Welcome to Blackout!

Some of you might have come after Handwritten (set four years before).

Some after Nightlife (set a year after).

Some after never, ever seeing my works before.

This note is just to let you know that all my works are set within the same extended universe, with stories focusing on different characters at different times in their life. As with all other Universe 1 stories (unless stipulated),

Enjoy!

when people get identical twins mixed up.

I wasn't an identical twin, so I couldn't say. But imagine meeting someone, forming a friendship with them and then finding out they can't tell you from another person. Granted, you do look and sound exactly like that person, but still. You thought you meant more to them.

As someone—self-professed—phenomenal with remembering names, I didn't expect to make that blunder ever, let alone tonight.

It was September, and Halston was humming with noises of orientation week on campus. Parties proliferated, and students squeezed into every third house like sardines. At the behest of my friend Sushmita, I was at a house party at one of the student flats off campus. Sush and I had met through the Halston University Women in STEM Association, or WISA—the organisation we'd been devoting countless volunteer hours to.

A junior like me, Sushmita was smart and confident but she also wanted to fuck the living daylights out of the boys' football team captain, to whom she had been cozying up over fall break. The only problem was that he was a really shy person, barely ever partied, and she didn't know if he would even want to hang out with her tonight. So she needed Plan A and Plan B.

Plan A: getting left all on her lonesome in a big, unfamiliar house full of men, in which case she wanted someone around to fall back on.

Plan B: Sushmita's dream coming true, in which case she would unquestionably ditch her company for her one and only chance at, pardon my French, QB dick. Then, she didn't want the guilt of having abandoned a helpless woman to the perils of college party life.

Someone who would be fine whether or not Sushmita was with her, someone who could handle herself either way. That's what she wanted.

Enter me.

Sushmita met me on the committee for a nuclear science networking event we volunteered to organise. In that short month, she'd discovered my raging appetite for loud music, faceless, nameless boys and getting blackout drunk.

And my no-nonsense attitude. It matched hers. She could appreciate that.

"Maybe you can find someone to hook-up with, too. Get over that scumbag ex of yours," she had added during our phone call yesterday.

I'd flicked my hair behind my shoulder and proclaimed, "Already over him."

I slipped into the kitchen and pulled a bottle of vodka from inside my denim jacket, which had an interior pocket just large enough to hold the circumference of the vessel. My silver sequin two-piece set twinkled conspiratorially at me as I twisted off the cap and threw my head back.

Compared to tequila or rum, which I'd started drinking straight lately, the taste of vodka had started appearing vaguely fruity to me. The spirit went down smooth and hot into my stomach.

I'll be straight up. There weren't too many situations in which I felt uncomfortable. I knew men could be dangerous, but I'd come by the good foresight and fortune to only attend parties with multiple trustworthy people around. There was Sushmita herself, and I knew the captain was a big old softie—but he was also six-foot-three, so I understood why Sushmita was chasing him. Wink.

Then there was Jake, a wide receiver who had been in a class with me in sophomore year. He was a Pharmacy major, and I studied Pre-Med, so we'd ended up in the same Mammalian Physiology stream last year to fill our prerequisites. I hadn't messaged him because we weren't close friends, but he would likely be at the party. It would be a comfort if he was.

This house party was extremely exclusive by house party standards, accessible only with approval from the host—I think, one of the offensives—himself. Looking around at the minimalist, wrought-iron chandelier that hung from the living room ceiling, I agreed. If I lived in a house like this, I would also want to be selective with whom I let in.

Dressed in a white t-shirt and navy tracksuit pants, a familiar, tall brunette boy caught my eye. Yay, Jake was here, after all! Someone to distract me till the vodka kicked in.

I sidled up to Jake and arched an eyebrow at his empty hands. "If you're going to party, you need to drink."

"Huh? Oh," he said, grimacing at his pitiable lack of alcohol. "I forgot to bring something. The boys are complete stinges. And you are?"

His expression was innocent but curious. Jake's hair had grown longer since last year, falling just above his brow bone in textured curls. I met his piercing green eyes with a sharp smile.

"Ha, very funny. Even after I let you copy my assignment last year?" I cooed, "Did you forget me already?"

Jake's brows furrowed. He was confused. I felt a stab of indignation lance my heart. It was the start of junior year and he'd already forgotten me?

I, Vivian Sok, prided myself on being memorable. Sure, I wasn't particularly approachable nor put together. I ran my mouth like a sailor and had little remorse for hurting people's feelings—though I didn't go out of my way to do so.

But I was sure hard to forget. Jake and I were even friends on Facebook, damn it.

"Depends, have we met already?" he asked, leaning closer to me. I felt his breath ghost across my ear as he murmured huskily, "If we haven't, then I'm glad we did tonight."

Oh, gross. I accepted it as an inevitable liability when I went out, but having people flirt with you when you were wholly uninterested was still a chore. It made me want to find a swift exit to the conversation—if not the party—before I had to cut my own ears off.

The reason I trusted Jake and had looked forward to seeing him here tonight was exactly because he wasn't into me. Or so I thought. Did he and his girlfriend break up or something?

"Jake, you're good-looking and all, but I already know I would never go there with you," I said bluntly.

My eyes skimmed around the people in the living room and kitchen. Sushmita was nowhere to be seen.

"I know exactly two people at this party, and I've lost the other one."

Jake threw his head back and laughed. "Oh, I see. I'm not Jake," not-Jake said amusedly. "I'm his twin."

I blinked. Heat flared in my stomach and wrapped around my neck. "Darn it. Talk about awkward."

Not-Jake shrugged his shoulder, smiling warmly at me. "It's alright. Happens all the time."

"Are you a football player, too, then?" I asked absentmindedly. The vodka was making its presence known, and my fingertips buzzed lightly.

"Yes. Linebacker," he said. "I'm Jamie, by the way."

"I'm Vivian," I replied. I stuck my hand out and briefly noted the inquisitive glint in his green irises. "Nice to meet you, Jamie. Have a good night."

He took my hand readily, his skin coarse but warm against my own. When I slipped out of the handshake, Jamie finally realised that it was my way of announcing my departure. "Wait, where are you going?"

"To find Sushmita," I lied smoothly.

No way was I taking the risk of catching her with her knees by her ears. Maybe Jake was around the party somewhere, after all, and could chatter my ear off to entertain me. "The whole reason I approached you was to avoid small-talking with strangers because I thought you were Jake, so I'm not about to do that. Bye."

I didn't look back as I walked to the kitchen, but I could feel his stare drilling a hole into my back as I went.

How's that for memorable?

The next time I saw Jamie was a month later.

It was October, Halloween to be exact, another house party, and I was dressed as a Playboy bunny. Original, I know, but it was the only costume I could pull together using the skimpy staples of my closet for under five dollars.

The host was a good friend of mine that I'd met in the first dormitory I'd ever lived in, way back in freshman year. He studied IT Management, and the house he rented had ceilings so low I felt like we were all in a basement. It added to the dingy, creepy vibe given by the Halloween decorations.

I hadn't left the beer pong table all night—not because I didn't want to, but because no-one had beaten me yet. I wouldn't leave my throne until I was rightly defeated. Everyone had clued into the fact that I—four-time Junior Champion of the Boston Table Tennis League way back in high school—had both precise aim and familiarity with a ping-pong ball.

So, they'd opened the game to doubles as if increasing their team size would increase their skill. It wouldn't. But I assumed they thought that another player on my team would drag down my success rate enough to give the challenging team a chance.

The poor schmuck they pushed into my team was Jamie—or Jake. I still didn't know them well enough to tell them apart. I gave him an apathetic smile, feeling my vision spin around his eyes. They were so vivid and green. It was the only part of my sight that didn't blur.

"If this is the second time we've met," he began good-naturedly, "surely I'm not a stranger anymore."

Oop. It was Jamie. I could tell by the slyness about him. Jake was straight-talking to everyone; maybe because he was head over heels in a committed relationship, whereas every inch of his twin brother screamed libido.

"Your point?" I wondered, resetting the pyramid of red solo cups on the table.

"Well, you don't have to small-talk with me. Or run off."

"That doesn't mean I should talk to you either," I said, pouring a small dose of soju into each of our cups. "Let's just play."

Jamie took the first shot of the game and missed. I groaned loudly in frustration.

Imbecile. Absolute imbecile.

He pretended not to see the thinly-veiled irritation on my face and smiled wider. "Aw, why not? You said I was good looking."

"No, I didn't," I snapped bluntly. The other team missed their shot and cried out in despair.

"You said Jake was good-looking, and I've got the exact same face as him."

"You don't actually." I raised a ball in my hand, gauging the distance to the back line of the pyramid. I spoke the whole time, "Obviously, you have the same genetics, but I can see a difference now. It's uncanny, but it's there." The ball fell into a cup with a satisfying rattle. Our opponents became even more despondent.

"Still," Jamie leaned a hand on the table, drawing himself closer as the other team shot and scored. Jamie downed the soju, tipping the rim of the cup towards me in thanks for the drink. "You think I'm hot."

"And you think I'm hot," I countered smoothly, "otherwise you wouldn't be trying so hard to get into my pants."

Jamie scoffed incredulously. "Get into your pants? Big accusation you made there. I'm just playing a game of beer pong."

To prove his point, he threw his ball neatly into a cup and made his teammate drink.

"I know I'm right. I know football players," I shrugged. "They've got huge amounts of testosterone pumping around their blood and they're frequently on the lookout for a low-stress, high-intensity fuck session to clear their heads. They also tend to be selfish lovers. So, I don't do athletes, sorry."

"Huh? You just generalised... like the thousands of football players in the world," Jamie retorted, his sweet-talking charm slipping into genuine vexation. Good.

I shrugged and sunk another ball, officially pushing our opponents over the halfway mark to defeat, but they scored a point, too. I downed a shot's worth of vodka from the cup.

"And you're wrong. Jake's a football player but he's doing long distance with the only girl he's ever dated, and you don't see him prowling for a one night stand. He's at home video-calling her right now, actually."

"I apologise," I said truthfully. Jake was a sweetie pie. He must have taken all the manners in the family gene pool. "I was just talking about you, then."

After the turn returned to us, Jamie sunk a ball into a cup. I raised my eyebrows at him, and he smirked back, placing a hand over his heart. "You wound me, Viv."

"Don't call me Viv."

Opponents scored. Jamie drank. "Why not?" he questioned, peering into my eyes.

"It's only for my friends," I explained pointedly, looking away.

"And I'm not your friend?"

"You're barely not-a-stranger, Jamie," I laughed. His eyes went wide at the sound, but he didn't fight me on it. "Don't push it."

I exhaled steadily as I aimed the ball. There were only two cups left on the opponents' side but they were spread apart on the table. My throws had to be more precise than usual. Cheers went up from the spectators as I took out their penultimate bastion.

At length, an idea struck Jamie and he said, "Well, you can't call me Jamie then. Call me Jameson."

"Jameson?" I questioned sceptically. "Is that seriously your name?"

Jamie nodded, his cheeks tinging a faint shade of pink. Cute, I noted, but not cute enough. "Couldn't make it up."

He was good-looking—admittedly, inexplicably hotter to me than Jake was, but he also seemed like such a rube. I hated guys that pushed too hard, and athletes. Yes, unfair, but sue me. I also hated guys that considered sex as a trophy, flaunting their previous partners as some sort of conquered land. I would never be a tally in a list, or a flag on a pole.

When Jamie stepped up to make the—hopefully—last shot of the game, he angled his head to me and winked. I arched an eyebrow, waiting for the result of his throw. His wrist flicked smoothly, sending the ball in a round arch over the table and into the last cup.

The crowd erupted into joyous cheers and laughter. Some men went to console the losers—the way men did—by punching them. Some came up to Jamie, sending handshake after handshake his way. As if he was the beer pong player with the perfect stats, and not me. I noted a few of them looking at me curiously, but no-one dared approach.

We cleared away the alcohol that hadn't been used throughout the game. Jamie picked up two of our remaining vodka cups and held one out to me. After we tapped the last two cups together, I said, "Alright. I'll call you Jameson. Good game, by the way."

I was the definition of cordial. Some men used playful banter as a way into ladies' panties, but I wasn't going to give Jamie the satisfaction. He wouldn't get anything out of me—not a smile, nor a fight.

"Likewise."

I downed the vodka, feeling a pleasant fullness in my brain. Crowding out all bad thoughts. I tipped my head up to Jamie and smiled faintly.

"Have a good night, Jameson."

"You too, Vivian," he replied. However, before I could walk away, something pulled at my wrist.

Jamie held me back with a loose grip and I let him pull me closer till his mouth rested by my ear. His warm breath caressed the shell of my ear.

He whispered, "P.S., you were wrong about another thing."

His scent—masculine, faintly of clementines—was too heady at this proximity. It invaded my nostrils and made me woozier than a whole night of vodka had.

"Hm? About what?" I murmured, tipping my chin up to squarely meet his gaze. Our faces were mere inches apart, but I wasn't going to back down to this tall, overconfident oaf.

Jamie's mouth curved into a dangerous smirk as he observed my obdurance, and he whispered across my lips, "I'm not a selfish lover."

Remember to vote if you liked this chapter!