The bass from the speakers downstairs was still shaking the walls like the frat house was trying to give itself a heart attack. Red Solo cups littered the hallway, someone was puking in the bathroom two doors down, and the air smelled like cheap beer, weed, and bad decisions.
I had one arm looped around Asher’s waist, half-carrying, half-dragging my best friend up the creaky wooden stairs. He was six-foot-two of pure dead weight tonight, his head lolling against my shoulder, messy brown hair tickling my cheek.
“Stace… you’re the best,” he slurred for the tenth time, his breath warm and boozy against my ear. “No one else would haul my ass up here. Not even my own brothers.”
“Yeah, yeah, hero complex activated,” I muttered, sarcastically. “Just don’t puke on my shoes. These are the
