I knew we couldn't get tangled in the kiss (someone give me a medal, please—I am such a good-fucking-guy), but it was still damn near impossible to drag myself away. I'd try to make for the door, and she'd throw her hair back and expose a bare swatch of her neck. I was like a vampire again, needing to suck. She anticipated my every move and coiled her body accordingly, foreshadowing a great chemistry in the sack.

“No!” I finally shouted, jerking myself out of the driver's seat so I was suddenly yelling up at the Austin sky. “No! We are adults. We have self-control! Time for some PG fun!”

“Dork!” she tittered, climbing out of her side of the car. I stared at the ground while she adjusted her sweater, seductively. We could do this. I could do this.

“Where are we anyway, Landy?”

At that moment, the bar sounds rose out of the silence to answer my question. A few theatre-y looking kids pulled the door open, and a smattering of terrible voices joined the Texas night. Doll took one look at the neon sign and then turned back to me, shaking her head.

“Oh no. Oh no, no, no.”

“You're not a real UT kid until you've torn it up at karaoke,” I twinkled. Then I jogged over to her side of the car before she could protest anymore. I grabbed her wrist and gave it a tug.

Inside, Derby's was mayhem as usual. I hadn't actually come to the karaoke bar for something like two years—hey, an athlete's social life had its perks—but I had great memories from freshman year of screaming out Primus lines with some of my fellow pledges before I'd shirked the whole frat thing to focus on football. For one thing, Derby's was famous for never carding anybody. For another, they made a “specialty Hurricane” in a big glass shoe that could send Andre the Giant down in one, and said cocktail was a shockingly reasonable six bucks.

We had to thwack our way through a lot of sweaty co-eds, but I knew I'd picked the right spot when Doll's eyes lit up. Some art-y kid had taken to the stage with some sad man song.

“The Smiths!” she bellowed into my ear, cutting over the noise. “I didn't know they'd have, like, actually good music! I love The Smiths!” Her earnest grin made me mirror her face back to her, and I watched her wiggle out of the corner of my eye as I ordered our drinks.

“Sterling Silver! Long time no see, my bud!” cried the bartender. Same guy as it had been for years, apparently—this tall, skinny raver type named Blaine. I appreciated Blaine. He'd made me feel like a local celebrity long before I actually was one. I was pretty sure there was still a humiliating photo of me somewhere over the cash register, a still of me and Denny singing a Spice Girls song. We'd lost a bet.

“Who's the cutie?” Blaine asked, nodding over my shoulder. Doll was dancing crazy, having apparently taken on a whole new personality. Whoever these “Smiths” were, it seemed that they got her hot.

“Chick has good taste,” the bartender nodded approvingly. I made to fake punch him on the arm. If memory served, Blaine was famous for expressing open dislike of certain people's partners. I suddenly remembered one ill-fated evening when I'd taken Zora there. She'd pouted in the corner all night about how Derby's didn't serve white wine.

“Look out!” cried my old friend, and his pointer finger snapped me out of my reverie—Doll, who hadn't had anything to drink yet, had somehow wormed her way onstage to finish the rest of the sad man song. She started bleating into the spare mic, to the visible chagrin of the little singing hipster dude. Yet no one tried to scoot her offstage.

Her voice was small and nervous at first, but then the pure joy took over—and it was totally badass. She started tooling around with harmonies, and then took the mic from its stand and started dancing around, hopping from foot to foot. The whole bar started hollering. Somebody started a rhythmic clap.

“And heaven knows I'm miserable now!” she sang, all smiles. It was totally ridiculous to see such a happy girl screaming such sad lyrics, but no one seemed to care. It all felt weirdly in place with our emotional rollercoaster of an evening. The little hipster dude even ceded her the last chorus, joining in the clap parade. Suddenly, Doll shaded her eyes. She looked around the room for a moment, and then her eyes found my corner of the bar. She grinned wildly and pointed in my direction.

“Oh, yeah,” Blaine was saying, as he scooted the two bootfuls of what was basically grain alcohol towards my waiting wallet. “I'd say this one's a keeper, hoss.”

After taking several bows, Doll raced back over to us and wrapped her sweaty arms around my middle.

“I thought someone didn't like karaoke,” I teased, prodding two fingers into her belly. Now, it was her turn to swat me away.

“I shouldn't have judged,” she panted. “I dunno what came over me! I love that song!” Ashleigh eyed the boot of blue booze and raised an eyebrow at me before pulling the drink closer. In one highly unladylike move, she gripped the glass by its heel and tilted a substantial gulp of Hurricane down her throat. I watched her neck move up and down as she swallowed, and tried not to get any ideas.

“Woo!” she hollered, after washing down some more of the blue concoction. “This place RULES! I LOVE COLLEGE! YAY, PG FUN!”

I was yanked up onstage for the following: June and Johnny Cash's version of “Jackson,” then, “Thriller,” then “Smells Like Teen Spirit.” Doll wanted to make sure that we covered all the bases. Around us, hours flicked by and the rest of the bar grew disinterested in us. After the third pair of blue boots, even Blaine's response time started to lag.

At one point I looked up and we were the only two customers left. The sour-faced karaoke DJ was putting away his big black binders of song choices and Blaine was taking out the trash, but Doll was still warbling her way through a song I didn't recognize by Britney Spears.

“She's so lucky,” Ash croaked. “She's a star, but she cry-cry-cries...”

It had been years since I'd unconsciously stayed out so late. And as much as I didn't want to admit morning (and with it, the fact of my AWOL Dad, or my beat-up stepmother, or whatever the hooligan Longhorns had gotten up to last night)...it was totally time. I approached Doll slowly, like she was a skittish cat. I gently peeled the mic from her hands and led her towards the parking lot.

“Last two are on me, you party animals!” Blaine called from the back room. I saluted a thank you. Doll was suddenly so tired it seemed she couldn't stand—her eyelids fluttered, and she wavered back and forth like she was threatening to do a trust exercise. Finally, I just bent over and picked her up. She wrapped her tiny arms around my neck. I could feel the bones in her rib-cage, the pillows of her breasts, the rhythm of her breath rising and falling.

“Should I take you to Carson's?” I murmured into the crook of her ear. I was shockingly upright, given the three gooey cocktails. But then again, we'd been at Derby's for hours and hours, and had likely danced out some of the alcohol. And I could probably beat Tiny here in any kind of tolerance contest.

“Take me to your place,” she whispered. It was barely a grunt. But I realized that I, too, was exhausted—definitely way too exhausted to argue. I'd take her to my apartment. It'd felt bigger since Denny had cleared out, anyway—leaving behind a four bedroom for a mere three guys. With a thrill mixed with a bit of dread, I realized: I'd be waking up next to her tight little body tomorrow morning. She'd be all mine.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Ash

My head was pounding, but it wasn't quite a headache yet. It was the prelude to a headache, one I assumed was coming later. Light pressed down on me from all sides, and I reached for something soft. Something familiar.