Freshman Blues: Last Chances Academy, #4

By Parker Avrile

Revenge comes first in this enemies-to-lovers gay romance.

 

Matt
"Can Matty be saved?" Yeah, that's me. The infamous teen burglar who supposedly vamoosed with a multi-million-dollar art object.
I'm nineteen now. The scholarship's meant to give me one last chance to turn my life around. Never thought of myself as a college boy, but I've got nothing left to lose but my freedom.
Turns out life in the freshman dorm has a lot to recommend it.
Starting with that hottie from California.

Hunter
I'm enrolled in this last chances college for rich eff-ups for one reason and one reason only.
In the name of publicity and a higher social media profile for the college, they gave a scholarship to the wrong dirtbag. Matt McCoyn sucked my Dad into a disastrous heist that ended in my Dad's arrest. So my Dad's got a monitor on his ankle, and the mastermind skates?
No way I'm sitting still for that.
I'm bringing Matt down, and if the school goes down with him, too bad, so sad.
Fate's on my side. Matt has no idea who my father is. And it's so easy to get close when you both live in the same freshman dorm.
Getting close to a criminal can be dangerous, though.
Especially when the feels start to kick in.

Freshman Blues is a full-length new adult gay romance with revenge and academy themes. There is no cheating, no deep angst, and a guaranteed Happily Ever After. This book is a complete standalone romance.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Paris April Press
• Release date: Jan 3, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215100684

Parker Avrile

Like Kyle, I ran away to Vegas. Now I'm running from it. 

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Copyright & Disclaimer

Story & cover ©2022 by Paris April Press

All Rights Reserved

Except for brief passages quoted for reviews and/or recommendations in magazine, radio, or blog posts, no part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying or recording, or by information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author.

This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to anyone, any time, or any place is not intended and is merely coincidental. The cover models appear for illustration purposes only and have no relationship to any events in this story. Brief mentions of real persons, places, or products are used fictitiously and in accordance with fair use. All trademarks remain the properties of their owners.

It is a violation of international copyright law to upload this book to free, pirate, and sharing sites. Many independent authors and publishers have been forced out of the business by piracy. The small fee you pay to buy this book helps support an indie author. Thank you for respecting my hard work.

A Note from the Author

The Last Chances Academy series of books are fast-paced, page-turning escapism with a healthy serving of steam. Freshman Blues is a complete standalone gay romance with two new starring characters. There are no spoilers for the first three books, Hot Roommate Blues, Hot Mafia Blues, or Kickoff Blues, so you can read this one first if you want to.

From the days of my first novel, The Runaway Model, I've always been excited by the challenge of writing page-turning longer novels. When I first got the seed of an idea for a last-chances academy for hot gay bad boys, I knew it was a natural setting for fast-paced male/male romances full of deception and twists.

My wish for you is to enjoy reading this steamy gay enemies-to-lovers romance as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Chapter One

Matt

June 2022

Nineteen was supposed to be the gap year in Italy. Gondola rides. The Spanish Steps. Flirty boys with flexible hips. Skinny jeans, maybe by Versace. Some creep whistled to make you turn around. When you did, he'd snap your picture. But that was all right too because the creep would turn out to work for an agency, and then you'd be a model.

You're a dreamer, Matty, my mother would say. All the McCoyn men are dreamers.

And she wasn't? She married a McCoyn man, after all.

One thing I knew for sure. Nineteen wasn't supposed to be farmer's jeans and a polo shirt. My first name wasn't supposed to be spelled out in embroidered white thread for any random Karen to shout at.

Why is all the cider alcohol-free? Where's the wine? I can't host a party with this.

My jaw wasn't supposed to be clenched as I repeated, over and over, that the MacPherson farm store made a point of refusing to sell products containing alcohol. We are proud of producing healthy beverages that support addiction-free lifestyles.

Sure, it was fun to see Karen narrow her eyes at my passive-aggro jab. But not enough fun to make up for the fact I was whiling my youth away in rural North Carolina. I was meant to be an It boy, not a country store clerk.

Nineteen wasn't supposed to find me bounced back to the farmhouse where I'd shared a room with my foster brother Kevin. Even after everything, I figured eighteen would get me off the farm. Who's the singer who said life is what happens while you're making other plans?

Outside, somebody was roaring around on the riding lawnmower. Kevin, probably. He was a guy who looked for any excuse to get loud with the landscaping equipment.

Inside, I was alone but not for long. It was one of those days you could tell people were going to jump in their cars to go spend money. They'd tell themselves they were driving out to the farm for the healthy food and clean air. Then they'd yell at me for not selling booze.

The lawnmower noise blasted louder because the front door was swinging open. My cue to paste a plastic smile on my pretty face. A photographer from an agency could always stumble in, snap my picture, make me famous. Stranger things have happened.

No, they haven't.

At first, thanks to the bright day outside, all I got was a silhouette. Lean and tall, the visitor had an easy gait that told you he was in his early twenties even before you saw his face.

That was unusual. The farm store was not exactly a hangout spot for hot young males.

Then he stepped out of the glare coming through the glass door, and I saw who it was.

Uh-oh.

Grayson Easterly didn't pretend he came to shop. He glanced around to confirm we were alone. Hello, Matty, he said.

He'd be twenty-two now. At nineteen, he'd been something of a clumsy baby giraffe. That fancy college with all the ivy on the walls must have been good for him.

Hey, Gray. What brings you to our lovely corner of the world? I'm pretty sure the statute of limitations ran out on that laptop I borrowed.

I bought a new one. His long, graceful fingers touched a display of rainbow bracelets made in Kenya. We'd sell more if I took off the tiny stickers that said so. Let people think the lovely MacPherson farmgirls crafted them at home in front of the fire.

But Mrs. MacPherson only shook her head and looked sad when I suggested it. Angle-shooting Matt wasn't her favorite Matt.

What did Gray want? I hoped he didn't think I had money.

Hey, you know I'm sorry, right? I asked. I always meant to pay you back. Things got a little out of hand.

When he laughed, I saw he still had the freckles. Don't worry about it.

At least, I didn't take the Mercedes.

I noticed that, and I appreciate it.

I appreciate you didn't file a police report.

Yeah, well. He was trying on one of the bracelets. It looked too new against the pair he already wore, but three's a luckier number than two. I should have done more for you, Matty.

You think you've heard everything, but you haven't.

Why? I asked. You were a kid too.

I was a college freshman when you came to me that time.

Yeah, well. That's still a kid. What are you supposed to be able to do about anything?

I knew you were in trouble. He was frowning at the bracelet, but it wasn't the bracelet that displeased him.

On impulse, I took the shop scissors in my left hand while taking his bracelet arm in my right. Cut off the price tag, snip, snip, snip. It was done before he ever realized I'd picked up the scissors.

I don't need your pity, I said. I'm fine. As fine as I could be, considering my folks were still in federal prison.

I don't come bringing pity.

Oh.

When you're a famous thief, people tend to offer you jobs stealing stuff they can't get at by themselves.

Bracelet's on the house. I pointed behind him. There's the door. Suggest you use it.

Not until you hear me out. He stood firm.

But so did I. There's nothing you have to say that I want to hear.

I'm not here to hurt you, Matty. Just listen a minute. When Gray raised a stop-sign hand, the three bracelets slid down his arm in a colorful expression of rainbow solidarity. I was supposed to be remembering what a good guy he was. I already spoke to Mr. and Mrs. MacPherson.

You did not. I would know. Wouldn't I?

The thought of people meeting behind my back to talk about me made my skin crawl. I had enough judges making decisions about my life, thank you very much.

We didn't want to get your hopes up until... Gray was losing his college-man confidence in the face of my hard-won skepticism. Look, this wasn't something I could do alone. You're still on probation.

Like he had to tell me that.

I'm doing all the things, Fifty. I gestured around the store. I have a job. I show up for the job every day. I haven't left the area in... A long fucking time. Even visits to the parents were out for long periods, what with the federal prisons in virus lockdown.

Nobody's saying you've done anything wrong, Matty.

Stop calling me Matty.

Stop calling me Fifty. I'm only one shade of Gray.

The door opened. No lawnmower blast this time. Kevin's hair was wet, which meant he'd washed off outside with the hose after he parked the equipment.

My fake brother hiked a thumb at the door still closing behind him. Take a break, Matt.

What is this, I said. You're in on it too?

Come on. Gray took three bottles of raspberry-flavored sparkling water from the fridge case near the door. Lifted one high in Kev's direction.

Kev nodded.

Gray turned, waltzed outside. The three bottles dangled from his long fingers.

Hey, I said. What the fuck, Kev? You don't get to give out comps on my register.

"No, but I get to give out comps on my register. Kev pushed his bulky body behind the counter. Chill, Matt. Everything's cool. I get you've got a low opinion of my IQ, but trust me, I can fly a fucking register."

But...

Go on, get out there, talk to the man. You might like what he has to say.

I seriously doubt it. But it was the world against Matt McCoyn. So out I went.

The sunny day smelled like fresh-cut grass. The bees buzzed in the row of flowers running along the cobblestone sidewalk. A hummingbird spiked into the feeder.

Gray's long stride had carried him most of the way to the wooden spool table under the shade tree. His football player boyfriend was already sitting there. Whatever they were selling me, they were going to sell it in stereo.

I went over and sat down. Don't bother to share the Good News. The MacPhersons already got that covered.

The boyfriend laughed. So this is the famous Matthew McCoyn. Boy art thief.

Reformed art thief, I said. Hapless victim of conniving adults.

Uh-huh. He looked amused. You look real hapless.

Get fucked. I don't need the dance. You guys need something stolen. Fine. Just tell me what it is.

Chapter Two

Hunter

August 2022

H unter Bryerly, said the freckle-faced man behind the desk. You're on the second floor. He thumped a key card down on the counter. You're all checked in. You gonna need any help with your bags?

What you see is what you get. I shifted my shoulders enough to bounce my backpack up and down a couple of times. Bags plural is for the rich kids.

Of course, at a college like this, almost all the kids were rich kids. The lobby of Bellmount Hall, the official freshman dorm, wouldn't have looked out of place in a four-star hotel. Wide leather couches. A movie-screen-sized monitor playing a movie with the sound turned off.

No one was watching. Freshman orientation wasn't for another week.

If you think you can find your room on your own, I'm gonna head off now, said Freckles. You're the last one due to check in for a couple days.

I'll find it. I held his eyes a beat longer. It's always good to make friends with the guy on the front desk. I thought I might be the only one to check in this early. Should I apologize for making you come to work?

Oh, no, not at all. More hours, more money. Anyway, there's a few of you who came in this afternoon. I kinda scheduled you all to show up the same day. He smacked his forehead playfully. That reminds me. He flicked a glossy midnight-blue card over the counter.

I caught it in mid-air. What's this?

Your invitation. Star party tonight. A little get-together for the early arrivals. Freckles was already turning away from the counter toward the back office.

Where...

The card'll tell you what you need to know. Freckles tapped two fingers to his temple in a fake salute. Then he was gone.

I stood alone in the lobby of Bellmount Hall.

Hello? I said.

Silence.

I took a better look at the card. Gold metallic lettering on midnight-blue stock. A few five-point gold stars sprinkled here and there.

Meteor Storm Tonight 3 AM.

BYOB Drinks at 2.

Park in front of Niko's located in the old Nikolo's building.

Walk around to the gazebo area.

Please keep your flashlights pointed down.

The address on the other side suggested a location even more rural than the bucolic campus of Chestnut Dale University. Three in the morning? I asked out loud, in case the sound of my own voice could make the empty dorm less lonely. That isn't just a no, it's a fuck no.

TWELVE HOURS LATER, I was pulling into a parking lot in front of a closed restaurant. My headlights briefly lit up two other parked vehicles—a Porsche Cayman, an Alfa Romeo. Rich kid cars.

Townie vehicles would be trucks. This has to be the place.

Niko's was a long, low, mostly windowless structure. The neon sign on top of the building had been turned off for the night. In some places, a roadhouse might be open twenty-four hours. I wasn't real surprised to learn Chestnut Dale County wasn't one of those places.

What are you doing here, Hunter?

It wasn't the first time I'd asked myself the question. But what the hell else should I be doing? My father was under house arrest, with the majority of our money already seized. The frozen accounts included my Dad's share of my college savings, and the lawyer had already warned me not to expect the feds to shake loose that cash anytime soon.

If ever.

We were fucked. And the person responsible for the fucking?

He needed to pay. Bigtime.

My car went to sleep when I got out, and the country darkness seemed total. The parking lot's lights were either burned out or turned off. I felt for my phone's flashlight app. Skimmed the beam around the area. Two red eyes lit up.

Just a raccoon.

Jolted, I remembered to point my flashlight down. Once my vision got used to the dark, I'd see more shooting stars. Or so said the official website of the Perseids meteor storm.

Yep. Meteor storms, like hurricanes, have names.

And, yep, I'd changed my mind about the party. Matthew McCoyn was certain to be there. He'd be an enthusiastic early arrival if anyone was.

My father's lawyer got a copy of McCoyn's probation deal, and I'd snuck a look at it. The judge had given McCoyn a choice of two places he could be.

His foster family's farmhouse. Or the campus of any college willing to accept him.

It hadn't taken him long to get sick of raking hay.

You wouldn't think you'd find a guy like McCoyn in a pricey school like Chestnut Dale. His foster folks were farmers. They couldn't afford a college that charged big money to accept the troubled scion of society's elite.

And yet here we were. Chestnut Dale had given McCoyn a full scholarship. For reasons obscure to me, he'd been identified as a young man of unusual promise who deserved a second chance.

I'll say he's got some unusual promise.

Behind the dark restaurant, I spotted a gazebo outlined with tiny red neon lights looped around its base, up a short flight of steps, and around the mouth of the doorless doorway. The Perseids website had explained that red light was less likely to burn out the meteor-watching receptors in the human eye. I was definitely in the right place.

Shadows moved inside. Voices rose and fell but I couldn't make out words. The gazebo was much larger than I'd expected—large enough to host entire celebrity weddings. Outdoor events were still a booming business, and Niko's was prepared to take full advantage.

Hey! called a voice. Young, male, maybe an alto.

I'd been spotted.

Hey back at you. I hurried up the stairs and on inside.

Oddly for the twenty-first century, no one had a phone out. It was dark except for a single candle fluttering in a tea lamp on a round table. The guy who greeted me was still mostly a shadow.

Bottles over there. He gestured toward a bright spot in the shadows.

I aimed my phone in that direction to light up a white cooler with its lid askew. A bottle of Fireball sat on the floor next to the cooler.

Oops. Was I supposed to bring alcohol?

I'm afraid I come empty-handed, I said. I didn't realize...

He laughed. We have more than enough already. If you don't like Fireball, there's IPA in the cooler.

Thanks.

I'm not a beer snob, but it looked like an upscale IPA. I took a bottle, put away my phone, studied the crowd.

Five guys besides me.

Two guys sat across from each other at the round table. One had the other's hand pulled toward him palm up to read his fortune. The flickering candlelight gave me a general impression of young, slim figures, but I wasn't getting much more than that.

Two other guys stood talking intently in a dark corner. They were bigger, bulkier. Definitely not guys who could rappel down an elevator shaft with a Picasso tucked under one arm.

I shifted my gaze back to the round table. The reader's face lit up golden as he leaned over the other man's open palm.

Was he...?

I'm Elijah. The guy who'd first greeted me stepped into my line of sight.

Hunter.

We clinked bottles, although I felt grumpy about it. Already, we were six guys split up two by two. We were getting coupled up when I hadn't even had a good look at the options yet. Awkward.

The flickering tea lamp behind Elijah drew the eye. He couldn't avoid noticing that I was looking right through him. The psychic's Matt, he said.

So I was right. It was him. My breath caught in my lungs.

I know what you're thinking, Elijah said. Psychics are scams, am I right? But Matty-boy's actually pretty good. He did a reading for me before you got here.

Trust a McCoyn to know how to work a room. Or a gazebo. How do you know he's any good? I asked.

Well, he told me stuff.

Uh-huh. What kind of stuff?

The future kind of stuff.

That's what I thought. Uh-huh. So you don't actually know if he's any good or not, because the future ain't here yet.

It was too dark to see Elijah roll his eyes, but somehow I could tell. It's a party trick, Hunter. Just go with it for the sake of the party.

At that moment, McCoyn let go of the hand he'd been reading, and the hand's owner pushed up from the table.

Your turn. Elijah lifted his arm, cueing his smartwatch to light up. We still got time.

Why not?

When I sat, the angle of the flickering tea lamp mostly lit up the underside of Matt's chin. You couldn't look good in light like that. Too many shadows on your face from too many wrong directions.

Except, somehow, he did. Poreless skin. A clean jaw. Photogenic cheekbones.

The mug shot hadn't prepared me. For one thing, it was a couple of years old, and he'd still had a child's cherub cheeks. The Matthew McCoyn in front of me tonight was no child.

He was a man. The most dangerous kind of man. The butter-wouldn't-melt kind.

A couple years back, the media made a lot of noise about the contrast between McCoyn's criminal career and his angelic face. The choir boy art thief.

Now, he was the choir's handsome young director.

I forced myself to take a slow, deep breath.

I am not impressed.

I put down my bottle. Reached out my hand.

I'll never be one of your drooling fans.

He smiled as he took the hand. Shook with a firm and—how I hate to admit it—even a sexy little squeeze.

In fact, the squeeze was so infuriatingly sexy that an electric spark zapped me where we touched. The physical jolt threw me off balance. Did I take a step back?

Tell me I didn't.

Tell me he didn't notice.

Introduce yourself, idiot.

A knot in my throat bobbed as I swallowed hard. I'm...

Shh, he said. Don't tell me. Candlelight danced in his eyes. I'm the psychic. I'll tell you.

Chapter Three

Matt

The votive candle was beginning to smoke. Good. That was atmosphere, and I needed some. It had been a while since I'd played the psychic.

Mom was the real reader of the family, but she taught me the basics. We once had occasion to run a play against a target more likely to believe a psychic message coming from a kid.

A lot of people think children are closer to the source, she'd said. They haven't forgotten all their magic yet. Also, a lot of people don't think children are any good at lying—at least not good enough to fool people as smart as our target thought he was.

Ha.

My days as a child criminal genius might be over. But I still retained enough skills to amaze and amuse at parties. The flickering light bled most of the color from the scene, but I could tell my last customer of the night was somebody I wanted to amaze and amuse.

Easy lope of a stride. Toned silhouette. Dark hair getting shaggy from going too long between trims. He was a natural beauty, not one of those guys who fusses over products.

Why not give him a charge?

My left hand dropped under the table to the side pocket of my cheap cargo shorts. First, I slipped my fingers into a limp balloon. Then, quickly, I rubbed them into a clean wool sock. The trick sounds easier than it is if you haven't practiced, but I'd practiced plenty.

Rub once, rub twice, and I was electrified. When we shook hands, he felt the spark—felt it enough to stumble back a step.

On a dry winter night, the electric spark wouldn't have been such a shock. It would've been something that happened all the time.

On a humid summer night, it was something else. Maybe something special.

Shoot me, but I'm not making any excuses. It was fun watching him struggle to collect himself. The electrifying experience of meeting a McCoyn had him halfway to forgetting his own name.

I'm, he stammered.

Shhh, I said. I'll tell you.

When he scooted his chair closer, his knee brushed my knee. A second spark. And I hadn't done anything to fake that one. Nice.

The moment stretched out as I pretended to concentrate.

Aren't you getting anything? he asked. Maybe you should read my right hand.

I liked his knee—and his hand—exactly where it was. The left hand is more receptive to the psychic influences.

Yeah, I just thought maybe because I'm right-handed.

That isn't how it works. Now hush a minute. Let me open myself to spirit.

I pretended to close my eyes, although I left enough of a slit to see the intent look on his face. He was buying into the whole scene. Most people do, at least for a few minutes, even if they laugh it off later.

Humming to soften the scooting sound of my chair, I moved in even closer. Now both knees touched under the table. Who needed the balloon trick to raise a spark when you had those knees?

He pulled his chair back a fraction. Our knees were still touching, just not as firmly. Was he shy?

Was I moving too fast?

You'll be in Chestnut Dale for four years. Slow down.

On the other hand, I'd only be at this party for a couple of hours.

You have an interesting Fate line. I tickled the tip of my index finger along the line from his wrist to the base of his third finger.

Oh, yeah? What's so interesting about it? Leaning in, he let his forehead almost, but not quite, kiss my forehead. A shock of his shaggy hair fell forward to brush my temple.

Were we flirting? If we were, did he know we were flirting?

Shh, I said in a deeper-than-normal medium's voice. I'm receiving a message from the astral realms. There will be time for questions at the end of the reading.

Wait a minute. Shouldn't I ask the questions upfront so you'll know what I want to know?

I'm the psychic, hon. Your hand will tell me. Now shush.

He shushed. The candle smoked.

I hadn't noticed before how warm it was at this hour of the night. Some of it was his body heat.

After a short pause to build suspense, I began to sing under my breath in a horror-movie singsong. Wish they all, wish they all, wish they all...

Fuck, he smelled good. What was that cologne? It had a fresh, green scent like a cypress tree growing near a beach.

California boy, I said suddenly.

He sat up with a jerk. You fake. That guy at the desk with the freckles told you that.

Not on purpose, he didn't. But if a man flashes his cards, is another man obligated to pretend he didn't see? Gray's carelessness with his check-in roster was an opportunity I couldn't overlook.

Anyway, I already know where I come from. How's telling me stuff I already know prove you're psychic?

It establishes credibility. Much as I hated to, I let go of his hand long enough to touch a two-fingered salute to each of my temples. I'm getting a new message. Yeah, boy, something's definitely coming through. Surfer, surfer... no, that isn't it. Hunter! That's it. Nice to meet you, Hunter.

I reached out to take his palm again.

Amazing. He rolled his eyes. And to think Elijah over there thinks you can see the future.

I can. I stroked Hunter's love line from pinkie to index finger just to see him shiver. Most people can see the future, actually. They just can't admit to themselves what they see.

For the first time in a long time, I had a future. And I intended to make the most of it. No screwing up this time. No more crimes, no matter how profitable they sounded. No matter how fast and easy.

In college, I could focus on higher things. The life of the mind.

Hunter's knees kissing my knees...

His hand twitched back a little. Resistance. That wasn't all bad. It meant he was reacting.

So what did you see that was so interesting about my Fate line? he asked. Let's get back to that.

You might not be ready for the mystic message revealed by the lines written in your hand. Not everybody is, you know. Fate is hidden from us for a reason.

Hit me with it. I promise I'm strong enough to handle the shock.

All right, but I'm not responsible for what you do with what you learn. I stroked more firmly along the curve of his Fate line.

I'm so scared by all the woo. The mockery in his tone was less convincing than he thought.

I kept stroking. This is very interesting. A bit unexpected.

What is.

I really only see one way to interpret the chain in this Fate line.

Just spit it out.

Well, all right. But don't shoot the messenger. Dramatic pause. You are the lucky man chosen by Fate to be my roommate.

"What the...? Where