Chapter 1: Anything Goes

Let me tell you about the night that changed everything. The night I stopped being invisible and started turning myself into a walking catastrophe you could smell coming before you saw it.

But first, who I was before any of this hit. Gabriel Hare—Gabriel as in the angel of mischief, Hare as in the creature known for its enthusiasm in matters of reproduction. The name fit better than my parents ever intended. My father was Brazilian (surname Coelho originally), but he switched to the English version when I was born. In his defense, he probably didn’t foresee raising a son who’d take the symbolism literally.

I’m 6’2” of trouble with green eyes and a sly crooked smile sharp enough to get me into bed and stupid enough to get me into drama. Dark hair, dyed black and growing shaggy—last cut five months earlier for prom. People call me sassy. I call it weaponized honesty.

I’d spent my whole life hiding in oversized clothes, ashamed of my body, running from mirrors. Then something shifted at the end of senior year. Braces off, glasses to contacts, and I decided to try dressing like I had a shape—especially an ass—and maybe deserved to be seen. I emulated the coolest nerd of the time: Seth Cohen from The O.C. Layered shirts (long sleeves under short sleeves), slim jeans instead of baggy ones, messy hair that looked accidental but took effort. Four years of swimming had given me lean muscle, defined shoulders, decent arms, and an ass that caught nods from older guys at the YMCA like they were grading livestock.

Nobody back home noticed because I’d hidden it so well. Honestly? I didn’t notice either until a summer abroad before college, when I realized some people actually wanted to sleep with me. (Plot twist: several did.) But that’s a story for another time.

The revolution starts at hazing week, early fall semester of my freshman year.

Early September—still warm enough that you’d sweat through your shirt by noon, but the evenings carried that first hint of cool air that meant summer was dying. The kind of weather where you’d start the night in short sleeves and end it wishing you’d brought a jacket. Perfect for bad decisions.

The seniors were running a “charity auction” to raise money for kegs—because nothing says philanthropy like funding your own alcoholism. They put us freshmen on a raised platform like livestock at a county fair; upperclassmen would bid on us. No real promise of what the bid got you—just vague implications. A date? A dare? Bragging rights? The ambiguity made it worse, like we were surprise bags of freshman meat.

The party was packed. Music thumped so loud you felt it in your chest. Red cups everywhere, crushed and abandoned by morning. That electric energy of a college party where everyone’s still figuring out who they’re going to be and nobody’s committed yet. The room smelled like spilled beer, cheap cologne, and possibility. Mostly spilled beer.

I arrived feeling a little lost, still figuring out how to navigate any of this, when Diego found me.

Diego. Let me tell you about Diego.

I’d met him at a frat party earlier that week—this stocky guy with long dark hair pulled back in a samurai bun, sun-tanned southern Mediterranean skin, chubby in a way that somehow worked on him, very hairy but no facial hair, and an energy that said he was always three seconds away from starting mischief.

“Gabriel!” he called out, grinning. “Come meet some people.”

He led me through the crowd to two girls standing near the makeshift bar.

One was 5’1” Cherokee with waist-length black braids, terracotta skin, and the kind of confidence that made heads turn when she walked in. New money showed in how she dressed and moved—like she owned every room. She had teasing energy that pulled you into whatever joke she was telling. Five feet of menace wrapped in silk.