strong.

“Oh, heavens.” It came from behind me, lingered between the loud music––my reaction delayed. “This has never ended well before.” By then, I realized the words were directed at me, and I twirled toward them, startled by the proximity of the body now in front of me.

My eyes wandered up the white dress shirt—the top two buttons open—before my eyes found his in panic-riddled recognition. His gaze fixed on me. A playful smirk hung in the corners of his lips, his piercing blue eyes digging into mine.

When you thought of the devil, most imagined horns and hooves, red skin, and even redder eyes. When I thought of the devil, however, he was all blond hair, blue eyes, and cute curls. Coincidentally, as ‘Highway to Hell’ played in the background and drunk college students blurted it louder than it was playing, he stood right in front of me.

“Let me take care of that.” He swooped the red cup right out of my hand, fingers brushing mine in a gesture I knew was deliberate. I found out a little too late that, with Jason Montgomery, everything was always deliberate. A little wistfully, he added, “Your mixers were always way too strong.”

I had that same thought around a minute ago. The realization freaked me out enough to keep my mouth shut and accept my full cup when he turned back around. Maybe the alcohol already in my system had something to do with that? Maybe the unwanted insecurities still riddling my thoughts around him did too.

Taking a sip, I had to begrudgingly admit that my ex-boyfriend was as good at mixing his drinks as he was at cheating on me.

“You used to talk more.”

Great observation ,I wanted to say. The possibility that I still talked just as much to the people I actually wanted to talk to hadn’t even crossed his mind. I knew him well enough to know that it wouldn’t either.

Stunned by his audacity—and my audacity to still let myself be stunned by him—I simply nodded, lips pressed together in a thin line. Jason turned to look at me, body leaning against the bar behind us. Meanwhile, my eyes desperately searched for a familiar face in the crowd around us. I couldn’t see anything in the colorful, flickering lights.

“Used that mouth of yours quite often, Pressley,” he continued.

I groaned loudly, letting my head fall back in what became annoyance the more he talked. I doubted he even heard me over the noise around us. (I wasn’t sure if I could still consider it music. I probably would after a few more drinks).

“Pretty skillfully, too.”

Fuck. Me.

My entire body hurtled in his direction, quick enough that I lost balance for a dreadful second. With my hand holding onto the bar he still leaned against, the full weight of the alcohol I’d consumed until now kicked me. Hard.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” I finally snapped. “You’ve got some nerve.”

“Oh,” Jason hummed quietly, nodding to himself. His eyes flew to the makeshift dance floor. “She speaks.”

Honestly, the J-name should’ve been my first blindingly red flag. Yet, despite all odds and previous beliefs, I fell head over heels for Jason Montgomery, just three weeks into my freshman year. Probably more so because my parents would’ve loved him, because my brother had loved him, and because everyone (excluding Wren) had told me we were practically perfect for each other. The thought was repulsive now.

But back then, knowing nothing of Jason—apart from the fact that he was the Montgomerys’ golden boy, with a bright future ahead of himself, and the charm of someone who had been trained to be nothing but charming—he was perfect. Handsome, too.

“This.” I gestured between the two of us, finding an amused gleam in his eyes. “Is not happening.”

“What’s not happening?” Jason’s hands flew up in mock surrender. “I’m not trying to make anything happen, Athalia.” He shrugged, unbothered. The only thing giving him away was his smug, subtle smirk. I hated the way my name sounded on his lips. “But honestly, after you egged my car and slashed a tire, I thought we were even.”

The tire was an accident. Sort of.

He leaned closer, his voice lower when it reached me over the music. “I’m just trying to catch up with an old friend here.”As he straightened back up, I hoped to God it was the alcohol that sent a light shiver down my spine. Taking a step forward to stand opposite me, he added, “We are friends, right?”

And I was trying to come up with the best way of telling him that I would rather eat my own foot—

“I think I’d know about that.”

For a moment, I wondered whether it was my own voice that had become deep and sulky, carrying a cool kind of indifference. Perplexed, my hand reached for my mouth. I was pretty sure I hadn’t said a damn thing. If I did, though, it would’ve been just a little more rude than that.

Then, my head snapped to the arm that carefully placed itself around me, a beer in one hand, hovering by my shoulder. I jerked at the touch, taking a step away, only to bump into a body that hadn’t previously been there. My hazy mind couldn’t put two and two together. The loud music—it could be classified as that again—roaring in my ears, had sucked the last bit of coherency from my brain.

What I did notice, though, was that Jason took a step back at whoever’s presence lingered around us now. And that was all it took for drunk, simple-minded me to relax into the stranger. I even managed to whip up a smile. My eyes dug into Jason’s, suddenly fueled with a confidence that usually went out the window with him around. Meanwhile, he wasn’t even looking at me.

“McCarthy,” he said by way of greeting.

The name alone was enough to almost startle me again. Jason still focused on him, and my own eyes carefully drifted to the body beside me. They skirted up the black T-shirt, noticed the silver necklace hidden underneath it, and dashed across an annoyingly familiar jawline, before taking him in as a whole.

McCarthy lazily draped his arm around my shoulder, getting comfortable after I’d unknowingly relaxed into the touch. He hadn’t acknowledged my presence much more than that. His attention was entirely on Jason.

In any other situation, I would’ve shoved McCarthy off me before I could even be sure it was him. But now, with Jason here—with the way he straightened in alertness… McCarthy was useful enough for me to stick by his side.

“What a sight to behold,” Jason said, snapping out of it. His eyes flicked back and forth between us in record time. I swallowed deeply, the room spinning, the alcohol continuing to catch up with me. “Never thought Brother Dearest would approve.” His eyes slid back to me. “Where is Henry, by the way?”

Henry wouldn’t approve. He’d kill both of us if he saw McCarthy’s arm around me the way it was now, standing as close as he was. I had to keep myself from looking around frantically, just at the mention of my brother.

McCarthy did what Jason hated most: he ignored him. Instead of answering, his eyes landed on me for the first time. His brows rose slightly, an edge of—surely faked— concern in his features. “Care to join me outside?” he asked coolly, nodding to the backyard.

And I wasn’t even lying when I said, “Yes, please.”