Dating the Wrong Guy

While everyone around us was having fun, somewhere between the fourth and fifth cucumber-tonic I felt someone's gaze on my neck. Joanna kept telling me that Mark Figaro was eyeing me from the moment I passed through the doors. I didn't really like the guy, I remember. The hockey type, with wide shoulders, evasive jaw and tiny eyes with no personality. During the entire night, he entertained the crowd by displaying his parents' wealth, which sickened me. No, it wasn't only his gaze that was itching. There was a sort of optical love triangle going on, stoking up the atmosphere of an already heated college havoc. A triangle between me, Mark Figaro and one mysterious fellow who was standing in the corner of the room all alone: Robert Catano. The following day was spent in bed. No classes on Saturday, only a mountain of homework, but it had to wait. I was too nauseous to move, my brain too cluttered to focus on the multicellular organisms and double-membrane-bound organelle. I thought about Mark, how furious I was, praying that his underage pecker would fall off. My skin still smelled of alcohol. Of guilt, too, even though I knew I was not guilty. As always, I was trapped in my own lack of experience, wishing I was older, much older than I was...

My palms were sweating. It was pitch darkness, a cloudy, starless night, with a sense of morning arising above the land. Paralyzed, with my heart jammed in my throat, I remained leaned on his chest, feeling how frightened he was too. Perhaps the world will really end today, and our love, which, I thought, we were determined to fight for, will never reach its fullest potential. Robert's eyes were fixed on the rearview mirror, on the police officer approaching our car. We pulled over, aside on the dusty road, somewhere close to Pittsburgh, after nine hours of drive. I quickly covered myself with his jacket that was lying on top of my knees keeping me warm, rolled over on my right shoulder and closed my eyes, pretending to be cozily sleeping. The police officer knocked on the driver's window...

While everyone around us was having fun, somewhere between the fourth and fifth cucumber-tonic I felt someone's gaze on my neck. Joanna kept telling me that Mark Figaro was eyeing me from the moment I passed through the doors. I didn't really like the guy, I remember. The hockey type, with wide shoulders, evasive jaw and tiny eyes with no personality. During the entire night, he entertained the crowd by displaying his parents' wealth, which sickened me. No, it wasn't only his gaze that was itching. There was a sort of optical love triangle going on, stoking up the atmosphere of an already heated college havoc. A triangle between me, Mark Figaro and one mysterious fellow who was standing in the corner of the room all alone: Robert Catano. The following day was spent in bed. No classes on Saturday, only a mountain of homework, but it had to wait. I was too nauseous to move, my brain too cluttered to focus on the multicellular organisms and double-membrane-bound organelle. I thought about Mark, how furious I was, praying that his underage pecker would fall off. My skin still smelled of alcohol. Of guilt, too, even though I knew I was not guilty. As always, I was trapped in my own lack of experience, wishing I was older, much older than I was...

A young college girl, Olivia, went to Mark Figaro's party. She drank too much and got into trouble. Mark went with her in the room and tried to force himself on her. What happened later, find out in new suspense romantic novel about young college girl Olivia and Italian bad boy Robert.