Dallas’s stupid modern square-shaped sectional looked cool, but it had these weird immovable armrests and was about as comfortable as a bag of rocks. My ass always ached after playing video games on that thing.

“I don’t know…” Bailey chewed her bottom lip. Her gaze darted between the bed and me like she was performing some kind of mental risk calculation.

“I can assure you; I’m not going to try anything.”

“Okay.” She yawned, rubbing her eyes. “I trust you. I don’t know why, but I do.”

“I’ll go grab you a water.”

By the time I returned from the kitchen, glass of water in hand, she had changed into my shirt and was on top of the covers, passed out cold diagonally. Snoring.

* * *

BAILEY

Light flooded through the gaps in the curtains, growing progressively brighter. I was thirsty beyond belief. Every muscle in my body was sore, as if I’d just run a marathon. And my head pounded like someone was beating me with a hockey stick.

I groaned and pulled the covers over my head, trying to block out the light—and reality. If I could get back to sleep, maybe I’d wake up later and realize all of this had been a bad dream. What time was it, anyway? I cracked one eye open to discover I was hiding beneath a dark gray duvet, not white like mine…and it smelled like cologne.

Really delicious cologne.

Where the hell was I?

Pieces of last night came back to me slowly. Luke blowing me off at the game, hitting the club with Zara and Noelle, running into Chase Carter…Oh my god—Carter. I threw off the covers and let out a gasp. I was wearing a crimson Falcons T-shirt.

The uniform of the enemy.

I squeezed my eyes shut, slowly counting to five. Maybe I was hallucinating from all the stress. I opened one eye and peeked at my surroundings. Sadly, I was still in the same place: Chase Carter’s bedroom. No, not his bedroom. His sex dungeon.

Fine, it didn’t look like a sex dungeon, not that I’d know what one looked like. The walls were a crisp, clean white, and the soft cotton sheets and comforter were charcoal gray. There was a small flatscreen TV mounted on the wall, a glass computer desk with a laptop, and an acoustic guitar leaning in the corner. All in all, it was clean and minimalist. It didn’t scream fraternity guy like I’d expected. Actually, it was nicer than Luke’s bedroom.

But I wasn’t the first girl, nor would I be the last, to wake up here. I was probably customer number 238, with a line around the block to take my place. Take a ticket and get in line, ladies.