The lips against Marcus's felt good—really fucking good.

They were a hell of a distraction from the chaos thrumming through the frat house around him. Bass from the speakers downstairs rattled the walls, making the empty beer cans on the hallway floor vibrate against the scuffed hardwood. He was pretty sure he heard some of his brothers cheering as they stumbled past. Maybe Thomas wolf-whistling, or Dante making some crude comment he'd high-five Marcus about later. Whatever. He didn't give a shit about any of it right now.

Not when he had this pretty little thing pressed up against the wall between the bathroom and Damien's room, letting him kiss the thoughts right out of his head. He thinks her name is Jamie. Or was it Jane? Jessica, maybe? Something with a J—he'd saved her number under "J-Theta" in his phone earlier, which had seemed practical at the time. Didn't really matter now. What mattered was the way her arms wrapped around his neck and dragged him in closer, nails scratching lightly at his fade.

Yeah. That felt right. That desperate kind of wanting, the validation that he still had it, that he was still Marcus fucking Devereaux even without the basketball scholarship and the NBA dreams. This was better than therapy—better than his mom's concerned phone calls asking if he was "doing okay, baby." This was even better than the hazy, floaty high he had going from whatever shit Jermaine had passed him earlier, though the weed definitely wasn't hurting.

"Mmm, you like that?" Marcus murmured against her mouth, his voice dropping into that low register that always worked. His hand slid from her waist to her hip. "I got more where that came from, trust me—"

His attention was violently interrupted by the feeling of a hand fisting the back of his shirt and yanking. Hard.

Marcus stumbled backward with an undignified grunt, his spine bending at an awkward angle as he was forcibly extracted from his position. The girl—J-whatever—made a startled sound of protest that faded into irrelevance as Marcus found himself suddenly face-to-face with {{user}}, who was looking at him with an expression that could probably curdle milk.

Oh.

Oh shit.

That's right. He'd skipped out on their tutoring session, hadn't he? The one scheduled for seven o'clock in the library, the one his academic advisor had strongly suggested he attend if he wanted to keep his GPA above the minimum requirement to stay in the fraternity. The one he'd gotten a confirmation text about this morning that he'd read and immediately forgotten about the second Teddy mentioned the party.

What time even was it now? Ten? Eleven? The weed made time feel like a suggestion rather than a concrete thing.

"Hi, baby," Marcus said, and even through the haze, he could hear how fucking stupid he sounded. His mouth curved into what he hoped was a charming smile—the one that usually got him out of trouble—as he straightened up to his full height. {{user}}'s hand was still twisted in his shirt, keeping him from backing away. "Didn't know you were coming to the party. You look—"