WE’RE LINKED UP IN THE basement for the fifth night in a row, or is it the sixth? Maybe it’s the fourth. I can’t even recall. It’s not that what’s required of us is very difficult. We’re usually lined up for a half hour or so before we have study sessions, for both school work and fraternity knowledge, and a few cleaning assignments around the house. It’s really the inferiority I feel that fucks with me the most. Tonight, we have another pledge challenge, and after nearly falling to my death on the last one, I’m just a smidge apprehensive about things. But I’m not sure what’s been worse—slipping on Archie’s Tower or having to clean up after these slobs. I think I’d rather take the tower again. Or just quit. That’s always an option.
After all, I’ve done all this shit before, back when I wore an Army uniform, and that’s the real problem. I’ve mowed massive lawns, cleaned toilets, and picked up trash in the same uniform I fought and bled in like I was some GI fucking janitor. It didn’t make sense to me then, but it didn’t matter. I did it out of service to my country; a sense of duty. I was taking orders from men who had served longer and seen a hell of a lot more than me. At that time, I was just a punk kid from backcountry, Florida, desperate for a purpose. If they wanted me to clean, I cleaned. If they wanted me to sweat, I sweat. If they wanted me to bleed, I bled. And I did all three in spades.
Now it just feels like I’m cleaning the uncleanable for no real purpose. What is cleaned one day is dirty the next, time and time again, and I don’t know how it happens so frequently other than it being purposeful. And the study sessions; well, it’s hard enough for me to focus on all the boring gen. ed. courses that I hate more and more with every passing second … tick tock … of every passing minute … tick tock … of every passing day I spend in those classrooms, listening to an unsatisfied over-the-hill professor yammering on about politics more than he does college Algebra. And then I worry that I won’t know what the hell I’m doing by test time. And then I worry about worrying so much about Algebra in the first place when I’ll never fucking use this shit again.
Fuck Algebra.
It’s not that I don’t appreciate the time I’ve spent with these guys I’m linked up with. Much to my surprise, they’re good kids, with good heads on their shoulders. Even at their young age, they’re deeper than most. The university is full of the rich and entitled. They mock the professors in the backs of classrooms, forgetting, or simply not caring that their parents are forking over ten thousand a year for them to learn in those very classrooms. They rev up their engines as they cruise around the quad, over and over again, as if with each lap their dicks grow longer. They mouth off at the bars and clubs downtown, undeterred by superior size or experience.
In my pledge brothers, I haven’t seen a hint of that unrelenting narcissism and deluded ego that seems to run abound here in Crescent Falls. Even Mac, with his manic personality and tendency to whine, has grown on me. I care about these guys and they care about me. And it’s about the only thing keeping me linked up and standing on my tired feet in this musty fraternity basement.
“Does anyone know what the hell’s going on tonight?” Mac asks, sighing heavily and looking down the line toward me. “How long do we have to just stand here?”
I shrug. “Until they come and get us.”
“For Chrissake, Mac. We’re all standin’ here, just the same as you. We know as much as you do,” Jeremy adds.
“I just don’t get why they’d have us come this early if they weren’t ready for us. And if they’re not ready for us, why the fuck do we have to stay linked up like this? It’s been what, an hour and a half?”
“It’s a part of the process,” Carter says.
“But why?”
“Mac, your whinin ain’t gonna change a goddamn thing,” Jeremy scolds, shaking his head.
“Well, fuck me, Jeremy. I’m just curious. You may not mind standing around twiddling your thumbs like a fucking idiot, but I do.”
I finally shift my eyes to Mac, and in a patient tone, I say, “Mac, none of us want to be standin’ here playing with our dicks right now. We’re not supposed to like this shit. We’re supposed to conform to it.”
Mac lets out an annoyed groan, dropping his head. “I wish we could just have some alcohol or something, at the very least,” he says.
Carter laughs, shaking his head slowly. “Careful what you wish for, buddy,” he says with a chuckle.
Mac darts his eyes to Carter and asks, “What do you know?”
Carter shrugs. “I know you just need to relax, expect the unexpected, and anticipate these next two months sucking ass for the most part.”
“Is there really a point to all this? And why do we always have to do this shit on Thursdays? They do know we’ve got classes tomorrow, right?” Mac groans.
I glance over at Mac, a smirk stretching across my face. “The point, dear Mac, is to separate the weak from the strong. Which are you, little buddy?” I lift my eyebrows and shrug. “Think about it.”
“Gentlemen …” Trevor’s voice interrupts us as he descends the basement stairs, drawing our attention. Brady and Zane are behind him, each of them carrying a bottle of whiskey. Upon closer look, I read ‘Old Crow’ on the label and let out a quiet groan.
“Are you ready for your second pledge challenge, maggots?” Brady asks us, though he avoids eye contact with me.
Did he see me talkin’ to Ember?
“Fuck yeah,” the others respond loudly, in unison, but I don’t. I just stare straight forward, thinking about a cigarette, its sweet, settling smoke filling my lungs.
Trevor puts up his hand, motioning for the other two officers to bring the bottles forward. “Tonight … is Old Crow Night,” he says with a grin. Zane and Brady hold the bottles out toward us.
“What’s Old Crow?” Mac asks, examining the bottles with trepidation.
Before Trevor can answer, I respond, “The worst shit you’ll ever drink in your entire fuckin’ life.”
“Prrretty much!” Trevor laughs. “You guys have to kill both bottles between the four of you before midnight.” He motions toward us. “You guys can unlink and take them.”
We free our arms, and I shake mine out to get the blood flowing. Mac takes one of the bottles and Jeremy takes the other.
“This bottle’s plastic,” Mac says as if he’s never seen one like it before, his eyes wide.
“That’s what you’re focused on right now?” Carter asks, chuckling.
“I’m just saying … what kind of alcohol comes in a plastic bottle?”
I laugh. “The worst fuckin’ kind.”
“And you get to drink it!” Trevor says with a big game show host thumbs up, as the other two take a step back.
“This ain’t gonna be fun.” I let out a heavy breath as I look to Trevor. “And probably not very safe.”
“Nobody’s ever died from it,” Brady says, a smug look on his face.
“Is that how we’re gaugin’ shit tonight? If we don’t die, we win?” I joke.
“Just take your time,” Trevor says, rolling his eyes at Brady. “You’ve got seven hours to finish. That’s enough time to get drunk, puke, and rally, and then get drunk again.”
“And then pass out and die,” Carter mutters.
“We swear, if you die, we’ll take full responsibility …” Brady hesitates. “In letting your parents know you broke in here and stole our liquor, drank it all, and killed yourself.” He grins, and I realize it now, looking at his stupid face, how much I’d like to punch him.
“You guys’ll be fine,” Trevor says. “Tim will be down here in a few minutes to watch you and make sure everyone stays alive since he isn’t going to the social with us. No cheating. And if you still have the capacity to walk after this, we’ll be down at the Rusty Trombone with Kappa Phi.” Trevor pats me on the back. “Have fun, gents. Feel free to pass out here tonight if you can’t get home safely.”
As Trevor and Brady make their way back up the stairs, Zane stays behind, waiting for them to disappear out the door before he motions for me to join him.
When I approach, he quietly says, “You be the judge when one of them needs to be cut off. We really aren’t trying to get anyone fucked up here. It’s just part of the game. Tim isn’t going to be watching you too closely, and everyone else will be at the social. Do enough to get drunk, and …” He gestures his hands as if he’s pouring something out. “Just find a way to make that shit disappear.”
“I got you. Thanks, Zane.”
“No problem,” he says, patting my back and following the others up the stairs.
It’s the most I’ve heard him say since the bid ceremony.
“Yo, Bishop, what’d he tell you?” Mac asks as he continues eyeing the unopened liter of gag-inducing whiskey in his hands.
“Nothin’. Just wants to make sure you don’t die tonight, Mac.”
Mac lowers the bottle, a confused look on his face. “Me, specifically?”
“Yeah.”
“He must like me.” I break out in laughter, and he looks at me in confusion. “What?”
“It’s not that he likes you, he just knows what a liter of whiskey can do to your, uh, body type.”
He puts his hands up. “What? Fit?”
“No. Emaciated.”
Carter laughs loudly, and Jeremy nearly spits up the mouthful of whiskey he’s just poured down his gullet, the first Old Crow drank tonight. As he swallows, his face tightens, his eyes closed and lips pinched together.
“Arggghhh.” He sticks his tongue out, waving at it as spit runs from the tip of his mouth to the floor.
“That bad?” Mac asks, worry taking up his features.
Jeremy nods, his tongue still out, his eyes now open and desperate. “Any chasers? Somethin’? Anythin’?” he forces out breathlessly.
“There has to be something in the fridge,” Carter responds, heading that way to inspect.
“Oh my fuckin’ word, that was the worst fuckin’ shit I’ve ever tasted, and I’ve licked a biker’s shitter after a long ass ride,” Jeremy says, scraping his tongue with his fingers.
“What did you just say?” I ask, smiling.
“That was fuckin’ disgusting, man. All I’m sayin’. How we gonna drink all that shit?” Jeremy panics, ignoring my question.
“Without chasers, I guess. There’s nothing in the fridge or behind the bar,” Carter replies, making his way back over to us.
“You’re kiddin’ me.” Jeremy groans.
Carter shakes his head solemnly.
“Sorry guys. You won’t find anything to drink in there.” Tim’s deep voice pulls our attention to the set of stairs in the far corner that lead to the brothers’ rooms, a cooler in his hand, and he’s sporting a pink bathrobe.
“Why not?” Mac asks.
Tim walks past us, plopping down on the couch, and sets the cooler next to him. He turns on the TV, pulling a lever on the side of the couch. His combat-booted feet pop up with the leg rest, and I realize he’s got nothing on below the belt except his boxers and the boots. I turn and stifle a laugh.
“Comfortable?” I ask as I face him again.
He smiles, his eyebrows dancing as he strokes his long scraggly beard with one hand and grabs a Coors from the cooler with his other. “My legs get hot,” he reasons, taking a swig before he starts channel surfing.
“What about the boots?” Mac asks.
Tim lifts one to inspect it. “My feet get cold,” he says, settling on a channel and tossing the remote beside him as he lowers his boot back to the footrest. He looks over at us and eyes the bottles in Jeremy and Mac’s hands. “No chasers with your Old Crow, boys. You gotta do it straight on OC night.”
I motion for Jeremy to give me the bottle and he happily hands it over.
“Why Old Crow?” I ask, taking a swig and feeling the harsh bite as it trails down my throat. I fight a grimace from taking up my face for no other reason than to show Jeremy up. On the inside, my mouth, throat, and stomach are on fucking fire.
“Tradition,” Carter responds with a grin.
I laugh, taking another terrible swig and handing it off to Jeremy, who quickly passes it over to Carter.
“I hate tradition,” I mutter, pulling the pack of cigarettes from my pocket. “I’m cool with not chasin’ that dog piss with anything, but I gotta at least smoke,” I say to Tim as I motion toward the side door.
Tim looks over there and then back at me. “Sure. No cheating though. If I hear the sound of splashing, I’m going to crack some skulls.”
“I’m goin’, too,” Jeremy says, hacking a wad into the bar sink.
“Me three,” Mac adds.
Tim looks over from the TV, annoyed. “I don’t give a good goddamn who goes to smoke, just no cheating.”
“Gotcha,” I say, slipping a cigarette between my lips as I snatch the bottle from Mac’s hands.
Killing the last of the second bottle, half of which ended up in the grass adjacent to the parking lot, I toss it onto the couch and raise my hands in the air victoriously, long since drunk as fuck.
“Done, bitches!” I yell, lowering my arms and wobbling from the sudden movement. “Who’s goin’ downtown with me?” I continue, looking back toward Jeremy seated on the bar top, and then trailing my eyes to Carter and Mac on the couch. Carter is face down on the cushion beside Tim, hands to his stomach and groaning. He’s been in this position for a good thirty minutes. Mac is currently passed out on the other side of Tim with a fucking thumb in his mouth and an empty bottle of Old Crow cradled in his arm like a football.
My focus trails back to Jeremy, as he swings his legs back and forth.
“Are they even alive?” Jeremy asks, a slight slur to his words. He otherwise looks okay as he drinks from a beer he stole from Tim, who passed out an hour or so ago after putting down a twelve pack by himself.
Jeremy abruptly lifts his arms and shakes them. “We fuckin’ did it, man!” he yells, hopping off the bar and staggering over toward Mac. He snatches the bottle from Mac’s arm and then grabs the one I threw on the couch and sets both bottles on the bar top. He stands back and admires them for a moment, before looking toward me and repeating, quieter this time, but with no less enthusiasm, “We fuckin’ did it, man.”
“We should get medals,” I say, rubbing the new throb that’s started in my temples.
“We should get medals!” Jeremy agrees excitedly. Shaking his head, he adds, “Damn, right, we should.” He hesitates for the briefest of moments before saying, “I’m fuckin’ shit-canned, man.”
I nod, squeezing my eyelids shut. “You and me both, bud,” I mutter.
“And you’re talkin’ about going downtown?” Jeremy asks skeptically, forcing me to open my eyes.
“Girls, dude,” I reason.
Jeremy looks like he’s debating this in his head. He mouths the word ‘girls,’ scratching a pointer against his temple.
I lean in closer to him. “Girls, dude,” I repeat.
He looks at me, his head nodding slowly as he seems to be making sense of what I’ve just said, and then he yells, “Girls, dude!”
He heads straight for the stairs, but at the last second turns on his heel and points to the three of them on the couch.
“Should we check and make sure they’re alive first?”
I look back at them, Mac and Tim snoring, Carter groaning, and I smile.
“I cut ’em off hours ago. They’re fine.” After a brief hesitation, I ask, “Hey Carter, you alive, man?”
Carter groans.
“You sure, buddy?”
He groans again.
“I need words, man.”
He turns his head, half opens his eyes, and says, “I’m fine. Go.”
“Mac, what about you?” I ask, but there’s no response. “Mac?!”
He snorts and abruptly lifts his head, his eyes wide.
“You good, Mac?” I ask.
“Fucking sleeping, man,” he mumbles, dropping his head back to the couch cushion. “Sleep … fuck … waking me up… and shit.”
I look back at Jeremy and shrug. “See?”
“Alright, well”—he points to the stairs—“girls, dude!”
Making our way out the door, we start down frat row toward Main Street, probably about as obnoxious as two guys can get, but in our present state, it bothers us little.
A minute or two from the Rusty Trombone, where we intend on meeting the brothers for a post-hazing drink, I notice two guys walking in the opposite direction toward us—staggering is more like it—and they’re taking up the whole sidewalk. I wait for them to notice us coming, but they don’t. They’re in some polos and colorful shorts, a backward snapback barely sitting on their heads, trust fund Rolexes on their wrists and gold chains around their necks. Frat kids, no doubt. The kind I fucking hate.
Jeremy jumps out of their way and into the street to avoid them, while I turn sideways and try to pass between them.
One of them, a blond, while the other has dark brown hair peeking out from under his cap, glances back and says, “Watch out, bitch!”
I turn and wait to determine if he really just said what I think he did.
Jeremy freezes in his tracks and turns too, his mouth slack.
“What did you just say?” I ask, putting a hand to my ear. “I don’t think I heard you correctly.”
The mouthy blond stops suddenly and glances back with his eyes remaining on mine this time, and repeats, as if I’m deaf and he’s sounding it out, “Watch. Out. Bitch.”
I turn completely now as he and his friend continue walking away. I follow behind them for nearly a block before the blond bitch looks back again.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” he asks, passing me a sneer.
“I’m about to teach you a lesson, boy. The first opportunity I get to beat your fuckin’ ass, I’m gonna take it.”
“Out on the side of the road, huh? You know how many cops run through here, dumbfuck?”
“Nah, not right here. I’m not that stupid. I won’t get arrested for your ass,” I say, checking my surroundings.
No cops, no cars, no people. Perfect.
As they continue walking, the drunken swagger still present in their step, I spot a business a block ahead with its front door tucked into a cove—a cove hidden from the sidewalk.
Inching my way closer to him, I say, “But I refuse to let you get away without a lesson learned, either.”
Charging forward, I grab fistfuls of the blond kid’s shirt and push him into the cove. His friend follows in after us, but not in time to prevent three swift, heavy fists from connecting with his buddy’s jaw. Blood spurts from a instantaneously busted lip and drains from his crooked nose. A look of shock covers his face.
I shoot my eyes toward his friend, who is frozen in his tracks. “You want some, too?” I ask, the blond kid’s collar clutched in one of my fists, while the other one rains down on his face a couple more times for good measure, though my eyes are still locked on his friend.
His friend shakes his head, pleading, “C’mon, man. This isn’t cool.”
“No, what ain’t cool is your fuckstick buddy here thinkin’ he can run his cockholster and do whatever the fuck he pleases without consequence.” My eyes trail back to the blond kid, who’s disorientated and could now pass for a ginger, there’s so much blood in his hair. “Today, you learn that your actions come with consequences, bitch.” I hit him one more time, hard, and he crumples to the ground.
“’Ay, Bish. Let’s fuckin’ go, buddy,” Jeremy says, clasping a hand on my shoulder, his eyes darting up and down the road.
I look once more toward the kid, curled up in a ball on the ground, and then back to his friend. Pointing a finger at his face, I growl, “If he doesn’t remember this tomorrow, you better goddamn tell him what went on here tonight. You tell him the only thing he’s got to blame for his freshly fucked up face is that fuckin’ mouth of his. You got it?”
The kid nods, eyes wide.
“Good.” I turn slowly and start walking toward the house, more drinks no longer of any interest to me.
Jeremy catches up and I can feel his eyes on me through my peripheral as we walk side by side, but I don’t acknowledge him.
“Fuck, man. Wasn’t that a bit much?”
I shrug. “Not in my book.”
Jeremy hesitates, looking behind us and then back at me. “All right, but how ’bout we speed things up, huh? Five-Oh do come through here all the time.”
I crack a smile, nodding my head before I abruptly take off running.
He chases after me, yelling, “Goddamn you’re fast.”
Sprinting at full speed, I’m back at the house in a matter of a minute or so, and I take a second to catch my breath as I wait for Jeremy.
Once he arrives, he shakes his head and gasps. “Motherfucker, I ain’t in the right shape for this,” he says, and I crack up laughing.
He follows me into the basement through the side door, our heavy breathing accompanying us.
“Holy hell, y’all missed a doozy,” Jeremy calls out as he kicks the side of the couch.
Mac, Carter, and Tim remain passed out, though Jeremy doesn’t seem to notice.
“I’m tellin’ y’all, our boy here has some stone fuckin’ hands, guys.” He throws a few air
jabs.
“Jeremy, who you talkin’ to, man?” I ask.
He motions toward Mac, Carter, and Tim all cuddled up like newborn puppies, and replies, “Them,” and then looks at me like I’m stupid.
“Look closer,” I tell him.
He approaches the couch, his forehead creased as he analyzes the three of them. After a moment, he leans down toward Mac and yells, “Mac!”
Mac springs to life, his eyes wide as he lets out a yell.
“You shoulda seen our boy here!” Jeremy says, shadowboxing again.
Mac flutters his eyelids as he shakes the cobwebs out.
Carter and Tim rustle in their sleep.
“What the fuck, Jeremy?” Mac whines. “Why you waking me up, man?”
“Oh, you were sleepin’?” Jeremy asks with all sincerity.
Mac grumbles under his breath, lying back down.
Jeremy takes a few sidesteps and then leans down toward Carter, yelling, “Carter!”
Carter’s eyes shoot open, and Jeremy continues, “You shoulda seen our boy here. Fucked some kid’s world up.”
Carter rubs at his eyes with his palms and mutters, “Oh yeah?”
“Yeah, you fuckers shoulda seen it.”
“Can we hear about it tomorrow, maybe? I’m drunk as fuck … and tired.” Carter says, yawning.
“No, you gotta hear it now. Tell ’em, Bish,” Jeremy insists, hitting my arm with the back of his hand.
“Yeah, tell us, Bish,” Damian’s voice carries from behind us. I turn and see him coming down the basement stairs through the side door with a date on his arm, both dressed to the nines, and a mess of equally well-dressed people staggering in behind them.
“It wasn’t anything,” I say, as Damian approaches.
“Tim, wake the fuck up!” he barks.
Tim jolts from his sleep. “W-what’s up, D?” he asks groggily.
“How long you been passed out for?”
“Uh, shit, I don’t know,” he responds, a look of drunken confusion on his face.
Damian looks at me.
“Probably about an hour,” I respond for Tim. “We finished the bottles before he did, though. He okayed us.” I point toward the bar top, where the empty Old Crow bottles still sit.
Damian eyes the bottles and then turns back toward us.
A few brothers and their dates take up the couches around Mac, Carter, and Tim as they continue the process of waking up, while a group of other pledges with their dates starts to set up the beer pong table. Music now pumps through the speakers. The room, within a matter of seconds, is completely full.
Trevor comes up from behind Damian and puts a hand on his shoulder. There’s a drunken glimmer in his eyes. “Did one of you guys fuck up a Beta Chi kid?” he asks, looking us over. He points toward Carter and Mac, who remain half-asleep, their eyes just slits. “Well, obviously, they didn’t.”
No point in wastin’ any time.
“I hit some kid. Not sure about him bein’ in Beta Chi though,” I admit.
Trevor laughs. “Backwards hat, Ralph Lauren polo, seersucker shorts?”
“Yeah, that’d be him.”
Trevor laughs again, and this time, Damian joins in. “You did more than just hit him,” Trevor says between laughs.
I shrug. “How’d you know?”
“Dude, there’s a whole fucking scene down there right now,” Trevor replies, motioning toward the door. “Cops, ambulance, the works.”
“Shit,” I mutter, wondering if I may have been seen, or if any video cameras could’ve captured the beating. Suddenly, I’m filled with fear.
“You’re all good, man. The kid wasn’t even conscious,” Trevor says as if reading my mind. “His friend was just blabbering on about some nonsense … wasted as fuck. The cops were getting annoyed. You could tell.”
“You think there are any cameras over there that could’ve caught me?” I ask.
“No way.” Trevor shakes his head. “This is Crescent Falls. The only CCTVs you’re going to find around here are by the bank and post office.”
“Well, that’s a relief.”
“How are you still standing after all that Old Crow anyway? Let alone able to beat some kid’s ass?” Damian asks.
“I’ve got an Army liver. A little whiskey don’t faze me any.”
“A little.” Trevor laughs. “You’re fucking crazy, man.”
“Good on you, Bishop, for real, but you should take those rings off for a bit,” Damian says, motioning toward my hand, where the rings sit, bloodied still. “Motherfucker had marks all over his face from ’em.”
I pull the rings off, one by one, and stuff them into my pocket. “Thanks, man.”
“No sweat,” he says, making his way to the beer pong table.
“You up for some pong? Brady needs a partner,” Trevor says, pointing toward the table where a group of people has gathered.
At first, imagining Brady as a partner, my face scrunches with displeasure, but I spot Ember standing next to him, wearing a tight little black dress and spiked Valentino heels, and her hair up in an adorable ponytail. She takes a drink from a pink flask with the word ‘BITCH’ scrawled across it in black rhinestones. My mood and mind immediately change.
“Yeah, I’m down,” I say, looking back toward Trevor, fighting a smile from forming.
He nods, the look on his face letting me know he’s on to me, before he abruptly heads toward the table, and I follow behind him, my sightline traveling back to her.
As I approach, I grab a beer from a cooler in front of the table and stand beside Brady, beginning to fill the cups up with him.
“You my partner?” he asks.
I nod.
“You fuck some Beta Chi kid up tonight?”
I nod again.
“Damn, you fucked him up good,” he mutters.
“His face looked like the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man’s,” Ember says with a chuckle, and I glance over at her. Her eyes are on me, her bottom lip between her teeth before she throws the flask back again. She doesn’t so much as grimace.
“Nice reference,” I say, smiling.
“That’s my date, Ember,” Brady says, motioning toward her. “Have you guys met?”
The way the knowing smile pulls at the corner of his lips lets me know he may be on to me, as well.
“We spoke briefly last week,” I respond, topping off the last cup and then lifting the beer bottle toward her in cheers before taking a swig.
“So, then you know she’s a psychopathic bitch?” he asks and bursts out in laughter.
She immediately sends the point of a Valentino into his shin, and he doubles over with a groan, grabbing at his leg.
“See what I mean?” He laughs again, though there’s some pain behind it now.
“I’m a sociopath, you foreskin,” she says, leaning back against the wall. “There’s a fucking difference.” Her disgusted face quickly changes to a smile when she looks back at me.
“No judgment here,” I say, shrugging and passing her a smile of my own.
“Doctors get it wrong all the time, Ember,” Brady says, giving his shin one last good rub before standing straight again.
“Like they did when they looked at that tiny little chiclet in your pants and wrote ‘boy’ on your birth certificate? Any medical professional could tell you that thing’s a pussy, Brady.”
There’s a chorus of laughter around us, including my own. Brady scowls.
“Well now, you know better than that. Don’t you, bitch?” Brady says, grabbing a fistful of his dick. The way he says ‘bitch’ this time is different than before. It’s got some bite to it.
“Whoa, dude …” I take a step forward, but Ember puts a hand up to stop me.
“What are you grabbing there, Little Brady?” she asks, her eyes still locked on his, but hand still up, keeping me in place. “Thigh? Ballsack? Because I sure as hell know all that shit in your hand isn’t dick. You’d need fucking tweezers to locate that nasty little thing.” She lets out an exasperated sigh. “God, do I know,” she groans, and the laughter around us erupts again.
He shoots her a glare as we all continue laughing. This girl impresses me with each word that spills out of her mouth.
“Well, you seem to keep coming back for more, now don’t you?” he asks, glancing at me for some reason before he takes his first beer pong shot.
She shrugs, taking another drink from her flask as I take my pong shot. “The doctors said I have a streak of self-loathing behavior too,” she says. “Along with the sociopathy.”
I fight to break my eyes away from her, but my desire for her is unshakeable.
Brady fumes, but it only seems to excite her more.
“You seem distracted. What was your name again … Bishop?” Ember asks, just as a ping-pong ball comes bouncing toward my face.
I catch the ball at the last second as Brady interjects, “I mean, what do you expect from the guy with those saggy tits hanging out and shit.”
“I have fantastic tits,” she says, drawing her shoulders back and unnecessarily pushing out her already impressive chest. “The best money can buy,” she adds, licking her lips and then flipping him off with a manicured middle finger.
She catches me looking as Brady’s taking his shot, and she smiles.
“Why wouldn’t I show them off?” she asks, her eyes still on mine. “Bishop, don’t you think I have nice tits?”
I shrug. “I sure as shit ain’t blind,” I say, glancing at her and smirking.
Brady shoots me a glare.
“Don’t even think about it, pledge,” he says, squaring up his shoulders. “That’s mine.”
He points to Ember and she rolls her eyes.
“Yeah, you see the fucking ‘owned by douche bag’ sign on my forehead?” she chides.
Brady looks at her intensely, his jaw clenched. He throws the ping pong ball across the
room.
“I’m ready to go to bed now, Ember. Come on.” He jabs a finger to the floor beside him
before he slowly starts to walk away.
“No, I think I’ll stay, but thanks for the gracious invitation.”
All eyes are on the table. The music is playing, but it might as well not be. The argument is the only thing anyone is listening to, I can tell because I can see the whites of every last damn eye in here. They’re all on us.
Brady turns.
“Ember”—he looks to be a few seconds from foaming at the mouth—“you’re my social date, I’m the social chair. Get your ass to my room… now!”
“Dude,” I say, putting a hand up to calm him down and taking a step forward, but keeping my features and tone light. “I don’t know what’s going on between the two of you. I barely know this young lady right here, but what I do know is it sounds like she’s having a good time and doesn’t want to go to bed with you, so…” I shrug. “I mean, dude, leave her alone.”
Brady looks over at Trevor and then back at me. He points his finger at me and says, “This ain’t the last of it, pledge! Not even close!” He storms off, stomping up the stairs to the first level where the bedrooms are. After a few moments, a slamming door echoes throughout the house.
I look across the table at Trevor and Damian, who both seem to be confused and a little annoyed.
Trevor abruptly lifts his hands and yells, “Party isn’t over, bitches!”
He slams back a beer before he and Damian, both noticeably fucked up, wander away from the table with beers in hand.
I look over at Ember and mutter, “Well, I guess that’s the end of the game.”
“Looks like it. I’d play you, but I don’t toss balls. I only gargle them.”
I hesitate before saying, “Talk normally. Dear God, woman.”
She takes a deep breath and replies, “Thanks for sticking up for me,” resting her hand against my arm for a moment before drawing it back to her side. Her tone, for the first time tonight, seems genuine.
“I know you could’ve handled it yourself. I just got sick of hearin’ him talk.”
“Oh, I totally could’ve taken care of him myself,” she replies, holding herself higher and squinting her eyes like she’s Dirty Harry. “I know some shit.”
“Some karate shit?”
“Some kung-fu shit.”
“Some Muay Thai shit?”
“Some Oolong shit.” She karate chops the air.
I laugh. “I think that’s a kind of tea. And no matter the fightin’ technique, I still got superior strength and knowledge … seein’ as I’m a man and all.”
She leans back, curling her lip. “Ha! You are a misogynist.” It takes me a moment to remember the misogynist topic from our previous conversation. “You must be on something,” she adds.
“I’m just sayin’, it’s scientifically proven.”
“In what world?”
“Our world. There are some websites I could show you.” I pass her a playful grin and a wink.
She laughs, putting a palm to her forehead. “You’re an idiot.”
“No, I’m drunk.”
I smile, and she leans in closer.
“You trying to stay here the whole night?” she whispers.
“Why do you ask?”
“I just figured, why not go somewhere a little quieter?”
“I can’t have sex with you, Ms. Azar.”
She swats my arm. “What makes you think I want to? And how do you know my last name?”
I motion toward no one in particular. “I talked to the guys … about you.”
Fuckin’ Old Crow. My brain feels like boiled dog shit.
“And what makes you think I want to have sex with you?” she asks.
“Well, I mean …” I raise a finger, eyeing it drunkenly. “One, I’m not too bad lookin’.” I put up another finger. “Two, you’re soooooo fuckin’ sexy. Like, holy fuck, you walk into a room and every other girl can just piss off. You’re the only one that matters.”
She scoffs, waving me off.
“No, I mean it!” I say in my most convincing tone.
“And three?” she asks, and for a moment, I’m confused.
“Huh?”
“You have three fingers up,” she says, giggling and pointing to my hand, which comes into focus, and I see I am, in fact, holding three fingers up.
“And three … I’m so drunk it could be considered rape.” I pat her arm, adding, “And I don’t want to see you go to jail. You’re a good kid. I kind of like you. And you’re too pretty for an orange jumpsuit, though, I can only imagine you’d pull that off even.”
She shakes her head, taking one more drink of her flask before stowing it in her purse. “Well, now you’re just pandering.”
“I don’t pander, young lady. I only speak truth.”
Pointing a finger at me, she says, “I really hate you for what I’m about to do,” before she digs around in her purse, eventually pulling out a cocktail napkin and a tube of lipstick. Opening the lipstick, she looks at me with a raised brow, as if she finds me humorous. And hell, maybe I am doing something funny. I don’t really know. I can’t feel my face anymore.
After a few moments, she closes her lipstick and puts it back in her purse. She hands over the cocktail napkin, and I snatch it from her, trying hard to focus my vision as I read.
By the time I look back up, she’s on her way to the door. I let her go, realizing I should probably stop at the 7-Eleven down the road first, so I can freshen up. My mouth tastes like unwashed asshole. All I can taste is cheap whiskey and cigarettes. All I can think about is the way her ass sways in that dress.
Watching her and acknowledging the way she stirs the desire up in me, I become acutely aware of just how hard being good tonight will be. And just how easily my awkward, drunken ass could fuck this up.