Page 1 of Caught Stealing

Prologue

Holden

May — College, Sophomore Year

“Unless you’re looking to be plastered before nightfall, you might want to slow down.”

I glance up from the keg and over to where Oakley’s leaning against the deck railing, watching me with those Judgy McJudgerson eyes of his. He’s the only person at this stupid Kappa Sig party who’d try being the voice of reason at the last kegger of the semester, a task no sane person would ask for.

I raise my solo cup toward him in cheers, because little does my best friend know, his tip is already lost on me.

He’s right about one thing, though—there’s easily still another couple hours of daylight left. Maybe it is a little too early to be as far gone as I am, but in my defense, I’ve been here since two o’clock. And it’s the last day of finals week, so why wouldn’t we start partying the second we hand in our exams to the proctor?

“Too little…” I start before drinking the overflow from my cup. “Too late.”

“C’mon, Hold,” Oakley says, crossing the grass and making a grab for my drink. “Give me the beer, and let me get you back to the house.”

“I’m fine,” I slur, pulling away from his grip and trying my damndest not to stumble on the uneven ground. “And last time I checked, you’re my roommate, not my fucking babysitter.”

“It seems like you need one right now,” he rebuts, his brows crashing together as his brown eyes harden. “You can be one sloppy drunk, you know that?”

“No one said you had to stay and watch,” I mutter, and honestly, all of me wishes he wouldn’t. It’s probably better for our friendship if he goes home now before I get really bad. Any other day of the year, fine. He can take care of my drunk ass all he wants. He’s done it plenty of times in the past couple of years since we’ve become friends.

But not today.

Certainly not like this.

Oakley rolls his eyes before holding his hands up in surrender and backing away. “Fine, just don’t come bitching to me in the morning when you’re hungover on your flight back home to Cali.”

Home.

My mind snags on the word, and in my intoxication, I fixate.

On the word, on themeaningof it.

On what is missing frommyhome, which is the entire reason I’m this fucked up to begin with.

Because today marks the anniversary of when I lost them.

As if reading my mind, Oakley’s gaze softens. “Your parents wouldn’t want you doing this shit,” he says, barely loud enough for me to hear over the thumping bass. “You know they’d want you to move on and keep living.”

“Living is exactly what I’m doing,” I say, a small hiccup leaving me on the last word. “Which is a lot more than I can say for them.”

He winces, as most people do when I choose to make a morbid dead-parent joke. But hey, what doesn’t kill you just gives you seriously fucked-up coping mechanisms and one massive self-destruct button.

“Can you just text me so I know you make it on the plane tomorrow?” His brow hitches up before he tacks on, “Please?”

“Yes, sir.” I toss a mock salute his way, completely done with this whole conversation. Which is why I’m glad to see him roll his eyes again and head toward the gate leading to the alleyway where he parked.

“Now that my babysitter’s gone,” I mutter under my breath.

I move inside, where more people are laughing and dancing to whatever shit is blasting through the speakers, because the K-Sigs are known to have the worst taste in music.

Taking another sip of beer, I head up the stairs, doing my best to brush aside the empty feeling Oakley’s words have brought to the forefront of my mind. Still, the thoughts have infiltrated the drunken state my mind’s been occupying most of the day, forcing me to, once again, think about things I’d rather forget. Or at least ignore, if only for a little while.

That’s when I spot a dark-haired guy with even darker eyes staring at me from his spot in the hall, even while he’s in the midst of a conversation with someone else. His eyes heat my skin, and when his gaze lifts to collide with mine, I know exactly how I plan to escape every thought plaguing me.

It’s improbable, but not impossible, that I’m mistaking his attention for interest, but from the way his eyes track me as I close the space between us, I’d bet my throwing arm I’m in the clear with this one.

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