Chapter 1: The Cancelled Date
The fairy lights strung across the dorm ceiling buzzed with a faint, warm electricity, casting a net of shifting gold over the chaos below. Ink-stained pages of poetry lay scattered on the comforter, the words “ghosts of second chances” blurring into the creases.
Nikki smoothed the lace hem of the dress for the tenth time. Black, tight, bought specifically for tonight. The clock on her phone glowed 8:47 PM. He was seventeen minutes late.
A buzz. Her heart did a stupid, hopeful little jump.
Harry: Can’t make it. Something came up.
The air left her lungs in a slow, cold seep. She didn’t need to ask. She knew what—who—had come up. Always did. Amelia from his poli-sci study group, probably. Or maybe that girl from the coffee shop who ‘just needed a friend to talk to.’ His something was always someone.
She stared at the screen until the letters dissolved into meaningless shapes. The familiar hollow ache bloomed in her chest, a cavity where her pride used to be.
“Fuck,” she whispered to the empty room. The word was swallowed by the hum of the mini-fridge.
Another buzz. Not Harry.
Dev: Party at Sigma Tau. Heard you were free now.
A sharp, ugly laugh escaped her. News traveled fast. Was she that predictable? The dependable second choice, for everyone. She looked at the dress, at the poetry about ghosts, at the lingering scent of Harry’s cologne on the sweater she’d stolen last week. Regret tasted like stale coffee and salt.
Nikki: Yeah. I’m free.
The party was a throbbing, sweaty beast of sound and bodies. She found Dev in the kitchen, leaning against a sticky counter, a red plastic cup in his hand. His eyes travelled down the black lace, slow, appreciative. “Hey, Martinez. You look fucking insane.”
“That’s the idea,” she said, her voice smoother than she felt. She took the cup from his hand and drank. It was cheap vodka and something sweet, burning its way down.
He watched her throat work. “He’s an idiot.”
“Don’t,” she said, the facade cracking for a second. “Just don’t talk about him.”
Dev smirked, taking the cup back, his fingers brushing hers. “Fine. Let’s not talk.”
He led her by the hand through the press of people, upstairs, into a dim hallway lined with closed doors. He shouldered one open. A frat brother’s room, probably—posters for bands she didn’t know, a mess of laundry, the pungent smell of weed and boy.
He kicked the door shut and the noise from downstairs became a dull, distant throb. Here, the only light came from a cracked laptop screen on a desk.
“Finally,” he murmured, his hands coming to her hips, pulling her against him. She could feel the hard line of his erection through his jeans. It should have felt like power. It just felt like a fact.
He kissed her, and it was all tongue and teeth and the sweet-burn taste of the vodka. Not like Harry, who took his time. This was a claiming. A rough palm slid up her ribs, thumb scraping the underside of her breast through the lace.
She broke the kiss, gasping. “Just… get on with it.”
Dev’s eyes gleamed in the half-light. “I like it when you’re pissed off.”
He spun her around, facing the door, his body pressing her into the wood. His mouth was on her neck, sucking hard enough to bruise. One hand fumbled with the zpper at the back of her dress, yanking it down. The cool air hit her skin. He shoved the dress and her thin strap bra down to her waist, her breasts bare against the chipped paint of the door.
“Fuck, you have the best tits,” he grunted, his hands groping, squeezing roughly. His fingers pinched a nipple, hard, and she jolted, a sharp mix of pain and shocking pleasure slicing through the numbness.
His other hand pushed between her thighs, rucking up her skirt. He tore her panties to the side, not even bothering to take them off. She heard his zipper, the tear of a foil packet. Then the blunt, insistent pressure of him, not waiting, not asking.
He shoved into her from behind in one brutal, unyielding thrust.
She cried out, her forehead thunking against the door. It was too much, too dry, a burn that bordered on pure violation. “Dev—wait—”
But he was already moving, a harsh, punishing rhythm, his hips slamming against her ass. His grip on her hips was bruising. “You wanted this, remember?” he panted into her ear, his breath hot. “You wanted to not think. So don’t fucking think.”
So she didn’t. She let the feeling override everything—the raw, physical drag of him inside her, the slap of skin, the grunt of his breath. She focused on the decay of the door under her cheek, the splintering wood grain. She chased the feeling away from her heart, down into the dark, aching junction of her body, until the pain blurred into a hollow, mechanical pleasure.
His thrusts grew erratic, jagged. “Shit, Nikki…” He bit her shoulder, his whole body stiffening as he came with a ragged groan, pumping into her, his weight sagging against her back.
Silence, except for their ragged breathing. He pulled out, the sudden emptiness a cold shock. She heard the condom tie off, tossed toward a trash can.
He zipped his jeans. Smacked her ass, a casual, ownership sound. “You’re a wild one, Martinez.”
She pushed herself off the door, pulling her dress up, covering herself. Her body felt used, a shell. The hollow ache in her chest was wider now, filled with a new kind of shame.
Dev was already heading for the door. “Come down when you’re ready. Beer’s still cold.”
Then he was gone.
Nikki stood in the dark room, the ghost of his sweat and her own scent clinging to her. She found her torn panties on the floor, shoved them into her small purse. She looked at herself in the dim reflection of the laptop screen—smudged mascara, a fresh bruise blooming on her neck, her purple hair a tangled mess.
She had wanted to feel something. Anything.
Now she just felt like a rented room. Empty, after the party was over. The momentum of her anger was gone, spent, leaving only a clearer, colder truth in its wake. This wasn't the answer. And Harry wasn't the problem.
She was.