Keegan

Two kegs sit in the far corner of the living room, and dozens of plastic cups litter the floor.

With the windows that line two sides of the room open and a hot wind blowing through, I can smell the stale beer.

There’s nothing else in the room; not a stick of furniture.

And obviously, they aren’t running the air-conditioning.

Or there is no AC.

Yikes. Living without AC in an Oklahoma summer will not be pleasant.

The living room floor squeaks with each step I take into the house; my flip-flops stick to the boards.

I see the kitchen through an entryway on one side of the stairs that rise from the middle of the far wall.

There’s a closed door on the other side of the stairs. I’m assuming it’s a bedroom.

Blue crosses the living room and sets his share of my stuff on the stairs, and I do the same.

“So, you had a party in here last night, I guess?” I ask, pulling off my sunglasses and tucking them into the front of my shirt. “You moved the furniture somewhere?”

Blue crouches to pick up a drumstick lying on the floor and slides it into his jeans pocket as he stands up.

“No furniture in this room,” he responds with a tight smile. “Makes it easier for the bands to set up.”

He laughs as my jaw drops.

“You know we have parties here most weekends, with live bands, right? We’re known all over campus for our parties.”

“Uh, no.”

I run a distraught hand through my hair. “I didn’t know that. The only time I’ve been on campus was for my interview last spring.”

I sound less than thrilled because I am. This place is apparently the 21st-century equivalent of Animal House.

Great. Just great.

“Wow, that’s something I wish I’d known about,” I can’t help adding.

I’m pissed, mostly at myself. Why did I put off making a decision on Ikana for so long?

I had to fight to get into the college’s top-notch journalism program, and I’ve got a full load of classes my first semester.

How am I going to get straight As and work my ass off at the campus newspaper—assuming I can persuade the editor to give me a job—if I’m living in a party house?

“Last night’s band was a good one,” Blue says, as if that makes a difference. “The lead singer’s kind of a douche, but he’s got a great voice.”

He chuckles at the dismal expression on my face. “C’mon, Keegan. It’s not that bad. You’ll meet a lot of cool people.”

I just look away.

Then I hear what sounds like a dog whining from the front porch.

Blue glances out the living room window. “That’ll be Max,” he says. “I need to get him inside.”

Uncertain what to do next, I follow him out to the porch and notice a long canine snout thrust through one of several holes. It’s in the same spot Blue was lying when I first pulled up.

“There you are.”

Blue smiles down at the friendly dog eyes staring up at him.

“Oh!” I exclaim. “That’s who you were talking to when I first got out of the car.”

Now it’s making more sense.

Blue nods, still smiling.

“Yeah, that’s Max. I forgot to lock him in my room last night, and all the noise from the party freaked him out.

“When he gets scared, he hides under the house.”

He whistles, and the dog disappears under the porch. “I left the kitchen door open for him.

He’ll show up in the house in a minute.”

He waves me back inside. “Let me show you your room, and then I’ll bring in the rest of your stuff.”

I should carry in my own possessions; I don’t need him to do it.

But I forget about pointing that out because Blue is yawning and rubbing his muscular abs, and my mutinous eyes can’t stop ogling him.

How am I supposed to live under the same roof as this guy?

Blue yawns. “The only problem with the parties is cleaning it all up the next day.”

Nope. Not the only problem.

I suppress another irritated sigh; I may have really messed things up.

Blue heads back into the house, holding the door open so I can follow.

“It’ll probably be a while before the other two lazy asses are awake,” he says. “You can meet them later.”

We head up the stairs, and I shudder as I stare again at the poor guy’s scarred back.

I’m dying to know what happened to him. What did he mean when he said it was a war wound?

From a window halfway up the stairs, I see a back deck that is strewn with more cups.

Is the entire house trashed?

I almost run into Blue when he pauses to stare at something in the yard.

“Max!” he yells out the open window. “What are you doing out there?”

He lets out a piercing whistle. “Max, come inside!”

After a moment, he yells again. “Corey? Is that you? Man, why are you still here?”

I peer around Blue in time to see a German Shepherd sniffing a grubby-looking guy with bushy hair who is slowly getting up from the ground.

He’s rubbing his eyes and blocking the sun with his hands.

“Corey! Go home!”

Blue laughs and continues up the stairs. “He’s a member of the band. Passed out in the yard last night, I guess.”

“So is Max your dog?” I ask, trying to avoid staring at his back and needing something to say.

“He’s kind of the house dog, although I’m the one who takes care of him most of the time.

He showed up here one day, mangy and starving. We tried to find his owner, but no one ever claimed him. We kinda hated to take him to the pound.”

“Aw. Poor thing.”

We reach the top of the stairs, and I glance from right to left at three closed bedroom doors.

There’s also a bathroom, with an old-fashioned claw-foot bathtub inside.

Blue sets my possessions in front of the bedroom across from the bathroom.

“You’re the last one in, so you get the smallest room,” he says apologetically. “But at least the AC unit in that room works well.”

He points at the door next to mine.

“That’s Kendra’s room. And I’m next to her. Hunter’s got the big bedroom downstairs, the only one with its own bathroom. His stepdad owns this house, and trust me, he won’t let you forget it.”

He turns the knob and pushes my door open, then steps aside to let me pass. “Here we are.”

I walk into the room and gasp at the sight of a naked couple passed out on my bed.

Blue

Keegan almost drops her dentures—as my mother would say—when she sees Hunter and some blonde sprawled bare-ass on the bed.

At least Keegan is getting the full picture on Hunter up front.

Quite literally, as the asshat is lying on his back on the bare mattress, with nothing left to the imagination.

Random blonde is curled up next to him, snoring softly, her mouth open and a line of drool on her chin.

I have no idea who she is. I can’t remember seeing her before, but that’s no big surprise. We get new people every weekend.

And she certainly looks like Hunter’s type: hot and “breezy”—his slang for an easy broad.

Hunter’s not exactly Mr. Sensitivity when it comes to women.

Why he steered her into Keegan’s room instead of his own last night, I have no clue. Maybe he already had a girl, or two, passed out in his room downstairs. I wouldn’t put it past him.

Our new roomie is just standing there, gawking wide-eyed at them.

There’s something quirky and coltish about this girl that I kind of like.

She’s got legs that go on for days, just the right amount on top to fill out the little black

tank she’s wearing, and long, glossy brown hair that I immediately want to bury my face in.

Physically, she’s definitely my type.

And, assuming my man radar is in good working order, the attraction between us is mutual.

Keegan wants me; I can feel it.

You’d think I would’ve learned my lesson about hooking up with housemates, after the whole Kendra drama.

But what the hell. We’re all adults. And I would like to get to know Keegan better.

Thing is, though, when she took off her sunglasses in the living room and I saw her eyes, I almost choked.

The memory slammed into me of another girl on the other side of the world with eerily similar eyes: same color, same shape, same old-soul expression. It freaked me out.

Spotting the drumstick on the floor gave me a reason to bend over for a moment so I could hide my face and get my shit together.

It’s not the first time since I became a civilian I’ve suddenly been on the verge of tears.

Maybe I’m trying to see that girl in other people; maybe I can’t let go of her memory.

I walk to the bed and twist Hunter’s big toe hard to wake him up.

At the same moment, Max runs into the room, his nails clicking on the wood floor.

He goes straight to the bed and sticks his cold nose into the blonde’s nicely toned ass.

Yowling, Hunter and the blonde try to sit up at the same time and said blonde rolls off the bed and hits the floor, which gets Max barking, thinking she wants to play.

“Get that fucking dog away from me!” she screams, jumping to her feet while trying—pointlessly—to cover her privates with her hands.

Max keeps barking and rushes toward her, rearing up playfully.

And she kicks him, sending him scrambling behind me like a coward.

For a German Shepherd, the dog’s no canine cop.

“Hey!” I yell. “Don’t kick the dog! He’s just trying to play.”

She grabs her clothes off the floor and runs into the bathroom, slamming the door behind her.

“Jesus, Blue,” Hunter moans, cradling his head in his hands. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Seriously, dude?” I snarl. “Your girl just fucking kicked my dog!”

I pick up Hunter’s boxers and throw them at him, then gesture toward Keegan.

“And our new roomie here,” I go on, “just had to walk into her room and see your nasty bare asses all over her bed.

“What the hell are you doing in here, anyway?”

Hunter clutches his underwear in one hand and squints painfully at the sun pouring through the window.

Then he turns to Keegan, giving her a cocky smirk and a sloppy salute, running his eyes all over her.

“Hi sweetheart,” he drawls. “I’ve got to say, you are definitely an improvement over the last girl who was in this room. Welcome.”

“Get the fuck out so she can move in!” I yell, cursing under my breath as I move toward the bed, ready to grab the jackass by the hair and yank him off.

I don’t outweigh him by much, but I’ll bet I’ve got better fighting skills than he does.

Hunter evades my grasp, rolling off the bed.

Then, still naked, he throws a flirtatious grin at Keegan as he strolls past her and out the door.

Keegan

I step through the open window of my bedroom after dark, clutching my phone in one hand, my journal in the other.

Then I sit on the flat roof that extends over the front porch and take a deep breath, savoring the slight breeze, knowing the long, hot summer will soon ease into fall.

A huge oak tree with spreading branches stands in front of the house, its massive trunk touching the bricks that have turned the front yard into a parking lot.

Several of the branches reach over the roof, with one scraping the shingles near my bedroom window.

My phone dings with a text from my dad, checking to see if I got moved in okay.

He wanted to come with me, but he can’t take any more time off work.

He used up his vacation time when my mother was sick.

His co-workers even donated their time to him, but it still wasn’t enough.

Dad Im all moved in. The house is ok, livable. Good thing I left when I did. Me and the WW almost came to blows last night.

I add an SMH emoji and hope my dad will know what that means.

My mom would have lectured me for referring to her mother as the Wicked Witch; she’d have said it was wrong, no matter how much Virginia Cooke might deserve it.

But my dad understands. He’s been on the receiving end of my grandmother’s foul moods often enough.

My phone dings again: Glad youre ok kiddo. Wish I could have been there. Take care of yourself. You better call me if you need anything.

I will. Im gonna be ok Dad. Plz don’t worry about me.

I add a couple of heart emojis and hit Send.

Then I notice I missed an earlier text from Megz, my best friend: So are you FINALLY Ikana fucking official?

Yup, I type, smiling, Im moved in (house sucks). I start classes tomorrow. Gotta also try to get the editor on the campus paper to give me a shot tomorrow. Wish me luck.

She responds immediately: U dont need luck sunshine. UR not like the rest of us. UR keegan rich AF crenshaw/cooke.

She sends another text with a line of fist emojis I’m not sure how to interpret.

I hate when Megz brings up my family. It’s basically the only time we fight, when she acts like I have no struggles because my grandmother owns the Cooke Ranch and is the most powerful politician in the state.

She acts as if everything comes easy for me, which is total bullshit.

Another text: U there? Did I piss off the princess?

Frowning, I decide to let her stew a little.

Megz is probably sitting in her fancy dorm right now with a couple of hot guys at her beck and call. She has that ability, to get people to do whatever she wants.

We met junior year of high school when Megan Morgan transferred in after she was sent to yet another foster home.

Especially for a kid from such an unstable background, she’s done well for herself.

We stayed out all night partying when she found out she’d earned a full scholarship to the University of Oklahoma.

I got grounded for staying out past curfew. But it was worth it.

Megz makes the best of every situation. No matter what, she always comes out on top; it’s something I admire about her.

I think it’s why I was drawn to her in the first place: she’s fearless, and she never backs down. So different from me.

But sometimes, Megz takes jabs at me. Or at my family, more specifically. Sometimes it really pisses me off.

Ok bitch stop ignoring me. Im sorry about the family remark. Jeezus you are so fucking sensitive.

After a moment, my phone dings again: HELLO????

Megz drives me crazy sometimes. But there’s nobody I’d rather hang out with. She makes me feel more alive, more confident. I already miss her.

I could have gone with her to OU; she begged me to. We could have gone through freshman year together.

But in the end, I decided what I really wanted was Ikana.

I send Megan an entire row of eye roll emojis, then set the phone aside and blink away a couple of tears.

It’s ridiculous to feel like crying right now. I’m here, at my dream school, ready to make a fresh start. So why am I so mopey?

I guess I’m wondering if I can pull it off. What if I fail?

What if I disappoint my dad? Worse, what if I prove my grandmother right? She insisted I’d be better off at OU.

I miss my mom so much. If she were alive, I’d be calling her right now, and as usual, she’d make it better.

I stare up at the full moon and the stars and remember how Mom told me, while she could still speak, that she’d be looking down on me from above. I want to believe that’s true.

A few stinging tears run down my face.

And then, right on cue, like she knows I need it, Megz texts one of her standard lines. In all caps, of course: CALM YOUR TITS GURL.

Impossible not to break into a smile.

Another text comes in: Even from a hundred miles away i can feel you getting all tense. U are SO predictable, keekee. But I love u to pieces.

“Thanks, Megz,” I mutter out loud, wiping my eyes and sending her a kissy face text.

I grab my journal, pulling out the Mont Blanc pen I keep inside it.

The journal and pen were a gift from my mom for my 14th birthday. I haven’t missed writing in it even a single day since then.

I’ve gone through at least a dozen journals.

Maybe it’s childish, but it’s become a comforting routine for me.

I doodle in the margins, pondering how to describe the day that began with an early morning drive through the rolling hills of eastern Oklahoma.

A day that included meeting Blue and Hunter, and my encounter with Kendra, who barely acknowledged me as we passed on the stairs this afternoon.

Drenched in some perfume I didn’t recognize, she was wearing a short, swishy dress with glittery sandals.

She looked me up and down, frowning. “You’re the new girl?”

She shook her head disapprovingly before I even had time to respond and kept going up the stairs as I wondered what the hell I did wrong.

I take a deep breath, shaking my head. I don’t want to think about Kendra right now.

I’m still doodling, but I’m not seeing the ink on the page.

Instead, I’m seeing the beautiful front and scarred back of Blue Daniels.

I keep replaying my meeting with him, wondering about him.

Where is he from? Has he been in the military? How did he end up at Ikana College and in this house? How did he get those scars?

There’s something about Blue, something that gets to me.

It’s not just that he’s sexy or obviously has a story to tell.

There’s something between us; I can sense it, even if I don’t want to.

I try to steer my thoughts back to what matters: doing well in all my classes and getting a reporter job at The Daily, Ikana’s award-winning student newspaper.

The beginning reporter slots on the paper are filled, as I was told last week in an email from the paper’s editor when he finally responded to all my phone messages.

I’d figured if I bugged him enough, he’d see how badly I want the job. How motivated I’ll be to do well at it.

I could have dropped the name I know will get his attention and probably make me a shoo-in. But I want to get the job on my own.

The editor has already told me to try again next year. But that’s not part of my plan.

Frustrated, I blow out another breath, noticing how loud the cicadas are.

“Dammit, Keegan,” I mutter. “Focus.”

Then I make myself start writing.

Blue

I went to bed early; I desperately need a decent night’s sleep.

Half an hour later, though, I’m still staring up at the stained ceiling, sweating and cursing Hunter’s stepfather.

Even with a member of his family living in the house, the sonofabitch won’t spring for decent air conditioning, or do much else to fix this place up. It’s literally falling apart.

Maybe it’s because Hunter lives here that his rich AF stepdad is such a cheapass.

The two of them seem to despise each other. The one time I met him, the tension between him and Hunter was so thick, so weighted with contempt and hatred, that it made my relationship with my father look good.

That kind of blew my mind.

I sit up and switch on the lamp next to my bed, then grab the guitar leaning against the nightstand.

The instrument’s dinged wood has almost as many battle scars as I do. But it’s kept me sane, or at least saner than I would have been without it. No doubt in my mind about that.

Plus, it was the last communication I’ll ever have from my old man, his wordless attempt at a peace offering.

I never even thanked him for it. I figured I’d have plenty of time later, after I let him suffer for all he put me and my mother through.

But all of us ran out of time.

Sweat is soaking my back. I can’t stand to sit here any longer.

“Fuck this,” I mutter, jumping off the bed, guitar clutched in one hand, and heading out to the porch.

Maybe I can play for a while out here where it’s cooler; maybe that will soothe the craziness in my brain enough that I can finally fall asleep.

Slumping onto the porch swing, though, I shake my head at the screeching army of cicadas in full concert.

It’s too noisy out here to be able to focus on my music.

Frustrated, I swing back and forth for a few minutes, risking splinters by dragging my bare feet over the rough boards of the porch.

Then I realize I’m hearing noises above me.

Still holding the guitar, I step off the porch and look up toward Keegan’s room.

And there she is, sitting on the roof near her bedroom window, dressed in some flimsy little pajama thing that, all by itself, is threatening to give me a hard-on.

I don’t know exactly what it is about this girl. But damn, she gets to me.

I take a deep breath, staring up at her. It looks like she’s writing something.

“Hey,” I call up, crossing my legs in what I hope is a casual, not-trying-to-conceal-the-front-of-my-boxers kind of way, “you discovered the best spot in the entire house!”

My words seem to echo in the night air, even over the cicadas.

Keegan closes the notebook she was writing in.

“Hey,” she responds slowly, sounding less than thrilled at my interruption.

“Feel like some company?”

I hadn’t planned to say that; it just popped out.

“Um...sure,” she says, uncertain.

Ouch.

I guess I should take the hint, stop being such a weirdo.

But dammit, I’d like to get to know her better. We’re going to be living together, after all.

I turn toward the tree and jump up into the lowest branches, the guitar on my back.

Yeah, I should take the stairs to her room like a normal human being. But Blue-to-the-Rescue always likes to make a big entrance.

The guys in my unit started calling me that after I helped a group of Afghan civilians stranded in their flooded village.

At the time, I liked the nickname. It fit the stupid idea I had of myself as some kind of hero. I was young and dumb back then.

And coming to the rescue is what I thought I was doing later, when everything went so wrong over there. I was just trying to help.

That’s what I’ve told myself a zillion times, but I doubt anyone else would see it that way.

I keep climbing, trying to get away from the memories; like that’s ever going to happen.

“What are you doing?” Keegan asks, surprised.

Is it just my stupid imagination she sounds a little excited, too?

I grin up at her as I reach for another branch. “I’m coming to see you.”

Keegan

Blue is scrambling up the tree like Romeo climbing the balcony for Juliet.

I can't decide if I'm impressed or just irritated at the interruption.

He sits on the branch that extends toward my window, placing his feet on the roof and positioning his guitar in his lap. Then he begins to sing.

It's ridiculous. But also, kind of hot.

Blue's voice is like his smile, deep and warm, with a gravelly hint of mischief in it.

I've never heard the song he's singing before, but it's a slow, poignant number that should make me tingle all over.

Instead, my eyes fill with tears.

Blue stops singing, raising an eyebrow in a sarcastic gesture I'm already familiar with.

"Not exactly the reaction I was going for," he says.

And that makes me cry even harder.

"I'm sorry," I blubber. "It's a beautiful song, and you sing it so well. It's just that..."

I wipe my nose on my arm and realize too late how disgusting that is.

"I'm feeling kind of overwhelmed right now," I add, fighting the urge to wipe my nose again as I wonder why I told him that.

And why I'm crying like a pathetic baby in front of this guy I barely know.

I was almost finished writing in my journal when Blue called up to me. As always when I write, the words coming out of the pen stirred up lots of memories and feelings.

I can never just write words without a bunch of emotions being attached; words are that powerful to me.

"You want to talk about it?" Blue asks gently.

Yes.

"No."

From his perch in the tree, he shoots me an amused look, and I wonder if I nodded just now when I declined his offer.

Do I look as confused as I feel?

Not for the first time, I'm blushing around Blue Daniels.

It's hard not to notice how good he looks in the moonlight. Or that he's only wearing boxers. It's hard to ignore the way my body is reacting to him.

"Jesus. H. Christ."

I didn't mean to say that out loud. It's something Virginia says all the time.

I take a breath and clear my throat, irritated to be imitating her. I seem to do it a lot even though I don't want to.

"Thank you, Blue," I say, hearing my grandmother's typically distant tone in the words. "I really appreciate your concern. But I'll work through it."

Blue says nothing, just looks down at his guitar, a slight smile on his face.

I hug my knees to my chest and swipe my fingers under my eyes.

"The song you were singing," I say after a moment, wanting to change the subject,

"I've never heard it before. Who sings it?"

Blue looks up. "Frasier Bryson."

He says like it's obvious.

"Who?"

He groans at my blank expression, then shakes his head, sighing.

"It kills me that people don't know who Bryson is. He's the head of Ikana's music department, and one of the most brilliant songwriters and folk singers we've ever had.

He never got the recognition he deserved in the seventies. I don't understand why."

"Oh." My voice sounds small and silly.

Should I have heard of Frasier Bryson? Does everybody else know who he is?

"He dropped out of the scene for a long time and became a bit of a hermit," Blue goes on. "Then, about twenty years ago, he decided he wanted to teach. He's the one who started the program here at Ikana."

He lets the guitar hang on his chest as he grips the branch above him and dangles his

feet.

"Bryson is the whole reason I'm here," he adds, plaintively.

I nod, giving him a sympathetic smile.

I've never heard of Frasier Bryson. But I know the college has a great music program that is hard to get into. About as hard as the journalism program.

We sit there for a few moments, saying nothing.

From down the street, the deep bass of someone's stereo booms into the night. I can hear people yelling.

The houses around us are probably all occupied by hard-partying college students.

I suddenly think about what Virginia would say if she saw where I'm living. If she saw this house that she's paying for.

The thought makes me smile, which then gives me a twinge of guilt that is followed by a good dollop of shame.

I mean, I look down on my grandmother, but I'm happy to take her money. Then I get a kick out of pissing her off by spending it in a way I know she'd hate.

What is wrong with me?

I take a deep breath, batting away the idea that maybe it's me who's the total shit in our family and not Virginia Cooke.

"So, Keegan," Blue says in a wheedling tone, mercifully interrupting my thoughts, "you going to invite me up? Or do I need to stay in this tree all night?"

Keegan

I should probably tell him to stay put. I didn't ask him to climb the stupid tree. But what harm can it do if he comes up? And what if he fell trying to get down?

"Of course you can come up," I say, giving him a smile and feeling my heart rate speed up. "I don't own this roof."

He laughs at that, then starts crawling toward me, the guitar hanging off his chest.

When he gets close enough, I nervously grab one of his arms to help him, breathing a sigh of relief when he settles down next to me. I swear my fingertips burn just from touching him.

"We could both have plunged off here, you know," I quip, needing to be a little contrary to counter the gushiness coursing through my veins right now. "Maybe use the door next time. It'd be a lot easier on my nerves."

Blue shoots a teasing grin at me, and it feels like I'm drowning in his eyes.

"Nah, roomie" he murmurs, flicking a leaf off my shoulder and letting his fingers linger a tad longer than necessary, "I wouldn't let that happen. Besides, I've done it before. I didn't need your help."

I shake my head, not sure if I'm impressed or alarmed by his bravado.

Then I start wondering who he has climbed up to this room to see before he did it to see me. Just stop it, you idiot.

We're quiet for a few minutes, listening to the night sounds.

The wind has picked up, and the flowery curtains on my window whip in and out of the open window. I break the silence with a question I've been wanting to ask.

"So, how'd you end up here at Ikana? I mean, you were in the military, right? But you're not anymore?"

My change of topic seems to startle Blue. He presses his lips together and looks away, and his silence feels like a rebuke.

I'm about to apologize and change the subject when he starts talking.

"Honorably discharged," he says, his voice somber as he stares into the darkened tree. "I was honorably discharged from the Army a few years ago."

He turns back to me and clears his throat before adding, "After...an injury." He's obviously struggling to continue.

"You saw the scars," he finally adds, his voice choked. "It happened in Afghanistan."

"I'm so sorry, Blue." I take a deep breath, feeling bad for bringing up something so obviously painful.

He'd already told me he didn't want to talk about it. But still I'd pressed him. Because I want to know.

"Don't be sorry," he says. "It's a normal question to ask. Anybody who sees my back wants to know what happened. I should be used to it. I am used to it. But I still..." He doesn't finish the sentence.

I watch the muscle in his jaw tense, unsure what to say next.

Blue shifts slightly, and I realize after a second my eyes have drifted down to his muscular thighs. Good grief, Keegan.

"Ikana is the only place I wanted to come," Blue says, thankfully not seeming to notice my blatant lechery. "Because of Bryson."

"I really know nothing about Frasier Bryson," I admit, dragging my eyes away from his legs.

"You're not the only one," Blue sighs. "I just don't get why he's not a household name."

I decide to ease the tension by teasing him a little.

"Well, my dad might have mentioned that name when I was growing up," I grin, lifting one shoulder in a semi-shrug. "I mean, unlike me, he's into seriously old music."

Blue doesn't seem to pick up on my playful tone. "I just don't get it," he repeats, mournfully strumming the guitar strings.

We sit in silence for a few minutes after that. The nearby argument from the neighbors has gotten louder.

"I wanted to get here before Bryson retired or died," Blue explains, as if I've asked a question. "He's an old man now."

I have nothing to say to that, so I just sit and watch the emotions crossing his gorgeous face.

"I had to finagle an audition in front of him because I missed the deadline to apply," Blue goes on. "Turns out he has a soft spot for soldiers. It was awesome."

His face has softened, and for a second, he looks like a hopeful little kid.

Something inside me does a little flip.

"I'll have to tell you the whole story sometime," he adds. "If you want to hear it, of course."

"I would like to hear that story, Blue." I barely manage to speak above a whisper. "I really would."

And I mean it.

Keegan

Blue is staring at my mouth.

It's been a few moments since I said I wanted to hear his story. We're still on the roof, and the words seem to have died between us.

The silence is awkward, but also kind of erotic.

Blue's gaze brushes my lips; his mouth falls open. I'm sure he's about to kiss me. No denying the thought leaves me breathless.

I need a distraction.

"Hey," I quip, "you should sing at the house parties instead of that guy you said was a douche." I'd remembered his comment earlier about the band, and it was the first thing I thought of to say. Even though I don't want to encourage more partying, I do want to hear Blue play.

After looking confused for a second, Blue grins at my random suggestion.

It's hard to describe the way it makes me feel; but it is definitely a good feeling.

Blue doesn't respond right away. Instead, before I even know what's happening, he slowly drags his thumb across my lower lip. It's a quick gesture, but it turns me on. I might even have moaned.

Did the sound come out of my mouth? Or did I just hear it in my head?

Blue leans toward me, and I'm sure he's about to kiss me. My eyes flutter closed in anticipation.

And then he chuckles. My eyes fly open.

"I was talking about myself," he says with a smirk. "I'm the douche. It was my band playing last night."

"Oh." I've barely gotten the word out when he kisses me. It's tender and exquisite, and I want more. Well, part of me does, anyway.

But that's not how I react.

I pull back and twist my head away, then slap my hands on my thighs in a gesture of dismissal.

I'm irritated by how much I want to follow the kissing wherever it might lead. I mean,

I just met the guy. What on earth am I thinking?

And really, Blue is out of line. Why did he assume he could kiss me? I should be mad at him. I am mad at him. Sort of.

I'm for sure mad at myself.

"Okay, well," I sputter, "that's not...this is not what I'm here for."

I pause, feeling my face get hot, knowing I sound like a fool.

"I have to be at the newspaper early tomorrow, so..."

Blue doesn't move, just sits there with his hands draped over his guitar, staring at me with an indecipherable expression on his face.

"Newspaper?" he finally responds with a squeak in his voice.

"I'm trying to get a reporter job at The Daily."

He gives me a blank look.

"The campus newspaper," I add.

"I didn't know we even had a campus paper."

"Re...really?" I'm sputtering again. "Ikana's journalism program is known all over the country, and you didn't know we had a newspaper? It's only one of the top college newspapers in the U.S. You mean you never read it?"

I've been a news junkie ever since I can remember. People who don't keep up with the news always amaze me.

I'm stunned that Blue doesn't know Ikana College has a newspaper. As stunned, I guess, as he was that I didn't know about Frasier Bryson.

He puts his hands up in mocking self-defense. "No need to get upset over it, roomie."

He looks away, barking out a short, harsh laugh. "I try to avoid the news. I don't want to know what's going on in the world anymore."

For a moment, I try to process the pain in his voice. Then I decide this conversation's gone as far as it should.

"Well," I say crisply, picking up my phone and journal and inching my way to the window, "I need to finish setting up my room so..."

"You're a journalism major?" Blue asks, as if I'm not obviously trying to leave the scene. "And a freshman?"

I've almost reached the window, but I pause and turn back to him.

"Yeah."

Then, for no good reason, I keep talking.

"I waited 'til the last minute to accept a spot at Ikana, and all the reporter slots at the paper were taken. I know I can do a great job though. I was the editor of my high school newspaper. For a long time, I've wanted to be a journalist. For as long as I can remember. So I'm going to show up in the morning and try to convince the editor to hire me."

I'm babbling, and I can't help blushing. My strategy—if you can call it that—sounds so lame and childish when I hear it out loud.

And of course, I've left out the part about using my family connections to snare a spot on the paper.

For months, I've promised myself I would not do that. I got into Ikana without my family's help, and I wanted to get the newspaper job the same way.

Virginia wanted me to go to the University of Oklahoma. She even tried to force me go there.

But for once, I stood my ground, and in the end, she still offered to pay for me to come to Ikana. And of course I accepted. It's not like my dad could pay for it. It's not like I could have made it here any other way.

My principles apparently only go so far when it's something I really want, which I guess makes me not that much different from Virginia.

I shake my head, trying to clear the troublesome thought. I'm still blushing.

"That's cool," Blue says, his face splitting into another appealing grin. "Good luck."

"Thanks." I slide my feet through the open window just as the wind blows the curtains into my face.

"Um, Keegan?" Blue asks. "Is it okay if I go through your room? Or do I have to go down the way I came up?"

I shove the curtains out of my way and look at the bed I haven't even slept in yet.

It's sitting there, still smelling of the disinfectant I sprayed all over it this afternoon before making it up.

Blue has already kissed me. Put that with my physical reaction to him and the bed right there as an invitation, and it could be dangerous.

Maybe dangerous is just what I need.

I so can't believe I'm even thinking that.

"Don't worry." Blue sounds like he's about to burst out laughing. He can probably tell there's a war going on in my silly head.

"I'm going right out the door. You're perfectly safe."

I feel myself blushing. Again. "Of course you can go through my room." I try to sound unconcerned, carefree; I fail.

Blue follows me through the window, then heads to the door, turning just before he leaves the room.

"Goodnight, Keegan," he says softly. "And, um, sorry about the kiss. I thought—"

He shakes his head with a rueful smile. "Never mind what I thought. I was out of line, and I'm sorry. It won't happen again."

"Goodnight, Blue." I sit on the bed, frustrated at how disappointed I feel that he's pledged not to kiss me again. Seriously, what is wrong with me?

"Hey, Blue?"

The door is almost closed. He sticks his head back inside. "Yeah?"

"Would you sing that song again to me sometime?" Why on earth did I ask him that?

He pauses for a moment as an impish smile lights up his amazing eyes, and again, I'm tingling all over.

"Count on it."

Keegan

I wake with my heart pounding in my chest, staring into the unfamiliar darkness, no idea for a few seconds where I am. Tree branches are scraping the roof near my window, and the harsh, jarring sound invades my thoughts.

When I fall back to sleep, I dream about the awful last days of my mother’s life. In the dream, I’m back at the ranch in my old room upstairs, with an oak tree just outside the window. I used to sneak out that way when I was younger, until I fell one night and broke my arm in two places. After that, my grandmother had the ranch hands shear off the branches near my window.

About a week before my mother died, Virginia showed up at the mobile home where we’d been living. I was sitting outside in a lawn chair, swatting at mosquitoes and staring at the setting sun, when she roared up in her big SUV emblazoned with the Cooke Ranch logo. As usual, she was driving like a bat out of hell; she seems to think she has a right to do that.

Buick was inside our double-wide, trying to figure out what to eat for supper from whatever canned food and stale cookies or crackers he could find in there. I’d been meaning to make it to the grocery store but couldn’t seem to get motivated enough to do it.

Buick had the marijuana munchies, but he wasn’t getting any sympathy from me. My brother’s smart, probably smarter than me. But he stopped even trying in middle school, and by high school, he was a dropout who spent a lot of time sitting around in front of our trailer with his druggie buddies, toking up and making moronic comments about women’s body parts.

“Nice job perpetuating the trailer-trash stereotype, Buick,” I’d said that day when I got home from working the noon to 8 p.m. shift, my McDonald’s uniform reeking of the French fry machine I’d been operating for hours. “Your mother will be so proud.”

He told me to fuck off—mainly for his buddies’ benefit, I thought—and when they weren’t looking, he shot me a stricken look that made me feel a little guilty about using our dying mother to taunt him. But only a little; Buick had a lot to answer for.

I had to snatch a lighter out of the hand of one of his idiot friends, who was hunched over waving the flame under the loose vinyl straps of the chair he was sitting in.“Too bad it’s fire-resistant, genius,” I snapped as the acrid smell of burning plastic reached my nose.

Genius just grinned up at me stupidly, and I rolled my eyes in disgust. Buick was always making dumb choices in friends.

By the time Virginia walked past me and yanked open the trailer door, all the druggies—except my brother, of course—were gone. She was impeccably dressed, as usual, in wealthy ranch chic. Her boots alone probably cost more than several months’ rent on our little home on wheels, the only thing my dad could afford after we left the ranch in a hurry not long before my mother’s diagnosis.

Virginia’s eyes were puffy, almost invisible without makeup; she looked exhausted. I knew she’d been at the hospital with my mother for the last forty-eight hours. “Keegan,” she barked as she climbed into the trailer, “pack your things. You’re moving back in with me.”

Virginia rarely just speaks to someone; instead, she issues orders. I hate that about her. I started to resist. My grandmother and I have been butting heads since I was a little kid, and it was a comfortable pattern. It used to make my mother cry and my dad laugh. But by then, they were both beyond that.

And the truth was, I really wanted to go back to my big, comfortable room at the ranch. I hated the cramped, crumbling trailer. Until my mom went to the hospital for what would be the last time, I had to cover my ears every night and pretend not to hear her moan in pain. I couldn’t wait to get out of there.

In my dream, I’m watching my family from the safety of the canopy bed Virginia bought for me when I was six. Somehow, the trailer, the ranch, and the hospital are all mixed up. Mom, Dad, Buick, and Virginia are inside the double-wide, arguing about something.

And then, suddenly, they’re standing out in the sunshine at the ranch, laughing together. And then, in another instant, they’re sobbing in a waiting room at the hospital. All except for my mother, who starts shrieking as she is wheeled away on a stretcher.

I sit upright in my new bed in my new college home, hearing the screams from my dream for a few seconds even after I’m awake. It’s still dark outside. I tussle with the sheets as if they’re holding me down, then leap out of bed and step to the other side of the tiny room, resting my hands on the wall and forcing myself to breathe deeply.

After a few moments, I pick my phone up from the dresser to check the time: Four o’clock in the morning. Groaning, I flop down on the bed, punching the pillow a couple of times. Then I try to go back to sleep. But I can’t turn my brain off.

So instead, I allow myself to think again about Blue Daniels. I hear the song he sang to me on the roof. My mouth tingles as his thumb moves tenderly across it again in my memory. I think about how he kissed me; I can practically taste his lips on mine. I wish, now, that I’d kissed him back; that I hadn’t been such a prissy baby; that I’d let that kiss lead to much more because I know I wanted it to.

I finally drift off to sleep, dreaming of being wrapped up in Blue’s powerful arms.

Keegan

Sunlight forces my eyes open, and for a second, I again don’t know where I am. Then I grab my phone in a panic: It’s nine o’clock; I overslept, big time. I should already be at the newspaper. I wanted to be there when the editor, Jason Parker, arrived, before he got busy and had an excuse not to see me.

I grab a towel from one bin and my toiletries from another, then race to the shower. Ten minutes later, I throw on my clothes, hurriedly brush my teeth, then pull my wet hair into a ponytail. I skip the makeup. Stuffing my laptop and phone into my backpack, along with the books I’ll need for my first day of classes, I hit the stairs.

The smell of freshly brewed coffee wafts into my nostrils as I reach the living room, and I remember the bananas and protein bars I picked up at the store. I’m starving. A five-minute delay for breakfast probably won’t make much difference at this point. So I veer into the kitchen and almost collide with Blue. He’s leaning against the counter with his legs crossed, shirtless and wearing those same plaid boxers.

“Whoa,” he exclaims, lifting his coffee mug out of the way just in time, “slow down there, roomie.”

He smells citrusy and kind of soapy, and his dark hair is wet. And there’s that stomach, that chest, those arms. I wish the boy would just keep his shirt on.

I feel myself blushing for what must be the dozenth time since we met. “Oh, sorry.” I step back and hear a yelp. Max is looking up at me, wagging his tail. “Yikes, sorry, Max. I didn’t mean to step on you, buddy.” I lean down to pet the dog’s head, then glance at Blue, wondering how bad my bare, tired face looks to him.

Keegan Crenshaw. Just stop it. Of all the things I should be worried about, I can’t believe I’m wasting time on what this guy thinks of me without makeup. But even a full-name self-lecture probably won’t stop me from doing it. And it sure won’t stop my eyes from lingering on Blue’s tanned, muscular legs. He sure looks good in those boxers. He probably looks even better wearing nothing at all.

Ugh. What the hell? Irritated by my wayward thoughts, I start opening the dilapidated cabinets, searching for another coffee mug. But all I find is a mishmash of plastic beer cups, Chinese food soup containers, and, weirdly, a set of Hello Kitty plates.

“We don’t have much in the way of real dishes,” Blue says, apologetically, reaching on top of the fridge for a package of Styrofoam cups. “And what we do have is usually dirty. Thanks mainly to Hunter.” He pours coffee from a drip coffeemaker on the counter into one and hands me the cup. “Pretty sure I have the only actual mug in the house.”

He lifts his cup to show me. It’s white and oversized, with the words UNITED STATES ARMY in gold and an American flag next to some kind of seal. There’s a chip on the top of the handle. “I guard this one with my life,” he adds with a grin. “But I might consider loaning it to you, when I’m not using it, of course.”

It seems impossible not to return his infectious smile. “Thanks,” I murmur, letting my backpack slide off my shoulder and wrapping my hands around the Styrofoam. I stand there sipping with my eyes closed, wishing today was already over with. When I open my eyes, I see Blue’s staring curiously at me.

“So, Keegan,” he asks, “how’d you sleep your first night?”

I take another sip before responding. “Not great,” I shrug, “bad dreams.” I of course leave out the part about soothing my turmoil last night by thinking of him.

Blue nods, staring down into his cup. “Yeah,” he says in a husky whisper. “I know all about bad dreams.”

I stare at his lips, hovering over the steam from his coffee, and something in my nether region does a little happy dance. I drag my gaze away from his lips.

There’s an expectant silence between us for a moment, and I think maybe Blue’s acknowledgement of his own bad dreams means he is about to tell me how he got those scars.

But the moment passes, and he doesn’t say anything. And I’m okay with that. The would-be journalist in me wants to hear his story. But the rest of me suddenly doesn’t. I’m on overload with my new housemate, physically and emotionally. Just being around him seems to turn me upside down. I can’t process any more from him right now.

I set my cup on the counter and open the cabinet, where I stashed my small supply of food. “I’m really late,” I say before tearing open a protein bar and shoving it into my mouth. “I have to go.” I take one last sip of coffee and look around for the trash. Blue points at a tall, overflowing can on the other side of the fridge. I push my cup into the middle of the pile, then watch it slide to the floor.

“Don’t worry about it,” he says. “I’ll be doing some more cleaning today. Didn’t manage to do much yesterday.” He pushes his fingers through his short hair and sighs. “Kendra and Hunter damn well better help me. We’ve got a lot to do to get ready for this weekend.”

I’m bending down to pick up my backpack when he says that, and my stomach lurches with dread. “There’s another party this weekend?”

“Yes, ma’am. We always throw a helluva Labor Day weekend party.” He chuckles as I roll my eyes. “I did warn you, Keegan.” He raises his mug to his lips as his eyes twinkle at me. “Hey, you could cover the party for the paper. That’s something people around here might actually want to read about.”

“Uh, no.” I probably sound like a snot. But even if I do get a reporter job, there’s no way in hell I’d offer to cover some dumb college party.

“And you’ll get to hear me play a mean bass,” Blue goes on as if he didn’t hear me. He throws me that tantalizing smile, and my insides feel like they’re melting. “Maybe I’ll even sing that song for you at the party.”

I’ve so got to get control of myself. “We’ll see,” I manage to reply. “Now, I’ve really got to go. ’Bye, Blue. And, um, thanks for the coffee.”

“Hey, no problem. And good luck at the newspaper.”

I smile once more at him and rush out the door.

Blue

We hit the sweet spot about 10 o’clock. After a couple hours playing a random set, it feels like our lousy little cover band is finally coming together. Not bad, considering we threw the thing together at the last minute.

Bryson gives extra credit to students in the program who perform publicly, especially if they do it in groups. And ever since Hunter started throwing parties with live bands in the living room of his stepdad’s house, we have an incentive to get together and play.

Two of the guys I used to play with graduated last spring, so lately I have to play with newbies who sometimes aren’t that good. I’ve been on lead vocals most of the night while also playing bass, with Corey King taking over on a few songs when we don’t need him on keyboard.

There’s a buttload of people in the house, and even more milling around in the front and back.

By the time I realize I haven’t yet seen Keegan at the party, I’ve switched to acoustic guitar and told the guys we should go ahead and do the Frasier Bryson mix we planned, even though Bryson himself hasn’t shown up. I invited him to the party, but I wasn’t sure if he’d come.

It’s silly, but I can’t help feeling disappointed that he’s not here. We can’t play later than 11 if we want to keep the local cops off our backs so there’s not much time left for him to make an appearance.

I don’t need to look at my twelve-string Gibson as I start the haunting intro riff of “Comrade in Arms.” That song, like all of Bryson’s songs, is embedded in my fingertips. But I look down anyway, staring not at the strings but at the words scrawled in Sharpie on the worn mahogany body of the guitar: Monti, Cunny, Hud. Heroes of Hell’s Highway, Lameass Singers. I know better than to look at those names; I know what kind of memories it’ll stir up.

The guys signed my guitar as a joke after a karaoke contest I won handily. I was basically the only one in our unit who wasn’t completely tone deaf. A scene flashes into my mind: four of us from the Hell’s Highway Company tossing a football around, lackadaisical in the desert heat but needing a diversion.

I can see Cunny’s red hair and lopsided grin, with those pearly-white teeth of his that seemed to gleam in the sun. It is seriously weird, the things I remember. Cunny had fumbled the football, and it knocked off the expensive sunglasses that were a gift from his girlfriend. He accidentally stepped on them, crushing them with his heavy boot. Then he furiously unleashed a blue streak of swear words as the rest of us doubled over laughing.

If it was anybody else, it wouldn’t have been funny. But Cunny was one of those people who could make you laugh just by walking into a room. And we were desperate for every chuckle we could get.

I’ve stopped playing and singing before the song is over, and people are staring at me. I shake my head, hot with embarrassment, then launch into “Gild the Lily,” the tune I sang for Keegan. It stings a bit, that she’s not around to hear it. She did tell me she’d probably be working late though. She got the reporter job she talked about, and she seems to have a full load of classes. Every time I’ve seen her this week, she’s either on her laptop or phone, or with her nose in a textbook. She works a hell of a lot harder than I do, that’s for sure.

I’ve started picking up the school paper every morning on campus and checking for any stories with Keegan’s byline. She writes well; the girl is smart AF. And firmly stuck in my head.

It was such a goofy thing for me to do her first night in the house, scrambling up the tree with my guitar slung over my back and singing to her like some lovesick fool. Who does shit like that?

I stare into the crowd, trying not to think about Keegan. That’s when I see Bryson slip into the living room, wearing his standard denim shirt and jeans and holding a red cup. I wouldn’t admit it to anybody, but I am about as excited as a little kid who’s just spotted Santa.

Bryson finds a spot along the opposite wall to lean on while he sips his beer. He gives me a smile and a friendly wave. The little lights Hunter strung from the ceiling shine down on the old man’s mane of white hair. There are some girls in the music program who claim to have the hots for Bryson. He does look good for his age; he’s fit and tan, and he’s always got this amused expression on his face.

He’s hard to read, though. It’s impossible most of the time to know what he is thinking. I guess that makes him seem mysterious and cool. To girls, anyway. Hell, who am I kidding? To me, too.

I’ve slowed down the tempo of “Gild the Lily” and added a weepy guitar flourish in the middle and another at the end. The other guys in the band were anxious about making changes to Bryson’s work, and Corey hasn’t tried to hide that he doesn’t like what I’ve done. “Sounds kind of sugar-coated, if you ask me,” he sniffed when I first played it my way for them. “Where the hell do you get off thinking you can improve Bryson’s stuff?”

As if that bushy-haired maggot Corey would know a good song if it came up and bit him in the ass. I can’t figure out how he even got into the Ikana program. He’s probably got a rich daddy who made a big donation.

Thing is, I really like what I’ve done to the song, and I can’t resist trying it out in front of Bryson. “Gild the Lily” sounds more soulful my way. It throbs with this delicate anguish that suits Bryson’s bittersweet lyrics. But I’m sweating bullets as I start playing it in front of him; I have no idea how he’ll react. It was a ballsy thing to do, messing with his work. It could screw up my future in the program. But what the hell. I’m going for it.