Nothing But Wild (Malibu University 2)

And definitely never again listen to her diet recs. This is the person who swore that if I ate only cheese for ten days, I would lose ten pounds. That alone should’ve made me think twice about attending this party. I still get queasy at the sight of camembert. So to recap, basically never listen to Sasha again.

I hook a finger into the tight neckline of my costume and yank on it for some breathing room. Dang, this outfit is uncomfortable. And to make matters worse, it’s hotter than summer in Hades up in here.

Wearing a black vinyl jumpsuit to a sorority house party was another major mistake. Vinyl is never the answer. But on the flip side, I’ll finally sweat away enough lbs to make jockey weight…or die of dehydration. Whichever comes first.

A guy walks by and leers at my outfit. In the meantime, I check out his. He’s wearing…black armor? Yeah, I’m pretty sure it’s trying to be armor. Then I notice the talc-white hair. He’s dressed as Brienne of Tarth. So far I’ve counted four Deaneryses. Five Cerseis. Two Sansas, and one Brienne. Not a single Arya.

Brienne––the dude––stops to see if I’m amenable to his advances but my blank, nervous stare makes him think twice. I may have overestimated how far I was prepared to venture out of my comfort-zone by a gazillion miles. He considers his chances for a minute, then spotting a better option across the crowded room, he walks away.

Bye, bye Brienne.

Under normal circumstances, I would’ve declined my cousin’s invitation without a second thought because a sorority party? Yeah, that’s master level social life and I have yet to get my feet wet at introductory level, but she caught me at a bad time. I’d just promised myself that I was no longer going to let my issues dictate my life when she called. Which is how I find myself here, lurking in a dark corner, and by the feel of it, developing a serious skin rash under my boobs.

A tiny Khal Drogo bumps into me. I only realize he’s Khal by the blown-up doll of Deanerys he’s wearing. And by wearing I mean her legs are tied around his waist. We’re practically eye-to-eye. Which puts him at five and a half feet.

No judgement, though. At barely over five feet, I’m no height elitist. I’ll consider a small guy…or a tall one. Skinny or chunky works for me too. Basically any decent guy has a chance with me. As far as I’m concerned that “never settle” stuff is pure BS. I’m happy to settle for a nice guy as long as he’ll settle for me.

“Yo, sexy,” tiny Khal Drogo says with a jerk of his chin.

Not a smarmy one, though. I can’t do smarmy. Gotta draw the line somewhere.

One side of his mouth hikes up in an oily grin while his deep-set brown eyes rake over me. After a full sweep, they double back and stop at my breasts which I patiently endure as I have since the summer after ninth grade when my B cup inexplicably became a full D.

Once again, I do my best impression of a mime. And not because I’m not willing to give tiny Khal a chance. It’s because I suck at conversation with strangers. A throat-paralyzing anxiety comes over me every time I attempt it. Subsequently, I either stand around looking like someone bashed me over the head and left me brain dead, or I stutter and neither option has ever landed me a date––let alone a boyfriend. It’s a curse I’ve been struggling with since I learned how to speak.

Sensing my conversational skills hover somewhere between terrible and non-existent, Khal says, “Your loss,” and walks on. Not before the Deanerys blow-up doll smacks me in the boobs as he turns to leave, however.

Whatever, it’s fine, actually this may be for the best because the itch has graduated from mildly uncomfortable to flat-out aggressive and spreading everywhere. Taking this suit off isn’t even an option, not even to pee. I’m stuffed into this thing like sausage in casing. It would require either heavy machinery or an act of God to get it back on.

Less than a minute later, the itch gets unbearable enough to nudge me out of my safe corner in search of some privacy before I’m compelled to claw at my nipples in public. Even though no one at this party knows I exist, I don’t need them to notice me for the wrong reason.

After repeated attempts at asking many, many individuals all of which are inebriated beyond remembering their own names where I can find a bathroom, I give up and start opening doors. Turns out, the third one is the charm.

I hit the switch and a dim, fluorescent-pink light comes on. As my eyes slowly adjust, I note that three of the four bulbs in the overhead fixture are out. Then I find the source of the pink light…