Bishop (A Frat Chronicles Novel)

by B. T. Urruela

  As we approach, Trevor and Brady stand from the couch, both gawking at my phone with sunken, drunk eyes. Their focus eventually flits back up to me with pinched brows.

  “You really fucking did it?” Trevor asks.

  I nod slowly. “Uhhhh, yeah?” I look from one to the other. “Weren’t we supposed to?”

  Brady drunkenly sways a bit as he shakes his head. “Duuuude,” he says, dragging it out like he’s fucking Cheech. “Nobody’s done that in, like, twenty years or something.”

  “Twenty-one,” Trevor corrects him. “Stuart Middleton back in ’89.”

  I can’t believe my fucking ears. Trevor must read my agitation because he puts a hand on my shoulder and smiles like he’s about to try and sell me something. Unless it’s an explanation, I’m not fucking buying.

  “You are a man amongst men, Bishop,” he schmoozes. I don’t like his hand on me, nor any man’s for that matter, but I ignore the urge to brush it off. I know he isn’t trying to belittle, but to soften the blow of the inevitable answer to the question I’m about to ask.

  “So why’s it on the list if we ain’t supposed to do it?”

  Trevor shrugs, a timid smile peeking out. He removes his hand and exhales hard. “It’s always been on the list. It just hasn’t always been done. Most just make up some excuse as to why they don’t have the picture—accidentally deleted, phone broke on the way, too many cops patrolling—that kind of bullshit. Some will just fess up and admit they didn’t have the stones to do it.”

  “So, you guys never did it?”

  The looks on their faces answer for them. “No way, man,” Trevor says. “Stuart Middleton was the last.”

  Brady shakes his head stiffly, plopping back down on the couch and snagging his beer from the ground.

  “Sarge didn’t do it, either?” I ask.

  Trevor shakes his head. “His grandma died right when we were doing bids. He wasn’t around for the scavenger hunt. No doubt he would have though. He was pissed he had to miss it, despite the reasoning.”

  “Well, fuck me,” I say, glancing back toward the bar. “I think I’m due a fuckin’ beer, don’t you?”

  Trevor nods, his eyes wide as he pats me on the back. “Hell yeah, you are. All you guys are free to party. Minors …” He glances over my shoulder at my pledge brothers. “Don’t be fucking stupid. Drink sensibly, and if you get caught by the cops after you leave this motherfucker, you didn’t leave this motherfucker. Got it?”

  They all must nod because his facial features change from questioning back to their state of—what is it … admiration? Infatuation? I can’t tell what it is in Trevor’s eyes, but something about it feels off, saccharine to sugar. Generic to name brand.

  “Don’t worry about the other fraternity’s letter.” He chuckles, shaking his head in disbelief. “You earned that shit.”

  Mac takes a step forward with his phone outstretched. “Pretty good videos on here, too,” he says, winking as Trevor snatches it from him.

  I turn, setting a hand on Carter and Jeremy’s shoulders and rotating them so that they’re facing the bar before nudging them forward.

  “Yo, fuckers, wait for me,” Mac calls out from behind us.

  As he catches up to us, I say, “Well, gentlemen, let’s get good and fucked up, huh?”

  After plenty of beers and conversation between the four of us, the others have left me to the couch to veg out with my last beer of the night before I take my old ass home while they spend the night trying to pick up girls and likely striking out. Except for Jeremy. That pretty motherfucker can probably pull some ass.

  Three girls—one of which I’ve noticed glancing at me more than a few times over the past few minutes—who have been loitering by the TV, begin their approach, and the hottest one (the one who has been peeping at me) catches my attention and smiles, motioning toward the couch.

  “Mind if we sit?” she asks.

  Words, damn you! Words! Ignore the lump in your throat. Ignore the fact that she’s possibly the hottest woman you’ve ever seen.

  Fuck!

  “A-of course.” I quickly slide down, bringing my beer with me and splashing a little bit on my lap. My face feels like it’s been scorched by a blowtorch. I try not to look at her. Maybe if I don’t see her, she can’t see me. Yeah, that’s it.

  I sip from the red solo cup nervously as the three of them squeeze in next to me. I close my eyes, breathing in deep as a sudden wave of anxiety pours over me. I realize I’m out of my element here, nowhere near drunk enough, and with no one close enough to come in and share the burden of any possible social interactions. Then again, a seat may be her only objective.

  Of course it is, you idiot! What, do you think you’re special? Did you see her eyes? That body? Girls like her don’t fuck with rough-looking dudes like you.

  “Tired?” Her voice startles me.

  Turning and getting a closer look, I see she can’t be over eighteen. Her eyes are bloodshot and baggy, and her face slack, as if she’s had a few too many already, though it does little to take away from her undeniable beauty. Her sleek, jet-black hair falls straight as a wire to her petite shoulders, bangs meeting a set of dazzling emerald eyes; her skin is flawless, tanned. She looks Middle Eastern … maybe Islander.

  She crosses one tight-jeaned leg over the other, her Converse hovering near my leg as she quirks an eyebrow.

  “Gettin’ there,” I say with a polite smile.

  Genius.

  Pure. Fucking. Genius.

  “You’re the Army guy, right?” she asks, and the fact that she knows even that is surprising.

  “How’d you know?”

  “There’s a lot of talk about you around here.”

  “Within the fraternity?” I briefly scan the area around us at no one in particular.

  She nods. “And the school,” she responds.

  “What do you mean, the school?”

  “Buchanan State. The school you go to, smart guy.” She laughs and bats a playful hand against my arm.

  “Sorry, I guess I’m just confused why anyone at this school would be talkin’ about me, let alone, a lot of them.”

  “It’s not bad stuff,” she says, inching closer and trying to take a drink from her empty cup. She eyes the cup, confused, and then looks back toward me. “Just stuff.”

  “What kind of stuff?”

  “Badass stuff,” she says, a smile tugging at the corner of her lips.

  “Well, I’m no badass.”

  “You got blown up, right? And like, fought bad guys overseas and shit?”

  “Yeah.” I nod, wishing I had left earlier, not because I don’t enjoy her company, or feel grateful to even converse with a girl this beautiful, but because I always fuck shit like this up.

  “Then okay, you’re the badass they’re talking about.”

  I shake my head, letting out an uncomfortable chuckle. “So, what is it they’re talkin’ about … besides my time overseas?”

  “The guys are just worried about you,” she responds, taking the tiny red straw from her drink and chewing on it.

  “The Delta Iota guys?”

  She nods.

  “Why? What’s there to be nervous about?”

  She leans in. “Do you know how serious these frat guys take this stupid pledging shit?” she asks, the rum on her breath wafting toward me, not unpleasant, just prominent. Subtle hints of spearmint trail it.

  “I’ve got a pretty good idea.”

  “Yeah, well, think about this thing they love doing—fucking with young impressionable kids—and then having someone like you come along. They know they can’t control you like they do the younger guys. They want you in the frat because you make them look good, but they’re worried about you retaliating in some way, messing with their fun.”

  “I’m not here to fuck with anything, but I’ve already told them I won’t be messed with either.” I shrug. “So, we’ll see, I guess.”

  “And they probably won’t fuck with you
. But they’ll see how much they can fuck with the other guys until it gets to you.”

  “I don’t really know what to say here.”

  “I’m not trying to scare you,” she says, sitting back and attempting to drink from her cup again before realizing that it’s still empty. She pouts.

  “Oh, I’m not scared. I just prefer to take things one day at a time and not worry about what might be comin’ down the road. I’ll give them the benefit of the doubt, for now.”

  “They like you,” she says as if she didn’t hear a word I said. Her eyes linger on the military tattoos that comprise a sleeve on my right arm.

  “They don’t even know me. And how do you know so much anyway?”

  “I’m friends with most of the guys. Went to high school with Zach and Brady back in New York. Brady and I fucked for a few months last semester too.”

  Her candor both shocks and turns me on a little. My cock stirs from simply the way the word fuck rolls off her tongue.

  “You and Brady?” I raise an eyebrow. “How old are you?”

  “Twenty.”

  “Fuck, you look young. I would’ve guessed not a day over eighteen.”

  She puts a hand to her chest. “Why, thank you, sir.”

  “How long have you been hangin’ out with these guys for?”

  “Too long,” she says, laughing. “I was best friends with this guy Eric Danner’s little brother, Alex. Alex and I went to school with Brady and Zane. Eric was a DIK brother who graduated last year, so by the time those two got bids, I had already been hanging out here with Eric and Alex for a few years.”

  “What were you then, like, seventeen?”

  “Fifteen, sixteen, something like that. That’s how it works out here in the country.”

  I shake my head. “Crazy.”

  “Why? You didn’t party in high school?”

  I stifle the laugh that wants to come at the thought of some innocent, well-mannered alternate version of my high school self. You Google ‘juvenile delinquency’ and I’m the first fucking thing that pops up.

  “Well, yeah.” I chuckle. “I partied a bit too much back then, but with other high schoolers. Never a frat party. Not judgin’ or anything. Hey, do what you do, you know? I’m surprised your father didn’t kill one of these fuckers, though.”

  She leans in, an eyebrow quirked, and purrs, “What daddy doesn’t know …” before bursting out in laughter.

  I laugh too, but only in solidarity. I’m too busy admiring the way her neck moves when she laughs. The way her eyes light up. The hints of promiscuity.

  And then the daddy rings … the word which brings feelings of upchuck while simultaneously turning me on. I hate that word.

  And love it.

  I guess it all depends on whose mouth it’s coming from.

  “I could never be a parent.” I shake my head, finishing off my beer and setting the solo cup at my feet.

  “Don’t you worry about me, Army man. I’m a real, live, grown up woman. I take care of myself just fine.”

  “I have no doubt about that. No doubt at all. And the name’s Bishop.” I grin.

  “Well, Bishop, I’m Ember, but you can just call me your dirty little whore,” she says, pausing for a moment before she bursts out into another adorable fit of laughter, pointing her finger wildly at my face. “I’m sorry, so kidding. I just had to see that face.”

  I touch my cheeks, asking, “What face?” though I know I’m flush. It feels like my skin is burning.

  “The one where you look like you’ve seen a ghost and seen me naked at the same time. Like your brain’s trying to determine whether to run away from me or throw me down and fuck me.”

  “Holy shit,” I mutter, trying to understand if I’m hearing this girl correctly, this sweet, innocent-looking girl (though she surely carries a rocker mystique that drives me wild) throwing around F-bombs like she belongs in a Humvee with me back in Iraq.

  “What?” she asks.

  “I like the way you talk.” It didn’t sound as stupid in my head as it did coming out of my mouth.

  “Well, country boy, I like the way you talk too, but I don’t believe I have an accent.”

  “Neither do I.” I laugh. “There’s a little New York in yours,” I say. “Just a touch. But I meant I like the way you speak freely. Word vomit and such.”

  She laughs, nodding her head. “That’s me.”

  “Can I ask you a serious question?” I can feel the liquor and beer I’ve consumed tonight loosening me up a little. Finally. There’s a comfortable warmth that trails my limbs, a light airiness in my head, a freedom to my words I don’t often find when sober and meeting women. Or anyone, for that matter.

  “Ask away, Army man.”

  “Bishop.”

  “Ask away, Army Bishop.”

  “No, just Bishop.”

  “Ask away, Just Bishop.” She chuckles.

  “Never mind. I think you just answered my question.”

  She leans forward, grabbing my arm, and she says, “No, I’m sorry. I was just messing with you. Can you please ask?” She pouts, and God does it send a jolt of pleasure to my cock while simultaneously melting my heart. Funny how that works.

  I hesitate for a moment and then ask, “Why Brady?”

  She looks up in thought, eventually shrugging, and simply responds, “He’s hot as fuck.”

  “Oh Lord,” I say, rolling my eyes and shaking my head.

  “What? So much judgment in your tone,” she scolds. “Like you’ve never just fucked someone because you found them sexy and they wanted you too.”

  I shrug, nodding. “Well, yeah …”

  “Well, yeah, so what’s the difference, Army man?”

  “There is none.”

  She gasps, pointing her finger at me, the other hand covering her mouth. “You’re jealous!”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Yes, sir. I mean, if you aren’t jealous, then you’re a misogynist. So, which one is it?”

  I narrow my eyes at her. “I ain’t jealous of any man. And I’m no misogynist. Not even close.”

  “It has to be one of them,” she argues.

  I wave her off, eyeing the watch on my wrist for a brief moment.

  She leans forward, exposing more cleavage, and she locks her eyes on mine. “I think you’re jealous,” she says, flashing a wicked little smile.

  She knows what she’s doing, and as much as I try and convince myself her seduction isn’t working, I know I’m only kidding myself. My pulsating dick tells me so.

  “I’m jealous of no man,” I repeat, maintaining my composure and turning my focus to a basketball game playing on the big screen TV.

  “Do you not find me attractive?” she asks, sitting back against the couch.

  I look at her with a wrinkled brow and curled lips. “You’re crazy. And I would have to be to not find you attractive.”

  “Oh, really now?”

  I soften my features and take a thick swallow. “You know you’re gorgeous. Ray Charles could see that.”

  She licks her lips subtly. “Why won’t you kiss me then?” she asks and bats her eyelashes.

  “You were with Brady, for one.” I scan the area around us, trying to find him through the heaps of people, a drunken disorder starting to sweep its way through them. I don’t see Brady anywhere, but wonder if he’s noticed who I’ve been talking to.

  When I look back at her, I see she’s inched closer, which I didn’t think was possible on this crowded couch, her empty cup clenched between her thighs and her manicured nails tapping the rim.

  “He doesn’t care,” she says softly.

  “Every man cares. I don’t give a shit who they are, or what they say. That’s just not a good way to operate. No real man I know would be cool with seein’ that. Especially from the new guy. Especially from a pledge.”

  She shrugs, her eyes lingering on the side door to our right. “
We don’t have to stay here.”

  “Ember, you’re drunk.”

  “So? Aren’t you, too?”

  “Not like you are,” I respond. “If you still want to kiss me when you’re sober … that’s a different story.”

  “Or, like, we could just kiss right here, right now,” she blurts, lifting her palms. “Or somewhere else.” She motions toward the back door.

  I check my watch again—one a.m.

  She sighs heavily, and it draws my eyes to hers. She lifts the cup from her lap and scoots away from me a bit, pretending to insert herself in her friends’ conversation next to her.

  Standing, I catch her attention. I bend down, my mouth meeting her ear, and in a low voice, I say, “Offer still stands. If you still wanna kiss me tomorrow, you know where I’ll be.”

  Before she can respond, I trail my mouth to her cheek, kissing it and then pecking her lips, just slightly, but purposefully.

  Standing straight, I smile and say, “Later, Ember. Hope to see you tomorrow.”

  She doesn’t say anything in response, the pout still on her face, but her eyes do speak—a subtle glimmer of desire and intrigue.

  Nodding, I turn and make my way around the room to find my pledge brothers and let them know the party is over for my old ass. A terrible spin has taken up my brain, and it’s time I head home and put my head on the cloud-like Tempurpedic pillow waiting to take me to Slumberton.

  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.