The Impact of You

Copyright © 2013 Kendall Ryan

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without written permission of the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages for review purposes only.

This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to any person, living or dead, or any events or occurrences, is purely coincidental. The characters and story lines are created from the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously.

Cover image used under license from 123RF.com

Photography by
Dmitriy Shironosov

Edited by
Sara Biren of Stubby Pencil and Carmen Erickson

Dedication

To girls everywhere who have made
mistakes.

Forgive yourself.

Then let it go.

“You only live once, but if you do it right, once is enough.”

-
       
Mae West

Avery

Thirty minutes into my first college party, and I
’m ready to smack someone in the face with a shovel. My first problem is that I’m wearing the most ridiculous shade of pink. Madison’s doing, of course. Tugging at the hem of my hideous shirt, I plaster a fake smile on my face and try to act as if I own this new look.

Compared to Madison in her tight jeans, low-cut black
top, and sexy three-inch heels, I look
cute
in my pink outfit. And I hate that word. Cute is what you use to describe a teddy bear or a three-year-old, and it only demonstrates that I don’t belong at this frat party filled with gorgeous half-dressed girls grinding on the dance floor.
Fuck my life.

Sighing,
I push a chunk of hair behind my shoulder and take another sip of the now warm beer in my han
d. Madison thrusts her arm around my waist, bumping her hip against mine in time with the music. I smile at her attempt.

“Need more to
drink?” she asks above hip-hop music so loud I can feel the beat vibrating in my chest.

I look
into my still full red plastic cup. “I’m good.” I hate the taste of beer, but manage to take another sip. Tonight is all about blending in. And something tells me being the stone-sober girl with a perma-frown etched into her face isn’t the way to do it.

Madison and
Noah are convinced this will be my year. They have grand visions of me loose and carefree, thriving in the college social scene despite the contrary evidence I’d presented them as a freshman last year. When they’d dressed me in this pink top earlier – which Noah claimed was actually
rosy coral
– they’d declared me a ripe peach, ready for the picking. I’d barely kept the scowl off my face at the euphemism.

“
Mancandy, two o’clock,” Madison announces over the music.

I
take my time, subtly turning in the direction she indicates. A group of three guys stands talking near the DJ and, honestly, they’re all cute. Either that or my mind won’t let me distinguish individual features since my body has no plans of getting involved with anyone. Ever.

“Which
one?” I ask, playing along with Madison so I don’t disappoint her yet again. I know I make a terrible wing-woman. Noah fills the role a heck of a lot better than me. A fact he’s super proud of.

Madison glance
s at the group of preppy college boys. “The pretty one.”

Pretty?

Noah steals a glance at the group of guys too. “Damn, that boy is fucking delish.” He shakes his head.

“Major
player, though.” Madison rolls her eyes.

“The pretty ones always are,” Noah
adds.

I
can’t resist looking again for this so-called pretty boy, and when I do, icy blue eyes meet mine and he zeroes in on me with a smirk. His lingering gaze rakes boldly over my body, and I feel the nervous lurch of my stomach. The sights and sounds of the room fade away. Yeah, he’s pretty. That’s the only way to describe him. He’s roughly six-feet tall and lean, but with a hint of muscle. His hair is a warm mix of brown and blond, and his eyes are such a striking blue, it shouldn’t have been possible without colored contact lenses. Not to mention the ridiculously long eyelashes that I’d happily murder him for in his sleep.

A
warm tingle creeps up my chest. It’s a decidedly unwelcome feeling and I swallow a large gulp of beer hoping to extinguish whatever the hell that sensation was. I want to look away, but I can’t. He has on dark jeans that fit his lean frame perfectly – slouching a bit on his hips but held in place by a worn leather belt. His T-shirt is plain and navy blue. I like that he isn’t overdressed for this thing, like some of the other gel-haired, button-up-shirt-wearing guys circling us. His hair is unruly and rumpled like he’d been in a fight with his comb. I have the urge to brush the strands out of his face. Or use it to tug him in to kiss me.
Where did that thought come from?

Pretty
Boy’s eyes stay locked on mine. One corner of his full mouth pulls upward.
Crap
. He caught me staring. I can feel my fake smile wavering. As my cheeks heat up, I look down at my feet that are squeezed into Madison’s heels. He has to know how gorgeous he is. Guys like him always do. And he is firmly in male-model territory, so he can’t fault me for looking.

“C’mon, Avery, dance with us. You’re being a downer,” Madison whines. When I blow her off a second time, she gives up and drags Noah to the center of the living room. She sways and grinds to the beat, obviously hoping Pretty Boy will notice. They gesture for me to join them, but as much as I love them both, this is so not my scene. Noah and Madison are both theater majors, so to say they are dramatic is an understatement. Sometimes I wonder if I cling to them because their flamboyant personalities mask my non-existent one. I watch them shimmy and shake for a few minutes before sneaking another glance at Pretty Boy in the corner.

He’s still watching me
, so I give him my best attempt at a smile. I’m pretty good at hiding that I’m wounded, that my life blew up in a spectacular scandal my senior year, and that I still walk around fearful what happened that night will be uncovered. I hold the I-could-care-less-smile in place. I’m just a regular college sophomore in a hideous pink shirt. Move along folks. Nothing to see here.

My cheeks
still burn and my heart pounds in time with the music.
It’s too damn hot in here.
Too hot to be wearing jeans and a three-quarter sleeve top. Pushing a damp tendril of hair from my face, I pull a breath into my lungs. It only confirms what my body already knows. Even with the show going on in front of him, Pretty Boy is still closely watching me.

The way his
eyes lock on mine from across the room holds the promise of something much more intimate than two random partygoers. His deep blue gaze penetrates me and eats away at the calm, cool demeanor I fight to maintain. He looks at me like he knows me all too well, like he sees I’m an imposter. Maybe it’s because he’s hiding something too. His friends laugh around him while he looks on, bored and unimpressed. I snap my gaze away.

Guys like him bug
me for numerous reasons. I hate his overconfidence and the way he’s completely ignoring the girl grinding up on him. Like he couldn’t be bothered to pay attention to anyone he deems unworthy of his affections.
Cocky bastard.
If he doesn’t want her he should send her on her way, put her out of her misery. Blond bimbo or not, she’s still a person.

Watching the poor girl conjure
s up memories I can’t deal with. I hate that I was once that girl. Pretty Boy continues to rake his gaze over every inch of me. Well, if this jerk thinks I’m an easy conquest, he’s sadly mistaken. Lifting my chin, I avert my gaze and force my smile to remain in place. I throw a glance at Madison and Noah who are full-on impersonating Lady Gaga at this point, and deciding my friends won’t miss me, I make my way through the crowd toward the back door. And freedom.

Jase

The blond skims her nails over my chest and lowers herself down until her face is level with my groin. She bites her bottom lip and blinks up at me
seductively. Too bad this is doing absolutely fucking nothing for me. I attempt a smile, but my face feels tight and unnatural. I grip her arms and haul her up, bending to whisper near her ear. “Sorry, baby. Not tonight.” Disappointment crosses her features, but she nods, and walks away.

A year ago this would have been my favorite way to spend a Saturday night.
Girls?
Check
. Drinking?
Check
. Raging party with my friends?
Double Check.
Not so much anymore. I don’t miss drinking too much and waking up next to someone I can’t remember.

But the main reason this holds no appeal? I was plastered
the night I got
the call
from my dad last semester. I had to wait until morning before attempting the three-hour drive home to see my mom, all pale and gray in that hospital bed. After spending a tortured night, shattered without any way to fix it, drinking becomes a far less important priority.

My best friend Trey leans over. “Damn man, you don’t even have to try. It’s like you set off some radar that attracts them. Come. Fuck. Me,” he
says in a robotic voice.

I shove his shoulder. “Shut up, you know it’s not my fault.”

“No, the superior genetics bred into you by the Congressman and the MILF ensure you get ass easily and often.” He shakes his head. “Fucking lucky bastard.”

I chuckle, brushing off his comment. The truth
is I didn’t ask for the attention, and I rarely sleep around anymore. But I’d earned my reputation during my freshman and sophomore years banging pretty much every girl in sight. And now I don’t do much to dispel the rumors. It’s nice, though, not be on the outs with one guy or another in the house because of whose girlfriend or sister I’d slept with. I’m actually enjoying the reprieve.

I look up and spot a pretty dark-haired girl in the corner. She isn’t dressed like the other
girls here – her tits and ass aren’t on display—and strangely it makes her even more attractive. Her eyes widen and she forces a smile. It’s obvious this isn’t her scene.

I take comfort knowing I’m not the only one faking it tonight. She’s not the type of girl the old me would’ve bothered with. Meaning her panties
aren’t ready to drop to her knees at my command. But somehow that only makes me more interested. She tugs at the hem of her pink shirt, looking ready to flee.

“Just wanted to warn you…
Stacia’s here and was looking for you earlier,” Trey says.

Shit fuck.
“Just what I wanted to deal with tonight. Drunk Stacia.” Sloppy Stacia, crying Stacia, horny Stacia, take your pick. She’s usually at least one, if not all of the above.

“You guys broken up again?”

“For good this time.”

He raises his glass in a mock salute.
“Stay strong, man.”

I plan to. We
’ve broken up and gotten back to together so many times, I don’t know which way is up with that girl. We dated for a year. Why? I couldn’t tell you. I never liked her personality, but I did like her body. Still do, if I’m being honest. And she always shared that with me freely. But hanging out, listening to her talk about inconsequential bullshit… gah, even the sound of her voice frays my nerves.

I glance around the room,
looking for the pretty dark-haired girl again. Not spotting her, I lean back against the wall so I can see into the kitchen. People fill pretty much every square inch of the kitchen, living and dining rooms – the only rooms we keep unlocked during parties. And the line for the bathroom is too long, so she couldn’t have gone in there. Considering her friends are still dancing in the center of the living room, spilling beer onto our already disgusting carpeting, I know she’s not far. That girl looks far too innocent to be wandering around a frat house alone.
Damn
. I hand Trey my beer and go off in search of her.