Chapter 8

CHAPTER EIGHT

KAYCE

Spending my Saturday night at the Alpha Iota Xi annual Halloween party was not on my to-do list. I went to enough frat parties for a lifetime during my freshman year, back when I hadn't yet gained my freshman fifteen— or thirty— and was still pretty enough to date the now the AIX President. The possibility of running into Jackson nearly convinced me to forgo this party.

Unfortunately, it's the social event of the fall and not attending essentially turns you into a social pariah. The girls in my dorm all but forced me to come with them after demanding I change out of my skinny jeans and Oakridge hoodie. I stupidly listened and am now traipsing through the Oakridge Cemetery wearing nothing more than a strapless black mini-dress, a pair of Vans—after fighting hard about refusing to wear stilettos—and kitten ears during late Fall in New England.

Just rolling with the great life choices, Kayce …

Thankfully, the party is in full swing, with the warmth of bonfires scattered throughout the portion of the cemetery being used for the party. I make my way through the sea of ghouls, goblins, zombies, ghost faces, and skeletons as I walk deeper into the party.

This place is a dark romance reading girly's wet dream.

Top Fifty hits through speakers at a volume more than sufficient to rouse the dead as people congregate around kegs of— probably warm— beer. I join them to fill my plastic cup because a little flat, stale beer is the only way I'm going to successfully suffer through this evening.

Wedged between a group of other partygoers, I wait my turn to fill my cup. It might be my self-conscious screaming from being out in this tiny dress, but I can't shake the feeling that someone is watching me.

"Is my dirty little toy ready to play?" a deep, familiar voice whispers immediately behind me.

Goosebumps prickle over my skin, and my heart races uncontrollably. Spinning around, I find myself eye-to-eye with a very startled frat pledge. My eyes dart at the other freshmen standing beside him, stopping abruptly when I see a guy pushing through the crowd.

Those eyes…

My brows furrow in disbelief, and I exhale, "Grave?"

His blue-gray orbs glimmer in the moonlight as he stares back at me, the devilish glint only growing with every second of our locked gaze. Shoving my way through the sea of people, I try to follow him .

"Grave!" I shout after him, but the roaring music drowns out my cries.

Standing in the middle of the makeshift dance floor, I spin in circles, trying to find him. But he's not there. I haven't had a sip of alcohol yet, so there's no way I'm drunk or had something slipped into my drink.

It was him…

It has to be.

"You look good, baby," a flirtatious voice softly whispers in my ear as his hands slide down the bare skin of my arms. His words and touch cause the hairs on the back of my neck to stand on end. I don't need to turn around to know who it is.

Jackson .

His hands continue traveling down my body, firmly gripping my hips and pulling me backward into him. Grinding against my ass, he marvels, "You fucking feel good too."

"Pretty sure your girlfriend won't appreciate you rubbing all up on me," I snarl and try to push away from him.

He holds fast, and I'm suddenly acutely aware that he is growing hard as he continues to slide his hips against my ass. Using his face to push my hair out of the way, he nuzzles his lips against my neck. "She isn't here. You're here. And I've missed you," He shares, his breath reeking of booze .

"Missed me?" I scoff, finally managing to pull myself away from his tight hold. Spinning around, I stare up at him and hiss, "You haven't talked to me in three years. Not a word since you dumped me because I was too fat for a frat boy to be dating."

"You still aren't good enough to date, baby." His tone matches the disgust in his gaze, raking over my curves. "I'm just looking for some pussy. And if memory serves me correctly, you always were a good fuck."

There's the Jackson I know…

How the fuck did I manage to date this asshole most of my freshman year?

I dealt with his comments about my body for months. His words might have well been tattooed on my skin because I carried them long after we broke up. It wasn't until I started camming and men— like Grave— talked about worshipping my body that I started to grow more confident in my skin.

"Jackson." My tone is sultry as I gaze up at him, teasingly sliding my fingertips down the front of his shirt until I grip the waistband of his pants. Dipping my fingertips beneath them, I press onto my toes and lean close. "I wish I could say the same about you."

He shoves me away with a snarl, "You always were a fucking bitch. I was going to give you a pity fuck, but you can go fuck yourself."

"At least I'll get off," I smirk as I walk away.

Fuck! That felt good!