Chapter 3
Shannon
If this fucking moron had been the least bit interested in me, he would’ve thought to ask what my major was; it’s common courtesy at college, the equivalent of asking somebody’s name. Which, upon reflection, he didn’t really do either. In any case, he’d overlooked that I was a dance major, and that with a year of college and a lifetime of competitive high school dancing under my belt, I would flounce him. I didn’t accept because I was thinking about kissing him; I accepted because I wanted to be the one to kick Luther Huxton’s ass.
But then, then I thought, damn, I can make this even more embarrassing for him. So with the few acting skills I’d acquired from years of performance, I feigned nervousness about the prospects of a dance off.
“Oh, wait, I’m actually not sure about this,” I said, inflecting my voice with slight shakes. “I’m really not all that coordinated.”
“Yeah, I know,” he scoffed. “That’s what’ll make it so fun.”
“But you’re so good, is it even fair?”
“Too late to back out now. We had a deal.”
Inside, I was grinning. On the outside, I played dumb. “Gosh, I guess you’re right. I suppose I’ll just have to go along with this. Go easy on me though, ok?”
He laughed, totally ignorant to my plan. It almost felt like cheating. Luther set his computer up on a nearby coffee table, and queued up what appeared to be some classic frat boy EDM—indistinguishable origin, similar beat drops, predictable bass line. It showed poor taste, but hey, it was easy to dance (and win) to.
“I’ll start,” he said, “just to prove I’m a gracious host.”
Without further ado, he found a spot relatively clear of garbage in the middle of the living room, and began to dance. I’ll admit, he had rhythm, but not much else. His moves were the kind of shit you saw on frat row: a bunch of white boys trying to dab. For the sake of deriving every last bit of pleasure from this dance off, I feigned admiration.
“Wow,” I cried over the music, “you’re really good.” Lucy barked, and I added, “Even Lucy approves.”
He grinned, and kept gyrating. Listen, could the guy dance? Not really. But he was still—ugh—hot as hell. He was shirtless, as he’d been when I found him (hadn’t had the good manners to put on a shirt, I suppose), and I could see his abs working in time with the music. His hips moved, Elvis-like, in circles and ovals, drawing lines in the air. It pained me to say it, but…yeah, alright, he turned me on.
And I’m not proud of that, seriously. I have a pretty strict ‘no asshole’ policy, which definitely included guys like this. In fact, Luther was the sort of boy who’d necessitated the creation of the ‘no asshole’ policy. In spite of that, here I am, watching him dance to some Coachella shit, and kind of enjoying the spectacle. Fuck.
The music came to a stop, and he hit a final pose, breathing a little heavily from exertion.
“So?” he asked. “Gonna show me what you’ve got?”
Oh, buddy, you don’t know what you’re asking for, I thought. Out loud, I whimpered, “I suppose I have to. A deal is a deal, and I don’t wanna be a bad sport.”
“You have a track preference?”
I thought back to a dance I’d done with my friends a few months ago, a jokey little thing we’d made up in the dressing rooms before our Fall recital, and replied, “’My Neck, My Back.’ The original, by Khia.”
“Uh, really?” The look on his face was pretty close to dumbfounded. He had no idea what was coming for him.
“Yup.”
He shook his head, confused by these new developments, and clicked some buttons on his computer. Moments later, Khia’s voice emerged, telling the audience to ‘pop their pussy.’
I broke into dance. I bent over, giving him a good view of my toned ass, and began to do a ‘standing ovation,’ where you move your elevated heels back and forth until your ass cheeks begin to slap together. Over the sound of the claps, I heard him mutter, “Oh shit.”
I wasn’t done; I had plenty of moves left. I dropped it low, then stayed in a crouch just long enough to do a pussy pat, then dropped to the floor, doing a stripper push-up until my chest was flush with the ground. My back arched, and I humped the floor a few times, throwing my ass into the air. I shoulder rolled into the splits, twerked in that position, then rolled once again onto my back, raising my legs in the air and opening them as wide as possible. I did a few intricate feet and leg movements—swirls, prances, etc.—then elegantly flowed into a standing position.
I could hear his heavy breathing, which had gone ragged from either surprise or arousal. Not that there was ever really a doubt, but I knew I’d won. I threw a few more chest shimmies in, a couple of hair flips, and to seal the deal, strutted over to him, turned around and bent over. I grinded right in front of him, so close but not quite touching, bouncing my ass up and down until it moved as though with a mind of its own. At last, the song drew to an end.
I pulled myself into an upright position, pivoted, and found Luther’s gaze. He was—I suspected for the first time in his life—completely speechless. His mouth hung upon, as if it had forgotten how to close.
“Well?” I asked. “Did I do ok?”
I was expecting some flippant comment about how it wasn’t really all that great, but instead, I got, “Actually, you’re kind of unreal. That was the best shit I’ve seen in…well, maybe ever. You won, fair and square.” Lucy, always one to voice her opinion, barked in agreement.
“Thanks, dude, that’s…” I trailed off, surprised at what I was about to say. “That’s really nice of you.”
“Hey, I know talent when I see it,” he shrugged. He closed up the laptop, and scratched the scruff of Lucy’s neck before walking towards one of the frost-covered windows, and peeking outside. The sun was low in the sky; it couldn’t be later than 6pm, but night was here. Winter made the days shorter and shorter, and these days, I would enter a late class during full sun, and emerge only an hour later to find that the light had completely vanished.
I was sure we were on the same page about this one, but I waited for him to say it, lest I overstep my welcome as a guest.
Sure enough, he grunted, then stepped away from the window, saying, “It’s too dark outside, you can’t get home safely.” Listen, I knew that’s what he was gonna say—it’s what any decent human would say, after all—but still, hearing kindness ring through a voice as infamous as his was unusual. Jarring. And very welcome.
As if he was reading my thoughts and trying to keep up a front of blasé disinterest, he tacked on, “Besides, the roads haven’t been well salted, you know Blackwell maintenance, totally non-existent. Police, road crews, whatever, weren’t prepared for this level of ice coming in on the northerly. Even if you tried to call an Uber, I don’t think anyone’s out working tonight.” He paused. We both knew his gambit, but neither of us were about to let our pride go and just be straight about it.
“I’m getting cold,” I offered, to break the ice (pun partially intended). “Do you guys have blankets?”
“Nah, we had a bed bug problem recently, so unless you want—“
“Pass, thanks. Any jackets, hats, scarves?” I asked hopefully.
“I mean, everyone else is gone, so they kind of took their winter gear home with them. Not that we could raid their rooms, anyways.” He visibly shivered. “It is getting kind of chilly in here.”
“Uh, yeah dude. You’re not wearing a shirt,” I commented.
He looked down, evidently having forgotten his situation, and replied, “Good point.” He strode across the room, grabbed an old white t-shirt that was hanging casually over the back of a moth-eaten armchair, and pulled it over his head. I was sad to see those abs disappear into the folds of cotton. Why did I have to open my mouth? Couldn’t I just appreciate a good thing when I saw one?
He appeared to contemplate our situation for a moment, then said, “Maybe some whiskey. You like whiskey?”
“I hate whiskey, but I’m also really fucking cold, so get some glasses and let’s drink.”
“We don’t have any clean glasses.”
“Of course you don’t,” I sighed. I’d only been in the frat for a short time, but already I was learning the extent of their disastrous housekeeping. “Then just grab a bottle. You’re not sick, right?”
“Alcohol kills all germs.” That was so not how that worked, but I didn’t have time to be picky. He padded across the living room, still barefoot, and start scrounging in the corner. I furrowed my brows, confused, until I realized that beneath a pile of old athletic gear was a decent bar cart, stacked with booze. He pulled out a bottle, and cleaned it free of dust.
“Will this do?” he asked.
“Why do you guys have a bottle of Maker’s? Everything else here seems to be shit liquor.” I pointed to the rows and rows, known as a ‘graveyard,’ of bottles above their kitchen cabinets. New Amsterdam, Svedka, all the usual frat culprits stood like proud sentinels atop the wooden planks.
“I thought you said you didn’t like whiskey.”
“Doesn’t mean I don’t know anything about it,” I replied with a huff. He held up his hands, a sign of non-protest, and carried the bottle back across to where I stood. He thrust it into my hands, and his cold fingers brushed mine. I jumped at the frostiness, and he smirked, misinterpreting. Or was he? I wasn’t sure anymore.
I cradled the whiskey while he tidied up the sofa, removing debris and fluffing up cushions. The toddling about reminded me of a grandmother, dusting off her chintz cushions for when the grandbabies come over on Thanksgiving. At last, he finished, satisfied with his work.
“Here you go,” he said with a touch of pride in his voice. “Good as new.”
I nodded, grateful, and walked around a few kitchen chairs until I could settle comfortably on the couch. For all that I was still passingly worried about the bed bugs, I had to admit, the cushions were soft and inviting, like the ones you’d find at a bed and breakfast. He grabbed a heavy down coat from a coat rack, and brought it back to me.
Luther settled in at my side, and draped us in the coat. He was close, closer to me than I’d ever expected a guy like this to be. I began to warm up, either from the pure physical proximity, or from something else.
To distract from the mounting feelings, I asked, “So you guys use Canada Goose coats for blankets? Doesn’t it seem like it’d be easier to just go to Target and get some fleece throws?”
He shrugged. Evidently, that hadn’t occurred to him. “I dunno.”
“Never mind.” I hefted the bottle of Maker’s in my hand, broke the seal, and tentatively sipped on the amber liquid. I had to admit, in this weather, the taste wasn’t all that bad, as if the liquor was meant to be drunk on such a night as this. I settled in, and had another drink.
“Careful there,” he teased. “That’s strong stuff.”
Defiantly, I threw back another mouthful. I choked, and silently cursed myself for proving him semi-right. He chuckled audibly, and I shoved the bottle into his hand, feeling the red rise in my cheeks. He took a couple of casual swallows, and it occurred to me that he was entirely in his element. While I’d completely owned him in dancing, thoughtfully sipping booze was his wheelhouse. All he needed to complete the tableau was a good Cuban cigar.
We settled in. Was that the right word? Maybe ‘snuggled’ was closer, as we huddled together for warmth. No, uh-uh, I was not ‘snuggling’ with Luther. Me and my ‘no assholes’ policy were keeping this PG. Or at least, we were trying.
“So,” I said, making conversation. “What do you usually do on this couch?” I immediately regretted my choice of words, and stumbled to rectify the situation. “I meant, er, what should we do for fun?” Oh my god, Shannon, could you drop anymore innuendos? It’s like they were tumbling out of my mouth, an unstoppable force of their own winking sexuality.
Luckily, he seemed to have left his earlier, suggestive ways behind, and was now earnestly trying to host a fun night. Could people really change this fast? He said, “Honestly, on this couch? With good booze? Usually, I play ‘Never Have I Ever.’”
I knew the game. Correction: every college student knew the game. It was like a staple of campus life, and wildly popular in freshman year, since it was 1) a good way to get to know people and 2) drink.
“What are house rules?” I inquired.
“Drink if you’ve done it.”
Fair enough. “Let’s play.”
With a deferential hand gesture, he said, “Ladies first.” Was this the man who’d, only an hour ago, almost refused to help me off the ice? Chivalry sets in fast, I guess.
“Never have I ever…”I meandered around the question, not sure what to offer. Then it dinged. “Never have I ever stayed at college for Christmas.” I laughed a little.
His face darkened, as if clouds had rolled over his brow. Slowly, he raised the bottle to his lips, and took a drink. For a moment, I thought he was playing somber, but I soon realized that the distance in those eyes was real.
I scrambled for an apology. “Oh, I didn’t mean to, I’m sorry if I—“
“It’s ok,” he replied, indicating that it was very much not ok.
I looked around the house, weighing my options. We were all alone, in the middle of a snowstorm, on an abandoned campus. Might as well get down to the deep shit. Hesitantly, I prodded further. “How many Christmases have you spent at school?”
“All of them.”
I drew back, surprised at this confession, and then surprised at how sad it made me. “Really?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh.” I feared throwing salt in the wound, but also felt a nagging urge to let him talk about it. Gauging from what I knew about frat boys, they didn’t discuss their feelings too often, at least not until they reached the bottom of the bottle.
So in a low voice, close to a whisper, I asked, “Why?”
Luther sighed, and turned to look me full in the face. His eyes were slowly sprouting red lines. Had I pushed him to the brink of tears? God, I was the fucking worst house guest—
“Because,” he said, interrupting my thoughts, “I don’t have a family to go home to.”
I inhaled sharply, but said nothing, just nodded and put my hand on his arm, hoping to convey some comfort.
He continued, “My brother, Dale, is overseas. Afghanistan. Second tour. It’s pretty fucking rough over there, at least for his platoon, and he doesn’t call too often. Can’t even come home for the holidays, I guess. I don’t know, maybe he just doesn’t want to.” He took a deep breath. “Because my parents aren’t around. My dad was a fucking bastard, who beat the shit out of my mom when me and Dale were just kids. I remember plates hitting the floor and cracking.”
His eyes lowered, and I could see the memories were swimming before his eyes. I squeezed his arm, and scooted closer. Was I helping? Probably not. But I was trying my best.
“And my mom,” he said, “is dead.”
I gasped, and then regretted the noise. I clapped a hand over my mouth, and apologized. “I didn’t mean to—“
“It’s ok. I get it a lot. Like, I understand, it’s a sad fucking story. I know, because I lived it.”
“What happened to her?” This question definitely crossed some kind of line, but it was out before I could tamp it down.
“Drugs. The early wave of the fentanyl epidemic. She died when I was 17. Actually, just a week after I’d gotten into Blackwell. She was so proud of me, y’know? So it hurt even more when she overdosed. It felt like I’d done everything right, gotten into the best school I could, and with scholarships, and then suddenly, she was gone. I thought me going to a good college would make her proud, and be enough to anchor her in this world, but—“ he stumbled over the words, almost choking on their power. “I guess not.”
“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I’m so sorry.” I would never, ever have guessed. Luther Huxton, famous frat douche? His life seemed charmed. Perfect. Or had I just assumed that? How many troubled people had I written off because of their cocky behavior? Guilt racked me.
“I think we’re done with the game,” he said abruptly. Not that he’d needed to announce it; there was no getting back the light tone of before.
“Yeah.”
“I’m gonna put you up in my friend’s room. I texted him earlier and cleared it, so you’re all set.” He stood up and curled a hand, gesturing for me to follow him. When had he texted his friend? Maybe the first moment I stepped into this house. That was unexpectedly welcoming of him, so far from the abrasive asshole I’d taken him to be.
He led the way up the stairs, up onto a floor of the frat I’d never seen before (it was off-limit for parties). We halted in front of the final door.
“Stay here,” he instructed, and scurried inside the room. I stood around for a few minutes, twiddling my fingers and musing over all I’d just learned, all of the beliefs and assumptions I’d had thrown into question. There was a sound of shuffling from inside the room, followed by a loud crash.
“Are you ok in there?” I asked hesitantly.
An “All good” sounded from beyond the door, and I hung back, trusting him. At last, he emerged.
“I just had to make it nice for you,” he explained bashfully. Then, to keep his tough boy image, he added, “Because it was a fucking dump in there, and I don’t want you telling all your little nerd friends that DIK ain’t a nice host.” Good save, I thought with mirth.
He grabbed the handle, and swung the door open. I gasped.
“How—“
He waved away the compliments. “I just hung a few Christmas lights, made the bed…nothing big.”
But man was he downplaying the state of the room. He’d magically transformed the average frat room into a cozy winter palace, bedecked in twinkling lights that glimmered in the darkness. The bed was piled high with luxurious faux fur blankets, and the headboard boasted a whole host of decorative throw pillows. It looked more like a luxury suite than any dorm I’d ever seen.
“This is incredible,” I said, turning to him. “Thank you so, so much, Luther. You’ve been—“ I fumbled over the word, shocked to be saying it, “—incredibly kind. I’m very lucky to have found you.”
I thought a moment might be building between us, but then he nodded, embarrassed at the praise, and simply replied, “K, sleep tight.” He whirled around on his heels, and trotted down the hallway.
Slowly, I shut the door, and was ensconced in my own private snow globe. Reasoning that his friend had already been so generous, I figured he wouldn’t mind if I borrowed a long t-shirt to sleep in; my stuff was still dirty from the earlier tumble. I snuggled into an XXL Monster Truck Rally tee, giggling a little at the logo of a truck eating another truck.
The blankets were so soft, like the downy skin of a polar bear. I wiggled under the covers, and pulled them up around my neck. It was like a fur cocoon. And then I settled in, ready for sleep.
But sleep didn’t come. No, that little bitch evaded me because I was up, tossing and turning, over how I’d acted today. Yeah, Luther had been a dick earlier. No denying it. But he’d dropped his defenses pretty quickly, and when those were down, a nice guy emerged. Having a hard past, I thought, doesn’t justify bad behavior, but it does explain it. And besides, he hadn’t actually tried to creep on me, like any of his brothers would have.
I wasn’t very nice about his house, either, which I now realized was probably the only one on this Earth he had. Maybe that’s why he went to such pains to make little areas of it welcoming. This thought hurt me the most. I shivered from the tenderness of it, and then shivered again when I realized I was actually still freezing. These blankets were nice, but they were no match for an already frozen room.
I could always—no, don’t think that. You can’t—but what if I could? I rolled around under the covers a few more times, attempting to generate heat and failing. At last, I relented, driven by the cold and…other things. I threw off the blankets, and hesitantly stepped out of bed.
Navigating as best I could, I tiptoed through the hallway (though this was superfluous, given that all the other brothers were gone). Most of the rooms stood open; these guys had left in such a flurry that none had had the presence of mind to shut their doors. At last, I arrived at one with a closed door. A sign in the upper left-hand corner read, “The Hux.” I knew I was at the right place.
Slowly, painfully slowly, I turned the knob, and swung open the door.