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I'm irredeemable.
"Dude, you can't be seriou—"
Jeremy busts up laughing, and that's all it takes for the butt end of my dead cigarette to go flying his way. He topples over in a fit of hysterics, shoving my shoulder playfully. Tears brim the corners of his eyes, the whiskey on his breath potent.
"Oh! You should've seen the look on your face. Bro, come on. You? Hayden Kingston—the most infamous Casanova in Princeton's Greek life history, maybe in all of New York City—in a church?" He pries a devilish grin from me. "What're you gonna do, take a vow of celibacy? Settle down while you're in your prime? Your father would have an easier time believing you were struck by lightning on your way to cash in a winning Powerball ticket."
"Alright, alright," I silence him, downing half of my mojito in two gulps, hoping the vodka will ease the sense of dread trickling into my veins. If Jeremy can't come up with a solid solution on how to dupe my father, then I might be shit out of luck.
"I'm sure you'll figure something out."
He folds his arms across his chest, leaning back into the couch, his eyes gravitating to a new lady entering our private room. Skimpy black leather adorns her figure, bunny ears protrude past her locks, and diamond beads sway along her thighs as she struts. Like a siren's call to a ship of drunken sailors, she steals the attention of every man in the room.
Yet, I still can't curb the feeling of impending doom.
With a sigh, I pull out my phone, letting muscle memory take over. It doesn't long before I'm swiping left and right on my favorite app, Charmr. The best part about this particular online dating app is you really don't have to charm anyone, as the name might suggest. Not when it's flooded with singles who want nothing more than casual hookups and no-strings-attached relationships.
So, in such a playing field, my strategy is simple.
If my dick likes what it sees, swipe right.
Otherwise, swipe left.
Propping an ankle over my knee, I click the large button in the center of my screen: See Singles Near You. After a couple of spins of the loading symbol, I'm met with a long-haired brunette.
From the snapshot of her profile, her name is Leona. She's a twenty-two-year-old yoga instructor. And is, by mere coincidence, twenty-two miles away from my current location. Her bio reads Roses are red, lemons are sour, spread my legs and I'll give you an hour. I snort, even though I've encountered the exact same bio about a hundred times.
Nursing my drink, I study her selfie. She stares straight into the lens, pouting her red-stained lips. My gaze inches down the screen. With her elbows drawn inward, she pushes her breasts together, accentuating them beneath her low-cut top.
I swipe right.
Only to meet Jordan, who's twenty-four years old. Works as a social media manager. Is fifteen miles away. And has the bio My tits and I have one thing in common. And that is, we're a lot to handle. My eyes descend once more, confirming her words.
Another right swipe.
Alessandra. Studies biology and nursing. Twenty-one. Forty miles away. And apparently, she really likes pizza and anal.
Right. Fucking. Swipe.
Kourtney. Single mom. Thirty-three. Works as a—
"Hunting your next conquest, aye?" a drunken Kyle slurs behind me and grabs my shoulders with vigor. His eyes squint into slits as he peers over, smelling of aftershave and expensive cologne. "Ohh, man, she's hot! And a cougar, too? Fuck..."
Nodding in agreement, I chuckle. Kyle hoots and hollers in tune with each swipe, every new profile showing more skin than before.
Christie... Right. Addison... Right. Naomi... Right. Lucy... Right. Juliana—
My heart stops.
Plunged into a state of disbelief, I stare into a pair of familiar eyes. Round glasses shield their unique shade of green, a captivating blend of emerald and juniper, with golden flecks dotted around her pupils. A rare combination I've seen only on one other person—Jeremy. My best friend. And this is his little sister.
Who he's very protective of.
I eye him over my phone, watching him tilt his whiskey glass skyward. Every internal instinct screams at me to sink low into my chair, in hopes the fabric might swallow me whole. I should lower my brightness, switch to the Bible app, or slip my phone between a stripper's ass cheeks and call it a tipsy donation, just to rid myself of the evidence.
Because here's the thing about Jeremy Brooks.
Don't let that freshly pressed polo and those Prada boat shoes fool you. Jeremy's not like the rest of these clowns—myself included in said group. No silver spoon fed him. Nor did familial donations grant him acceptance to Princeton University. Meaning, my boy's scary smart. Like, works-on-Silicon-Avenue-fresh-out-of-university-as-an-electrical-engineer kind of smart.
