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Bishop (A Frat Chronicles Novel Book 1) by BT Urruela (35)

 

I WAKE THE NEXT MORNING with a new sense of clarity, a belief that I’m doing the right thing, and a buzzing excitement for the end of the month, the semester, and my time here at Buchanan State. It’s a beautiful morning as the swell of spring has arrived. It’s night and day compared to when I first rode into town nearly six months ago, frost coating the ground and a nasty chill in the air. Now with summer knocking at the door, and the rolling hills, and the mountains beyond them, vibrant and alive with vegetation, Crescent Falls is one of the most beautiful places I’ve ever seen.

Cruising down the road with my top and doors stripped from the Jeep and left back home, or what will be home for the next two weeks, at least, I make my way to the frat house to meet up with the guys. We’re a week away from finals and in much need of some time at the library. If I’m to transfer any of this semester’s credits, I need to kick ass on all my finals.

As I pull up to the frat house, I spot Jeremy and Carter waiting on the porch for me. They pass a wave as I put the jeep in park, and climb out, lighting up a cigarette in the process.

Taking a long puff on my cigarette as I scale the porch stairs, I approach them and put out a fist.

“What’s up, bro?” Carter says, bumping knuckles with me, Jeremy following him.

“Not too much. How y’all feelin’?” I ask.

“I feel like I got run over by a fuckin’ train, man.” Jeremy chuckles, shaking his head in shame. “Way too much goddamn beer last night.”

“I feel fine,” Carter says, shrugging. “I went home early. Those two assholes were goners by the time I left though.” He looks at Jeremy with a grin. “I don’t even know how your ass made it home.”

Chuckling, Jeremy says, “A kindly cab driver and the wherewithal to get the fuck outta Dodge before my world really started spinnin’.”

“Mac didn’t go home with you?” I ask.

Jeremy shakes his head. “Nah, I left before he did. He was smokin’ weed and drinkin’ with some of the other brothers when I finally called it quits. Didn’t wanna come with.”

“I bet that motherfucker is face down on the cum couch right now.” I laugh, heading toward the parking lot and motioning for them to follow.

“I surely wouldn’t doubt it,” Jeremy says from behind me. I reach the side door and open it, turning back toward him with a scrutinizing stare when he adds, “He and that couch have grown quite close this semester.”

I chuckle, letting Jeremy hold the door while I walk into the basement. Trotting down the handful of stairs, I quip, “Jeremy, you’ve spent just as much time getting up close and personal with that couch as Mac has. You’ve got no room to talk,” and then I scan the room in its entirety with a lip reared back. The entire basement is trashed, red solo cups and empty beer bottles strewn about the ground, pong tables, and couches, and all three trashcans overflow with empty beer boxes and crumpled beer cans, cashed liquor bottles, and fast food waste. There are a couple brothers passed out on the couch, their faces adorned with Sharpie graffiti, but there’s no sign of Mac.

“Looks like he’s bailed already.” I glance around the room once more, and then say, “Carter, maybe give him a call really quick before we head out. “See if he can meet us at the library if he’s even awake.”

“Gotcha,” Carter responds, digging in his pocket and pulling his phone out as I start walking toward the steps, my eyes still trailing the messy room for any sign of Mac’s translucent flesh or ginger red hair.

I’m about to go up the stairs when I hear Mac’s “Get Low” ringtone play from behind the bar. I look back, brows furrowed in confusion as I see Carter with the phone to his ear, his own eyes narrowed on the cluttered bar top.

“Left his phone here, maybe?” I speculate, walking toward the bar. “Or maybe he—” Reaching the other side, I stop in my tracks, frozen in horror.

Jeremy and Carter approach from behind.

“What’s wrong, Bi—” Jeremy stops just behind me, his shoe digging into my heel, and I hear him suck in a whooshing breath before he yells, “Mac!”

Mac lies sprawled across the concrete floor, a mess of empty beer cans scattered around him. His face has a sickening blue tint to it, which is hidden only by his patchy beard and the countless profanities and cartoonish phalluses scrawled in Sharpie where his beard is not. His eyes are open but vacant, his sclerae yellowed. As I drop to a knee next to his rigid body, and set a hand atop his own, I find he’s cold to the touch, the rest of his body that same awful blue. Putting two fingers to his neck, I feel a pulse but it’s faint, fleeting. Fear rips through me, as does a surge of adrenaline, when I look back, and with desperation in my tone, I yell, “Carter, call 911!”