The newest release from Olivia Thorne, author of The Billionaire’s Seduction series!Kaitlyn Reynolds is a year out of college and fighting to become a journalist when she gets the biggest break of her young life: the shot at a cover story in Rolling Stone magazine.

But there’s a catch.

She’ll be covering the hottest bad-boy in rock, Derek Kane, whom Kaitlyn met when she was a freshman in college and he was a struggling unknown. It was passionate two-week affair: tumultuous, sensual, exhilarating…

…and it ended very, very badly.

Now Kaitlyn has to decide whether she can face the pain of the past, her fear of the future – and the man who might just have been the One.

Rock Me Hard (The Rock Star’s Seduction Part 1) is the first novel in a series of four. It is 57,000 words in length. Due to frank scenes of sensuality and profanity, it is intended for Mature Audiences only.

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  And here, for your reading pleasure, is our free romance excerpt:

1

I once heard a question that both unnerved me and made things startlingly clear: is it more important to love someone with all your heart…

…or to be loved by someone with all of theirs?

We all want to fall head-over-heels in love, and we all want the other person to love us back exactly the same. But that’s not usually the way it turns out.

In fact, I think that’s rarely the way it turns out. Both people may be in love, but it always seems one person is more in love than the other.

So… if you had to choose, which would it be?

Love someone else passionately and completely, even if they don’t feel as powerfully as you?

Or be loved passionately and completely, even if you don’t feel exactly the same towards them?

I thought I knew the answer when I heard the question.

Then I found out years later that no… I didn’t know the answer at all.

2

Present Day

I sat across from the Rolling Stone editor in his office overlooking midtown Manhattan.

I’d arrived 15 minutes early for my meeting. I thought I was there to interview for some lowly staff position. Layout grunt… gofer… toilet scrubber.

Actually, I hoped and dreamed it was a staff position. As desperate as I was, I would have taken an unpaid internship.

I mean, come on. It was Rolling Stone.

Glen the editor sat across the desk from me, hands folded, serene. He was bald on top with curly hair around the sides, and he wore black, plastic-frame hipster glasses. His personal sense of style was somewhere between 70’s Rocker and College Professor.

“Kaitlyn Reynolds. Finally we meet. Good to put a face with the voice over the phone.”

“Same here. Nice to meet you, too.”

“Journalism degree from Syracuse, right?”

“Yes.”

“When did you graduate?”

“A year ago.” I put on a polite smile. “Almost to the day.”

“I read the pieces you emailed me. Not bad. Not great… but not bad.”

Not great… but not bad.

My temper spiked a little bit. I’m a bit of a hothead sometimes.

But I calmed myself down by thinking, When an editor at Rolling Stone says your stuff isn’t bad, ignore the ‘not great’ part.

“Well, I’m still working on building up my portfolio – ”

Glen interrupted me, ignoring what I was saying. “There was something I especially liked, a short story you wrote for the Syracuse literary magazine.”

I frowned. “I… didn’t include that in the email.”

“I know. I went and tracked it down on the internet. I liked it. Had a distinctive voice I don’t really see in your articles.”

My jaw set a little. “Um… thank you?”

Glen smiled. “I’m just saying I think you’ve got it in you to be a very good writer. It hasn’t come out yet, but you have a lot of potential. But you’re going to need to bring it out quick if this is going to work.”

My heart raced.

This sounded like it might be something better than a toilet-scrubbing position.

I swallowed. “Are you… are you offering me a job?”

“Not a ‘job,’ per se. But we want to give you a shot at a feature article. Shanna didn’t tell you?”

Shanna was my college roommate from freshman year at the University of Georgia. We lost touch when I went to Syracuse, but we stayed Facebook friends – which basically means I just read what she posted on her wall. She moved to New York City a couple of years before I did. When I announced on Facebook I was moving, too, she told me to look her up. That’s how we rekindled the friendship. We occasionally had dinner when I had the extra money (which wasn’t often) and when she wasn’t seeing three different guys at once (which was practically all the time).

I was starting to get dizzy. A shot at a feature article. “No, she was pretty vague about the whole thing.”

Glen grimaced. “Yeah… she said you might not be that happy with the assignment.”

Two minutes ago, I would have scrubbed toilets for free.

Now he was talking ‘feature article.’

            ‘Might not be happy with the assignment’?

HA.

I was fighting to get pieces published in crappy independent newspapers. You know, the kind mostly devoted to club ads listing what bands were playing, with dubious ‘massage’ ads in the back.

As for my online endeavors, the Huffington Post had turned me down three times in the last month.

I couldn’t even give my writing away.

And now I was talking with an editor at Rolling Stone about a feature article.

There was nothing I wouldn’t do for a break like this. Undercover hooker? ‘Day in the life of a sewage worker’? Pro bono proctology exams? I was there.

“I’m sure it won’t be a problem,” I laughed, a little too giddily. “I mean – what exactly do you want me to do?”

He settled back in his seat.

“Shanna told me you once dated Derek Kane.”

My face froze. I could feel every individual muscle straining to keep my smile in place.

Shit.

Please God, not this.

Anything but this.

3

Derek Kane was currently the hottest thing going in rock. And not just because his band had three singles currently in the top 20, with ‘If There’s A Next Time’ poised to hit number one in the next week or two.

No. He was also the most gorgeous guy to front a rock band since Jim Morrison.

Six feet tall… black hair… chiseled face… cheekbones to die for.

Most rockers outside of Death Metal are scrawny little dudes, with pasty bird chests and no muscles. Not Derek. He looked more like an underwear model, with a muscled chest, incredibly strong arms, and abs you could scrub laundry on. Broad shoulders, muscular legs, and an ass that made you want to tear off his pants. Some women at his concerts occasionally did.

He also had the most intense, gorgeous green eyes you’ve ever seen. Like emerald ocean water warmed by the sun.

Of course, not many people knew that, because he never let himself be photographed without sunglasses on. Never performed without them. Every candid shot in every gossip rag always had him with his trademark Maui Jims wrapped around his face, his beautiful eyes hidden from the world.

I only knew what they looked like because I had met him four years ago. Back before he was a Rock God.

I had known him for exactly two weeks.

The last time I saw him, we’d spent the night together. I’d told him I loved him… and then I got in my car and drove away, tears streaming down my face.

I never saw or heard from him again.

But it’s not what you think.

However, walking away from him that day was probably the single worst mistake of my life.

Now I was afraid I was going to make an even bigger one.

4

I stared at the editor. My smile was still in place, but it was more like a waxworks expression, it was so fake.

“Um… what is it that you want, exactly? Because I’m not doing some kiss-and-tell piece.”

Glen waved his hands as though to ward off bad mojo. “Oh, no no no no no. Nothing like that.”

“…what, then?”

“Well, as you know, Kane is notoriously averse to the press.”

Actually, I did know that. Just because I hadn’t talked to him since our final day together didn’t mean I hadn’t been keeping tabs on him.

‘Notoriously averse to the press’ was kind of like saying ‘The Pope isn’t tremendously fond of gay marriage.’

Derek hated the press. Hated them. With a vengeance bordering on lunacy. He’d go on shows to perform, no problem – Letterman, Conan, Jimmy Fallon, Jimmy Kimmel. He’d go on Ellen and banter with her.

But what he would not do was talk to the press. Not Rolling Stone, not Spin, not The New York Times, not the Anytown USA Herald. He hadn’t for years.

Which had the curious effect of making them slobber over him all the more. Like semi-popular girls spurned by the Prom Queen, they gossiped and backstabbed and gushed over him – sometimes in the same article – hoping that they, maybe, just maybe, might get to be BFFs with him in his first print interview in two years.

It really was like high school, in the most shallow and disgusting of ways.

Omigawd, did you see what he’s WEARING?! He’s SO over. Totes. Omigawd, did you hear, he just had another hit! It’s the worst song E-VER. Do you think he’d come to my party?

“…and what does that have to do with me?” I asked. I wasn’t trying to be bitchy, but I have to admit, my stress over the situation was beginning to leak out around the edges.

“We think he’ll talk to you.”

There it was. My stomach knotted up seventeen times over.

“I don’t think he will,” I said with a forced smile.

“Actually, we know he will.”

My forced smile faded. “How do you know that?”

“We’ve been trying to get him to talk to us for the last six months. Actually, we’ve been trying for longer than that, but it didn’t become a priority until they started charting in a big way. We must have tried thirty times. At first we just did general inquiries through their manager – ‘could we talk to you while you’re playing Madison Square?’ ‘Let me check with Derek.’ And then he’d email back, ‘No.’ We started throwing out names – our best guys. People who have interviewed everybody – Madonna, Springsteen, Obama, for God’s sake. ‘No.’ We lined up authors who agreed to do a one-off for us – Bret Easton Ellis, David Mamet, people it would be a fucking honor for Kane to even be in the same room with. ‘No.’ Same damn thing every time – ‘No, no, no, no, no.’ And then I meet Shanna at a party, and in passing I mention I can’t get Derek Kane to give us a fucking interview… and she tells me about you.

“On a complete whim – in fact, and I’m not proud to admit this, but I was pissed off and a little bit drunk when I sent the email – I gave the manager your name.”

He let the silence build up the suspense.

I was about to puke – not because I didn’t know what was coming, but because I did.

“‘Yes.’ No preconditions, no rules, no bullshit… just one word: yes.” Glen threw his hands up in the air. “So you’re it, kid. This is the Call. You’re moving up to the big leagues. Congratulations.”

My hands shook as I clenched them in my lap. “Thank you, but… no.”

5

Four Years Ago

It was the spring of my Freshman year in college, two weeks away from finals. I was in my dorm room at the University of Georgia, reading up for a test the next morning in my English Lit class, trying to ignore the phone call from three days earlier that was still playing in an endless loop in my head.

“Are you seeing anybody?”

            “No, Kevin, I’m not. You know I’m not.”

            “You’re not attracted to anybody, are you? If you are, I wish you’d just come out and tell me right now and be honest about it.”

            “God, how many times do I have to say it?”

            “Don’t curse at me, Kaitlyn.”

            “I wasn’t – fine. Sorry.”

            “Well – are you?”

            “Am I what?”

            “Attracted to anybody else?”

            “NO! GOD, how many times do I have to – ”

            “I told you, don’t curse – ”

            “I wasn’t fucking cursing, Kevin! NOW I’m fucking cursing!”

            “I can’t talk to you when you’re like this.”

            “You don’t even hear me when I DO talk to you!”

            “Well, maybe we shouldn’t talk for awhile, then.”

            “…Kevin…”

            “Maybe we should take a break.”

            “Kevin, come on – there’s only two weeks left, and then we’ll both be back home – ”

            “I don’t know who you are sometimes. You’re becoming more and more like your roommate – ”

            “I’M NOT SHANNA, Kevin! I’m with YOU! I’m in love with YOU!”

            “You don’t act like it sometimes.”

            “Jesus CHRIST, I might as well go ahead and cheat on you since you PUNISH me like I have anyway!”

            Silence.

            “…I can’t believe you just said that.”

            “Kevin… I’m sorry… I didn’t mean it, it’s just you make me so MAD when you – ”

            “Go ahead. Sleep with whoever you want.”

            “KEVIN – ”

            Click.

Unfortunately, that wasn’t the first time we’d had that conversation, almost word for word. In fact, we were approaching double digits.

Kevin was my high school boyfriend in Savannah, Georgia. We’d been dating since 10th grade. He was so nervous when he asked me out the first time that he almost gave up halfway through. But he finally got all the way through it, and I said ‘yes.’ I liked him from the beginning; I grew to love him. He was a shy, sweet guy, very intelligent. We shared the same dreams of being world-class journalists someday. That’s how we met, working on the school newspaper.

We dated five months before he finally kissed me. I lost my virginity to him in 11th grade, more than a year after we started dating. Sex was good with him. I never wanted to tear his clothes off in a half-insane state of passion… but he was attentive and considerate.

But he was also incredibly insecure.

He was that way from the start, but it got worse as time went on. I was a late bloomer – like, a late bloomer. I didn’t get my period until I was 14, and I remained skinny and gangly until I was 16. But all of a sudden in 11th grade, BAM, I kind of came into my own. Curves everywhere. My skin cleared up and I finally got a fashion sense. Boys started noticing me seemingly overnight. I got a lot of attention where I hadn’t before – like, ‘captain of the football team’ attention. I think one of the reasons Kevin finally got the nerve to ask me to have sex was because he was afraid he was going to lose me to somebody more aggressive. He thought that if we ‘sealed the deal,’ I’d stay with him.

It was never about that for me. He was my first love, and I would have stayed with him no matter what. I definitely wouldn’t have cheated on him, ever. When I was twelve, my mom cheated on my dad with a business colleague of hers. Even though my parents ended up staying together, it destroyed my father. My brothers and I got front-row seats to the carnage. I hated my mom for a long time because of it. I eventually forgave her for what she did to my father and our family, but I swore to myself that I would never, ever put anybody through that.

But things got worse when I went to college. I stayed in-state at UGA, while Kevin went to Syracuse University. Syracuse was both of our first choices, but only he got in. I planned to try to transfer for my Sophomore year, but in the meantime, he was in New York, and I was stuck in Athens, Georgia.

The distance made him extremely paranoid. It was partly my fault; early on, I told him about some of the raunchier, alcohol-fueled shenanigans of my roommate, a crazy chick named Shanna Williams from California. About how she went to clubs and parties every night, and usually slept with a new guy every week. About how I would wake up at 2AM hearing the creaking springs in Shanna’s bed, and her whispering drunkenly, “Shhhh, you’ll wake up my roommate.” About the weirdness the morning after, when I had some naked stranger in my room.

“It was sooo awkward – and I didn’t even sleep with him!” I laughed when I told Kevin.

Hoo boy. Wrooooong thing to say.

After the second time, I learned to keep my mouth shut about Shanna’s sexcapades.

It wasn’t like he never saw me. We called or Skyped all the time. We saw each other every four or five weeks. Either he would drive the 15-hour trip down, or occasionally I would go up to stay with him, or we’d rendezvous in the middle at some crappy little hotel in the middle when he couldn’t stand being away from me any longer. Or, if truth be told, when I couldn’t stand the whininess anymore.

And then the break-ups started.

All of them were initiated by him.

I was distraught over the first one. Wrecked. I cried for two days straight. It lasted a week, and then he called and begged me to take him back, said that he couldn’t live without me. I was elated.

Four weeks later we broke up again, then got back together over Christmas break. I wasn’t so elated this time.

Especially when it happened again in February.

Why didn’t I break up with him completely?

Because I was young and stupid.

Because I loved him. Or, if it wasn’t really love, because I still cared for him. A lot.

Because I’d lost my virginity to him.

Because he was the only boy I’d ever been with.

Because in March my application to transfer to Syracuse was accepted. I figured if I’d made it that far, I could hold out for another couple of months.

But every month and a half, another damn breakup. And when we weren’t broken up, it was the endless, whining, insecure phone calls…

It got so bad that every time his ringtone played – ‘Goin’ To The Chapel,’ by the way; he put it on there, NOT me – my whole body would tighten up, and I would think about not answering it.

But I always did.

It’ll get better, I told myself. When we’re together at Syracuse, it’ll be so much better.

There were only two weeks left, and then we would spend all of college together.

During World War II, soldiers had to go off to war and leave their girlfriends and wives behind for years, I reasoned. This is just a test of our love, that’s all.

On the other hand, those girlfriends and wives never had to deal with freaked-out phone calls and Skype sessions obsessing over whether they were cheating or not.

Truth was, I envied my roommate Shanna. She didn’t have a clingy boyfriend. Hell, she didn’t have a boyfriend at all. She slept with whomever she wanted, and she didn’t give a damn what anybody else thought.

Well, actually, she learned to give a damn what I thought. After the fourth late-night hookup, I pitched a fit. So we worked out a compromise: no more overnight stays. One night a week she could bring somebody over, and I would go crash in a sofa chair in the community study room till they were through. But the rest of the time, she had to go to his place or screw him in the bushes or an alley or something. No exceptions.

She kept to her end of the deal. In fact, as I was sitting there trying to concentrate on my boring-ass homework, I realized that she hadn’t brought anybody home in a couple of weeks.

Speak of the Devil, and she shall appear.

6

I heard the key fumble and scrape noisily across the lock. It was the sound I called ‘the Drunk Doorbell’ – a sure sign that Shanna was blasted.

It was usually accompanied by ‘the Drunk Disclaimer.’

“Shhhh,” she giggled out in the hallway. “We gotta be quiet cuz I got a roommate…”

Ah, there it was.

“I’m awake,” I called out. “You don’t have to be quiet.”

The lock clicked and the door crashed open, and Shanna stumbled into the room. “Oh, thas’ good…”

I turned around from my desk to look at her. She was cute – not gorgeous, but she had a great smile and knew how to work a push-up bra. And she was very outgoing. I’d had a lot of practice in fending off guys – most of them assholes, some of them charming – but I never, ever flirted with anybody. Shanna didn’t just flirt, she manhandled.

“I didn’t wake you up, did I?”

“No.”

“It’s okay, right?” she asked, her eyes defocused, her body weaving slightly. “I haven’t had a Shanna Night in… awhile… right?”

That’s what we called the ‘one night a week’ arrangements: Shanna Nights.

“No,” I sighed.

“Good,” she giggled, then whispered in a loud voice that the guy would have heard if he were standing at the opposite end of a football field: “Cuz he’s really HOT.”

She looked over her shoulder and giggled at somebody standing outside in the hallway, just beyond my field of vision.

“Come on in an’ meet my roommate!”

Great. I was wearing a t-shirt and sweats, no bra, no makeup. Just how I wanted to look when I met some drunk douchebag.

Actually, I guess it didn’t matter what I looked like when I met a drunk douchebag, since I didn’t give a damn about what he thought.

I checked my cell phone. 11PM.

Huh – early night for her.

            “I can go in the study lounge. How about an hour?” I asked.

Judging by how drunk she was, I figured she’d pass out in half that time – but I might as well err on the side of caution.

“I usually make it last longer… but that should be enough,” a deep, male voice suddenly spoke up.

The voice was the first thing that got me: sexy. Masculine. Golden brown with a tinge of smokiness around the edges.

Something inside my stomach fluttered, which was not a reaction I normally had to men’s voices.

Actually, it was not a reaction I ever had to men’s voices.

I looked up and saw the hottest guy I’ve ever seen in my life.

He was tall, about six feet. He had black hair, gorgeous and rumpled and falling just short of his eyebrows. He had a strong jaw, a slight dimple in his chin, and cheekbones to die for. Flawless olive skin and a day or two’s worth of unshaven scruffiness. He had a grey t-shirt with ‘Led Zeppelin’ on the front in faded black letters, like it had been washed a thousand times and given up the fight to stay legible. The shirt was tight over his broad chest, his powerful shoulders, and his bulging biceps. He looked like the kind of guy who had built up muscles by good genes and manual labor rather than sweating it out in a gym.

He had tattoos as well, which I don’t normally like – but they added to the bad boy image in a way that was irresistible. He wore a leather band around one wrist and a couple of rings on his fingers – rings that looked like he’d bought them from a street vendor who made her own stuff. One was pounded silver, with hammer marks all over the metal. Another was a really cool twining pattern of copper strands. Neither was on his left ring finger.

The rings made me look at his hands… and his hands made me think of a master artist carving them from a block of rare wood. They were large and masculine, and looked very… capable. Of anything and everything. Especially naughty things.

His tattered jeans were baggy enough below the knees to be cool, and tight enough over his thighs to make my mouth water. He had on clunky black work boots, scuffed and worn on the toes. A metal wallet chain hung from his battered leather belt and disappeared into his pocket.

The clothes didn’t really do it for me, other than the fact that they showed off his beautiful body to perfection. The rest of him really did it for me… especially his eyes. They were the single most arresting thing about him. Beautiful green, a few shades lighter than emeralds. I had never seen anybody with eyes that gorgeous. I wondered if he had contacts, then decided Probably not. The rest of him suggested ‘not much money,’ so I didn’t see him spending hundreds of dollars on something like colored contacts.

His eyelids stayed partly shut all the time, giving him a perpetual kind of sleepy, sexy, seductive look. Coupled with his dark, brooding eyebrows, he seemed to be thinking, Come over here and kiss me – and the slightly upturned corner of his full, sensual lips made him look amused that I hadn’t given in yet.

As we stared at each other, I felt something pass between us – like an invisible current that flowed through the air. A spark that jumped from him to me and back again. Unseen, unspoken, but definitely real. A connection.

I also felt something else I’d never experienced before with a stranger.

Desire.

Heat building in my cheeks – and elsewhere.

There were probably only about four seconds of silence… but it felt like an eternity as we stared at each other.

I felt it. I’m pretty damn sure he felt it, too.

And then he took it a step further.

“Derek Kane,” he said, stepping forward and offering me that large, masculine hand.

“Kaitlyn Reynolds,” I said, and put my hand in his. His skin was warm, his fingers strong and slightly calloused.

Whatever electricity had been buzzing in the air between us almost exploded when we touched.

He was gentle as he held my hand – but firm. Firm and powerful and strong.

I briefly imagined what his arms around me might feel like, and then guiltily pushed that out of my mind as quickly as I could.

He held onto my hand for a couple of seconds longer than he should have. Only when it was obvious that he was hanging on too long did he finally let go.

There was definitely some serious chemistry going on between us.

Shanna felt it, because she looked back and forth between us like a spectator at Wimbledon.

“Uhhhh, Kaitlyn…?” she whined with a worried look on her face.

“Sorry,” I said, snapping out of my daze and turning around to get my literature book. “I’ll get out of your hair.”

Derek leaned against the wall and crossed his arms. His very powerful, very muscular arms. “No… we shouldn’t run you off.”

Shanna looked over at him, incredulous. “That wasn’t what you were saying before we walked in here.”

“Oh?” I asked, amused. “What were you saying before you walked in here, exactly?”

Shanna giggled. “That if you didn’t leave, we’d have to fuck right here in front of you.”

POW.

The words went right to my gut – a one/two punch.

One, I immediately thought, Player. A slight wave of disappointment and disgust rose up inside me.

Two, I imagined seeing him naked, standing just a few feet away from my bed… and my disgust quickly disappeared, to be replaced by more… pleasant feelings.

Kevin’s plaintive voice suddenly drifted out of my subconscious:

You’re not attracted to anybody, are you?

I winced.

Now I really had to get out of the room.

“Not necessary,” I said, in as deadpan a voice as I could muster. “I’ll leave.”

Interestingly enough, Derek didn’t smirk or chortle out a ‘bro laugh’ or any other reaction I would have expected. Instead, he threw Shanna an icy look before returning his gaze to me. “I was just joking around. We’re not going to run you out of your room.”

Shanna’s mouth dropped open like a gaffed fish.

I sat there, unsure what to do.

I knew I shouldn’t stay; I would totally be cock-blocking Shanna.

Plus, I was already having trouble fighting off bad, bad thoughts. Thoughts that would have given my long-distance boyfriend a heart attack.

But something inside me really wanted to stay around this sexy, mysterious stranger, if just for a few minutes longer.

However, I could already feel annoyance radiating from Shanna.

So could Derek.

He handled it like a pro.

“We can’t make her leave,” he said, turning to Shanna. “It’s, like, close to finals, isn’t it? What if she fails her exams because of us? You don’t want that on your conscience.”

He said it with the perfect mix of mocking (Awwww, poor little nerdling) and concern (We really can’t do that to her. Not cool).

“She’s not gonna fail her exams,” Shanna snapped.

Derek shrugged, not a care in the world. “We’ll have plenty of time. Don’t piss off your roommate.”

When he said ‘We’ll have plenty of time,’ Shanna both brightened and relaxed the slightest bit.

But she still muttered, “She’s not gonna fail her exams” petulantly under her breath.

He’d said something revealing: It’s, like, close to finals, right? Which meant he either wasn’t a student, or he was a frat boy awakening from a twelve-week bender.

And he didn’t look like a frat boy.

“You don’t go here?” I asked him.

“Nope.”

“What do you do?”

“I’m in a band.”

Of course you are.

Athens was famous for having been the birthplace of the B-52’s (who later fled to New York) and of R.E.M. (who stayed). Every half-assed musician who couldn’t afford a bus ticket to Los Angeles or NYC wanted to make their name completing the hat trick.

Despite his physical gorgeousness, my attraction started to wane. “Oh. That’s nice.”

Derek grinned wryly, and my heart skipped a beat.

Damn he had a sexy smile.

“I know, I know. Throw a stick in Athens, you’ll hit three musicians, right? Ten if it’s a Saturday night.”

Okay… so at least he’s a self-aware, self-deprecating, HUMBLE half-assed musician.

I tried to play it off. “I’m not really a music person, that’s all.”

“And what kind of a person are you, then?”

“UNH,” Shanna groaned. “Why are you asking about HER?”

“I thought I’d get to know your friend. Aren’t you guys good friends?”

Shanna bounded over to me and threw her arms around my neck. “The best,” she giggled, then whispered way too loudly, “Which is why you’re gonna leave, right? Shanna night, remember?”

I turned my head and looked at her only two inches away from my face. She smelled like a brewery – and a cheap one, at that. “You are so drunk.”

“Shitfaced.” The bad stage whisper started up again: “Pleeeaasssse? He’s soooo hot!”

He was, but it was dumb to announce it like that. The guy’s ego was probably already massive; now it had to be Godzilla-sized.

I looked over at Derek. I thought he would have been grinning himself silly seeing Shanna throw herself at him – but no.

He was staring at me. Not in a creepy way, but in a curious What are you going to do? kind of way.

I pictured him lying on Shanna’s bed, naked, with only a tiny bit of lamplight falling across his muscular, naked body…

I shivered.

Then I got a hold of myself.

I patted Shanna’s arm. “I’ll go.”

“Yaaaay!” Shanna squee-ed, releasing her beer-soaked hold on my neck.

“No,” Derek insisted, in a voice that would brook no dissent. “We’re not interrupting your studying. Studying’s important.”

Now it was embarrassingly obvious.

Derek wasn’t interested in sleeping with Shanna anymore.

He was interested in me.

Which alternately thrilled me and terrified me.

Maybe it terrified me because it thrilled me.