Chapter 2: Crashing the Freshers' Party
The rain had soaked through his hoodie by the time he found the noise.
It came from a crumbling Georgian townhouse wedged between a shuttered off-license and a kebab shop that had seen better decades. The windows glowed orange, pulsing with the bass that rattled the glass and sent tremors through the wet pavement. Red plastic cups littered the steps like confetti after a parade. Johnny stood across the street, water dripping from his hair, and watched a cluster of twenty-somethings stumble through the front door, laughing at something he couldn't hear.
He should go back to the hostel. Sleep off the last few hours. Wake up tomorrow with a clear head and a better plan.
Instead, he crossed the street.
The door was unlocked, hanging slightly ajar, and he pushed it open with two fingers. The hallway hit him like a wall—heat and sweat and the sour tang of cheap alcohol, all of it vibrating with the thump of a bassline that seemed to come from everywhere at once. The floor was sticky under his sneakers. Someone had taped a hand-written sign to the wall: FRESHERS WELCOME, which someone else had amended with a Sharpie to read FRESHERS WELCOME (TO HELL).
Johnny grinned.
He wove through the crowd, keeping his shoulders loose, his expression easy. Nobody looked at him twice. He was just another body in a sea of bodies, another damp hoodie in a room full of damp hoodies. The fairy lights strung along the ceiling flickered like they were on their last legs, casting everything in a warm, sickly glow. He snagged a red cup from a stack on the kitchen counter and filled it from ajug of vodka that tasted like industrial solvent.
The living room was packed—mismatched sofas, a coffee table covered in empty cans, a group of girls dancing in the corner to a song Johnny didn't recognize. He found a spot against the wall and let the room wash over him.
"That's my spot."
He turned. A girl stood beside him, arms crossed, eyebrows raised. She was tall, almost his height, with dark curly hair pulled back in a messy knot and a silver ring through her nose. She wore an oversized denim jacket over a black crop top, and her eyes were the kind of sharp that made you want to check your fly.
"Didn't see your name on it," Johnny said.
"Didn't think I needed to write it." She tilted her head. "You're not a fresher."
"What makes you say that?"
"You've got that look. Like you've been around the block a few times." She took a sip from her cup, watching him over the rim. "Also, you're old."
"I'm twenty-four."
"Exactly. Ancient." She smiled, just a little, and Johnny felt something shift in his chest. "I'm Imogen. Philosophy. Second year. And you are?"
"Danny," he said. "Exchange student. Just got in today."
"From where?"
"Does it matter?"
"Only if you're boring." She leaned against the wall beside him, close enough that he could smell her perfume—something floral and faintly smoky. "So, Danny the exchange student. What brings you to a freshers' party on your first night in London?"
"Bad decisions and cheap vodka."
"Ah. A man after my own heart."
They stood there for a while, trading barbs, watching the party churn around them. Imogen was sharp, funny in a dry way that made him work for every laugh. She didn't try to impress him. She didn't ask what he did or where he came from. She just talked—about philosophy, about her dissertation on existentialism, about how much she hated the word "journey."
"It's so fucking condescending," she said. "Like your life is just a series of inspirational Instagram posts. No. Sometimes you just wake up and everything is shit and you have to keep going anyway."
"And that's existentialism?"
"That's being alive." She finished her drink and set the cup on a windowsill. "Come on. I want to show you something."
She led him up the stairs, past clusters of people making out against the walls, past a bathroom where someone was throwing up, past a bedroom door that was very much closed. The hallway got narrower, darker, until she stopped in front of a door at the end of the corridor.
"Coats," she said. "And my secret stash."
The room was small and cramped, piled high with jackets and scarves and handbags. A single fairy light hung from a nail above the window, casting a weak glow over the chaos. Imogen kicked the door shut behind them and dropped onto a pile of coats like it was a throne.
"So," she said, looking up at him. "You gonna stand there, or are you gonna kiss me?"
Johnny didn't need to be asked twice.
He crossed the room in two steps and knelt in front of her, his hands finding her waist. She grabbed the front of his hoodie and pulled him in, her mouth crashing against his. She tasted like vodka and something sweet underneath, and her lips were insistent, demanding. He kissed her back, hard, his tongue sliding against hers, his fingers digging into the curve of her hip.
She broke away first, breathing hard. "Fuck. Okay. That's a good start."
"Just a start?"
"Don't get cocky."
She stood and pushed him back against the wall, her hands sliding under his hoodie, nails raking down his chest. He hissed through his teeth. She grinned.
"You like that?"
"Keep going and find out."
She pulled his hoodie over his head and tossed it onto the pile of coats. Then she was on her knees in front of him, her fingers working the button of his jeans. He watched her, his heart pounding, his cock already straining against his boxers.
"This what you want?" she asked, looking up at him.
"You tell me."
She unzipped him, reached into his boxers, and pulled him out. He was hard, thick in her hand, and she stroked him slowly, her thumb circling the head. Then she leaned in and took him in her mouth.
Johnny's head fell back against the wall. "Fuck."
Her mouth was wet and hot, her tongue swirling around the tip before she took him deeper. She worked him with a rhythm that was almost cruel—slow, deliberate, pulling him to the edge and then easing back. Her hand gripped the base of his cock, pumping in time with her mouth, and he could feel the pressure building in his balls like a fist tightening.
He tangled his fingers in her hair and pulled her closer. She hummed around him, the vibration sending a jolt up his spine. Her eyes were closed, her cheeks hollowed, her lips stretched around him. Spit dripped down her chin. It was messy and raw and exactly what he needed.
"You like that?" he rasped. "You like sucking my cock?"
She pulled off him with a wet pop and looked up, her lips swollen. "What do you think?"
"Get up here."
He pulled her to her feet and kissed her again, tasting himself on her tongue. She moaned into his mouth, her fingers fisting in his hair. He spun her around and pressed her against the door, his chest against her back, his cock pressing against the curve of her ass.
"Coat," she said. "There's a condom in my jacket pocket."
He found it, fumbled with the wrapper, rolled it on. She was already bending over, bracing her hands against the door, her ass pushed out. The denim skirt she wore was short enough that it barely covered anything.
"Just do it," she said. "I'm already wet."
He pushed aside her underwear and found her slick, hot. He ran his fingers through her folds, spreading her open, making her gasp. Then he lined himself up and pushed inside her.
She was tight, tighter than he expected, and he had to pause halfway to let her adjust. She arched her back, her fingers curling against the door.
"Keep going," she breathed. "All of it."
He thrust the rest of the way in, buried to the hilt, and she let out a low groan that made his dick twitch inside her. He grabbed her hips and started moving, slow at first, then faster. The door rattled against its frame with every thrust, the party thumping on the other side like a heartbeat.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck," she chanted, her voice muffled against her arm. "Harder."
He gave her harder. Pounded into her until the door groaned and the walls shook. Her ass slapped against his hips, the sound obscene, competing with the bass. He reached around and found her clit, rubbed it in rough circles while he fucked her.
"Don't stop," she said. "Don't you dare stop."
He didn't. He fucked her through her orgasm, felt her tighten and spasm around his cock, heard her cry out something that might have been his fake name. Then he was coming too, his hips stuttering, his release flooding the condom.
For a moment, they just stood there, panting, the door still rattling slightly from the impact. Then Imogen laughed, breathless and hoarse.
"Fuck," she said. "Now that's a welcome to London."
Johnny pulled out and disposed of the condom, tucking it into a tissue from his pocket. He ran a hand through his hair, tried to steady his breathing.
"You okay?"he asked.
She turned around and leaned against the door, her skirt still hiked up. "I'm going to be sore tomorrow. But yeah. I'm okay." She looked at him, really looked at him, and something flickered in her eyes. "You're not what I expected."
"What did you expect?"
"Some chav who'd come in his jeans before I got my mouth on him."
"Sorry to disappoint."
She laughed and pulled him in for another kiss, softer this time. "You definitely didn't disappoint. You're the first guy who's ever made me want to skip my own party."
"High praise."
She pulled her skirt down and smoothed it out, then grabbed her jacket from the pile. "I'm going back out there. You can stay if you want. Or not. No pressure."
"I'll stay."
She smiled and opened the door, slipping out into the hallway. Johnny stood alone in the coat room for a minute, listening to the party continue without him. He looked down at his hands. They were shaking.
Not from the sex.
From something else.
He pulled his hoodie back on and followed her.
He pulled his hoodie back on and followed her.
The hallway was a gauntlet of bodies and noise. Imogen moved through it like she owned the place—maybe she did—and Johnny trailed in her wake, watching the way people parted for her without seeming to notice. She grabbed a bottle of wine from the kitchen counter and took a long pull straight from the neck.
"You're staring," she said without turning around.
"You're worth staring at."
"That's a line."
"It's the truth."
She glanced back at him, one eyebrow cocked, and something passed between them—a shared understanding that whatever had happened in the coat room wasn't going to stay there. The party churned around them, oblivious. Red cups, sweat-slicked skin, a boy vomiting into a houseplant while his friends filmed it on their phones.
Imogen led him to a corner of the living room where a group of her friends had claimed a battered sofa. They looked up as she approached—a blonde girl with a lip ring, a guy with a man bun and a philosophy department t-shirt, another girl who was clearly too drunk to follow the conversation.
"This is Danny," Imogen said, dropping onto the arm of the sofa. "He's from... somewhere."
"America," Johnny said.
"Vague," the blonde said, approvingly. "I'm Cass. This is Theo and Rachel."
Theo nodded. Rachel waved vaguely and went back to staring at her phone.
"Exchange student?" Cass asked.
"Something like that."
"You're being mysterious."
"It's his thing," Imogen said. "He thinks it makes him interesting."
"Does it?"
Johnny shrugged. "You tell me."
They talked for a while—about nothing, about everything. The kind of conversation that happens at three in the morning when nobody's sober and nobody wants to go home. Theo was working on his thesis about the ethics of memory. Cass was studying architecture and hated it. Imogen sat beside Johnny, her thigh pressed against his, and every so often she'd catch his eye and smile like they were sharing a secret.
The party thinned out slowly. Rachel passed out on the sofa. Theo wandered off to find more wine. Cass started cleaning up, because someone had to, and Imogen pulled Johnny toward the door.
"I need air," she said. "Come with me."
They stepped out into the street. The rain had stopped, but the pavement was still slick, reflecting the streetlights in long, wavering streaks. Imogen lit a cigarette and offered it to him. He shook his head.
"You don't smoke?"
"Not anymore."
She shrugged and took a drag. The smoke curled up into the dark, disappearing into the night.
"So," she said. "Danny from America. What's your deal?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, you show up at a random party, you don't know anyone, you don't seem to care about anything, and then you fuck like you're trying to prove something." She looked at him sideways. "What are you running from?"
Johnny laughed, but it came out hollow. "Why do you assume I'm running from something?"
"Because nobody comes to a freshers' party alone unless they're running from something." She flicked ash onto the pavement. "Or they're a serial killer. You don't give off serial killer vibes."
"Thanks. I think."
"So? What is it?"
He was quiet for a moment. The city hummed around them, distant traffic and distant voices and the low persistent buzz of a place that never really slept. He thought about telling her the truth. About the money. About the startup. About the way he'd sold his company and his soul in the same transaction and hadn't felt anything since.
"I just needed to get away," he said finally. "From everything. From who I was supposed to be."
"That's vague."
"It's all I've got."
She studied him, her eyes dark and unreadable. Then she nodded, like she'd decided something.
"Okay," she said. "Keep your secrets. I've got mine too."
They stood there in the quiet, passing the cigarette back and forth. When it burned down to the filter, Imogen dropped it and crushed it under her boot.
"There's a pub around the corner," she said. "Opens at six. You want to go?"
"It's three in the morning."
"So we'll wait."
Johnny looked at her. The streetlight caught her face, highlighting the sharp angle of her jaw, the ring in her nose, the faint creases at the corners of her eyes. She was tired. They both were. But there was something in her expression that kept him from saying no.
"Alright," he said. "Let's wait."
They found a bench outside the pub—a heavy wooden thing bolted to the pavement. Imogen sat with her legs stretched out, her head tilted back against the wall. Johnny sat beside her, close enough to feel the warmth of her body.
"Do you ever think about the future?" she asked.
"Not really."
"Why not?"
"Because every time I do, I get it wrong."
She laughed. "That's the most honest thing you've said all night."
"I'm full of surprises."
They watched the city wake up. A street sweeper rumbled past. A man in a suit walked by with a coffee and a phone pressed to his ear. The sky went from black to gray to a pale, washed-out blue.
At six, the pub opened its doors. The landlord—a bulky man with a handlebar mustache and a look of permanent fatigue—eyed them with suspicion as they walked in.
"You look like shit," he said.
"Thanks," Johnny said.
"What'll it be?"
"Two pints. Whatever's cheapest."
They sat in the back corner, away from the windows. The pub was empty except for an old man nursing a whiskey at the bar and a couple of night-shift workers decompressing over crisps. Imogen wrapped her hands around her pint like she was thawing them.
"So," she said. "What now?"
"I don't know."
"Where are you staying?"
"A hostel in Shoreditch."
She wrinkled her nose. "Fucking hell. That's grim."
"It's cheap."
"Are you cheap?"
"No."
She looked at him over the rim of her glass. "Then why are you staying in a hostel?"
Johnny took a sip of his beer. It was warm and flat and tasted like it had been sitting in the lines since the place opened. He didn't care.
"There's a game I play," he said. "When I travel. I dress like I don't have anything and see how people treat me."
"That's a weird game."
"It's an honest one."
Imogen set down her glass. "And what have you learned?"
"That most people are dicks. But some aren't." He met her eyes. "You weren't."
She didn't smile. Just looked at him with that same steady, unreadable expression. "You're a strange one, Danny."
"So I've been told."
They finished their drinks and ordered another round. The sun was fully up now, streaming through the windows and cutting the pub's gloom into bright, hazy slices. Johnny felt the weight of the night settling into his bones, the tiredness pulling at his eyelids.
Imogen yawned. "I should go home. Sleep for a year."
"Me too."
She stood and grabbed her jacket. Johnny did the same, leaving a handful of cash on the table. They walked out together, blinking in the morning light.
"Same time next week?"she asked.
"What?"
She laughed. "I'm joking. But..." She pulled a pen from her jacket and grabbed his hand. Scrawled a number on his palm. "If you get bored.Or lonely. Or whatever."
He looked down at the ink, then back up at her. "I'll call."
"You better." She leaned in and kissed him.Quick. Light. A promise or a question, he wasn't sure which. Then she turned and walked away, disappearing into the stream of morning commuters.
Johnny stood there for a long time, the city humming around him. The number on his hand felt like a brand. He shoved both hands in his pockets and started walking.
He didn't know where he was going. But for the first time since he'd landed, he felt like maybe he was headed somewhere.