For a moment, Sydney’s face went blank—like my words took a minute to process—but once they’d computed in that malicious mind of hers, I half-expected smoke to billow from her nostrils. “Just because you’re banging Knox Jagger on a semi-regular basis doesn’t mean you should expect the same level of respect the rest of us give him. You’re nothing but a man whore’s cock-warmer, so get off that high horse and stop pretending like you’re better than me.”
So pretty on the outside. So truly, truly ugly where it counted.
Used to Sydney’s regular blockades, I swept by her with a wink. She might have thrown her mouth around at me, but she knew better than to let palms or fists fly.
“Oh, I thought it was obvious, but I’m not pretending. One more thing,” Halfway up the stairs, I snapped my fingers and glanced back at her. “Since you’re no doubt going to be the president of the reunion planning committee, will you make sure to put Man Whore Cock-Warmer on my nametag in lieu of Charlie Chase? I wouldn’t want people to get confused about who I really was back in my wild, crazy days.” Making it a point to wave at my “muumuu” then stare pointedly at her “toga,” which was nothing more than glorified white lingerie which the tops of her nipples were peeking out from, I left her with a wave and another wink.
Since I was normally with Knox at these things, Sydney had left me alone for the most part. Other than the occasional glare or coughed Whore! as I passed by, her lack of in-my-face despise had left me wondering if she’d grown a conscience. I had my answer now.
A couple of the guys in the frat were hanging out at the entrance, making sure everyone was sporting a toga. One of the guys had what looked like a bundle of jockstraps hanging from his elbow, but since they let me pass without a word, I wasn’t going to ask with the straps were for. I didn’t want to know.
As a nice surprise, the music wasn’t as full throttle as it was at most of these things, and the mood in the place was almost subdued . . . at least by college frat party standards. Couples were still making out in every corner, guys were still chugging beer from a funnel, and there was still that one streaker who just couldn’t help himself. But at least I wasn’t tip-toing between abandoned underwear, vomit, and used prophylactics.
My plan was to snag a beer and camp out some place I looked semi-alone but wasn’t really alone. That might bring the rat out of the hole he’d been hiding in for months. Knox was going to lose his shit when he found out, but I couldn’t let what Knox would or wouldn’t do affect my decisions. I had to get to the bottom of this.
After procuring a cup of Piss Light, I made my way to a quiet corner and got comfortable. Other than a few couples who may or may not have been having sex through their togas and a few other couples who were well on their way, I was the only one prowling through the darkened room—just the kind of place one sick fuck would want to find his target. My heart was pounding a few beats faster, and there was more adrenaline pumping through my veins than wasn’t, but I put on an unconcerned façade. I made sure to keep my attention on my open drink without seeming like I was glancing at it every other second.
To occupy myself, I scanned the room where most of the students were congregated, looking for Harlow and Jake. When I’d talked to her earlier, she mentioned that they might swing by to make an appearance and do the “college thing,” but Harlow was about as into the college thing as I was. Given she was seriously dating a guy in the military instead of schlepping her way through an army of college dimwits, she might have been even less into the college thing than myself. I doubted she’d show up, but I’d see her on Monday for our standing appointment to grab a coffee and catch up. Harlow was the only one who knew about my feelings for Knox, in all their confounding glory, and her views on it seemed to shift from supportive one week to discouraging the next. Even my closest confidants were as confused about Knox and me as I was. As I searched for her familiar face, another one cut through the crowd, smiling the whole journey toward me.
“You have been quite the party-goer lately. Last year, you claimed, and I do distinctly remember these words coming from your mouth, that frat parties were going to be the sole reason humankind lost its humanity.” Beck, in his toga with the golden grape-leaf crown ringing his head, looked the very part of some Greek god. Next to Knox, he didn’t compare, but when Knox wasn’t around, Beck turned his fair share of heads.
“What are you talking about? Frat parties are the very pinnacle of humanity.” I gestured at a few of the more “humane” sights taking place around us.
“So where’s your tumor?” Beck butted his shoulder into the wall and angled himself in front of me.
Having him that close—smelling the familiar scent of his cologne, seeing the golden flecks in his blue eyes, feeling his chest bumping my arm—felt too much like when we’d been a couple. Beck had been a good boyfriend, but he made a better friend. I slid a step to the side. “Not familiar with the tumor you’re referring to.”
“You know, that giant, grotesque, cancerous thing that’s sucking your life away one day at a time? The tumor you need to have surgically removed from your life for good?” Beck’s brows were raised, waiting for me to catch up.
“If you’re referring to that hairy mole on the back of my arm, I had that removed last summer,” I said in a dry voice.
“I’m talking about—”
“I know who you’re talking about.” I gave him a warning look. Beck was great. Knox was great. However, neither were great when they went off about the other.
“Well then? Where is the tumor?”
I crossed my arms and waited.
“Where is he?” Beck corrected with a long exhale.
“Probably winning five hundred bucks off some guy named Bull right this very moment,” I grumbled before taking a sip of my beer.
When Beck accepted that I wasn’t going to discuss Knox with him, he turned his attention elsewhere. “Are you drinking that cheap shit?” Beck glanced at my beer and winced. “That stuff’s for the party nobodies, the ones everyone hopes will stop showing up but never do. We keep the good drinks for the people who count under lock and key.” Beck was already backing toward wherever that “lock and key” place was. “What do you want? You name it, and it’s probably here.”
Was Beck blind to the fact that I was the very definition of a party nobody? A frat house leper? Either that or he just plain chose to ignore it. Whatever it was, it endeared Beck to me . . . but not enough to give up my cup of Piss Light. “I’m good. I’ve grown so used to the bad stuff, if you were to put the good stuff in me, I’d probably keel over from the shock.”
Beck’s smile dimmed a degree. “You know that doesn’t just apply to beer, don’t you? It crosses over into all facets of life. Say, like a girl’s choice in guys . . .”
“I’m not talking about Knox with you. I’ve told you that like five dozen times. Do you think this will be the time it finally sticks?”
He was silent for a minute, slowly walking back up beside me. He didn’t stop until his chest was again brushing the side of my arm. “So are you going to tell me why you’re really here? Or am I supposed to keep on pretending to believe you’ve become another cliché college girl who only lives for boys, parties, and beer?”
I bit the inside of my cheek, wondering if I should tell Beck. The only reason I hadn’t mentioned anything to him was because I didn’t want people to know about the article or that I’d been roofied twice; it wasn’t because I didn’t trust him. And at this stand-still point, I could use the help of someone as connected as Beck. Where Knox drew the popular vote because people feared him, Beck drew his based on people liking him. He was the kind of guy people couldn’t look at without instinctually handing over their trust, not to mention he had the pedigree and people skills to one day become president of the United States.
Before I could run through a checklist of why I should or shouldn’t tell him, my mouth opened. “Someone slipped a roofie in my drink at one of these things—twice. I wan
t to find out who did it.”
Beck did his best to not look taken aback, but it took a minute before he could work up some words. “Someone . . .” He shook his head, his fists curled into balls, and tried again. “Someone . . .”
Resting my hand on his arm, I helped him out. “Someone roofied me—twice. I’m going to find out who did it and make them pay.” Maybe if I repeated it enough, it would sink in.
“Did they . . . you know . . .?” Beck’s jaw set in a way that was eerily similar to the way Knox’s would.
I whipped my head from side to side. “No, I wasn’t raped. Only drugged. Not that only is the way I feel about it, but you know what I mean.”
After driving his elbow into the wall, Beck draped his arms around me and pulled me close. He seemed to need the embrace more than I did, so I didn’t pull away after a few seconds like I wanted to.
“I’m so sorry. So, so sorry.” Beck’s voice shook, his whole body rigid against mine. “If you find that bastard before I do, hand him over to me before you hand him over to the cops.”
I almost shivered from the chill in Beck’s voice. I wasn’t used to hearing the low notes of hate and anger I heard now. “Thanks, Beck. I appreciate that.” Unsure what else to say, I patted his back and tried to weave out of his embrace.
He wouldn’t let me go. “Is that why you’ve been spending so much time with Jagger? Because you suspect he’s the one who did it?”
Apparently the five-dozenth-and-first time hadn’t sunk in either. “Knox didn’t do it. He’s helping me find out who did.”
That earned a sharp laugh from Beck, who let go long enough to step back and appraise me like I’d lost all mental fortitude. “Why do you think he stepped up to help you find the guy who did that to you?” He paused for barely a second. “How can you be so blind? He’s not helping you. He’s helping himself. He’s making sure you’re spinning so many circles around who did or didn’t do it that you’ll never get to the bottom of it.” Beck settled his hands on his hips, glaring at the floor. “Let me guess, you guys have gotten nowhere. You’ve dug up more questions than you started with, and you don’t have a single name on your list of suspects.”
This time when he paused, he was clearly waiting for me to speak. When the only response I could give was lowering my gaze, he shook his head.
“Your silence speaks for itself. Don’t blind yourself to the truth, Charlie. Don’t let a guy like Knox Jagger be responsible for the rock-solid Charlie Chase spinning circles. Don’t ignore what’s right in front of you.”
That was when my eyes lifted, locking on Beck’s and narrowing, challenging him to utter another word. “Knox didn’t do it. And if you want to keep your nose in all its straight, pristine glory, you better not say that again when I’m in earshot.”
“Charlie—”
“I like you, Beck, but if you want to keep chatting, I suggest changing the topic. Now,” I added when I could almost predict the words about to spill from his mouth.
Beck scrubbed his face and, after a long exhale, looked as though he’d managed to shove off-limits topics aside. “So? How ‘bout those togas?”
I heaved an internal sigh of relief. “I’d give Kappa Kappa low marks for originality, but I’d give the attendees, namely the female attendees, high marks for getting creative with a handkerchief.”
Beck chuckled and took a drink of his beer which, unlike mine, came from a bottle—a fancy green bottle at that. Nothing like the beer disparity at a frat party to separate the haves from the have-nots. “Kappa Kappa is the jock house. You can’t expect them to put together something innovative and fresh after taking as many hits to the head as these guys have.”
I supposed that explained the jockstraps, along with the entire house smelling like sweat and socks. “This is the jock house?”
“These are the guys who will be future high school teachers coaching football, basketball, and baseball—the ones who’ll live vicariously through their star athletes while they subsist on a diet of canned beer, microwave dinners, and regrets.” My brows came together as he went on. “That house will be the guys who live in their parents’ basements.” Beck pointed at a cluster of guys sporting comic book character sheets for togas. There wasn’t a single girl within a ten-foot radius of their circle. “Those are the ones who’ll toil their lives away settling for middle management positions.” Beck’s finger shifted to another group of guys seemingly average in every way, from their looks to their heights to the number of girls mingled around them. Average, it seemed, was their par. Then Beck’s finger slid to another bunch of guys. Their smiles were a bit too smug, their skin too artificially tanned, and their hair too meticulously styled. “And those are the ones who think they’re going to run the world.”
My gaze drifted to him. “And what are you and your guys?
Beck’s mouth slid high on one side. “The ones who actually will run the world.”
That got a smile out of me, even though I knew he was somewhat serious. But that was part of what made Beck so great—he believed he was the next big thing, and he was willing to put in the time and effort to get there. It was a sentiment I could relate to. “My, someone’s been forgetting to take their daily dose of humility.” Nudging his arm, I added, “Might want to double up for the next few weeks to rein that conceit back in.”
Beck’s attention shifted to my hand, and when my hand dipped away, it lingered on the spot it had just been on his arm. When his gaze lifted back to mine, his light eyes had darkened with something I’d gotten used to seeing last year. Why did being friends with a guy, especially an ex-boyfriend, have to be so riddled with complications? Why couldn’t it be easy and simple? When I’d blurted that question to my mom last month, she’d answered with a concise, Because young men don’t want friends; they want sex. That was the last time I’d asked Mom a question along those lines.
“Do you want to get out of here?” Beck asked, my mom’s answer playing on repeat through my mind. “You’re right. This party is unoriginality at its worst.”
Before I could even think about how to respond—other than with a Hell to the no—a cluster of guys came toward us, surprising Beck with a series of light punches and almost tackles.
“Is Beck trying to sweep you off your feet again?” one of his frat brothers, Dorian, asked me, jacking his brows.
“No, but I’m about to sweep you off your feet if you don’t stop staring at my chest like if you just look a little harder, you’ll glimpse my nipples through this white sheet.” I pinched the top layer. “Because I’ve wrapped this thing around me so many times, the only vision cutting through it is Superman’s.”
“Damn, Charlie, we’ve missed you. We’ve missed you trying to keep our boy Beck here in line and in sexually frustrated knots.” Dorian elbowed the guy beside him, Rob, who shared a laugh with him . . . until Beck threw them a glare that shut them all up.
“I’d like to say the feeling’s mutual and I missed you guys, but I swore off lying earlier today.” I kept a smile in place so as to keep them confused about whether I was being serious or playing, but really, there were two kinds of frat boys—these guys and everyone else.
Beck’s frat took the term frat to a whole new level. They made movies and conspiracy theories about the Greek system seem more like reality than fiction, and they acted as if their bonds to one another had been forged through battle and bloodshed instead of beer and boobs.
“You still talk so no one can understand you,” Paxton, the lanky one with the sleazeball smile, said.
“Good to know I’m staying fifty intelligence planes above you, Paxton.”
Rob grinned at Beck, his brows touching his hairline. “She’s nothing like the rest of them. I’ll give you that, man.”
“And thank you for noticing,” I said, even though they clearly weren’t trying to involve me in their conversation.
Beck shoved his arm, making half of Rob’s beer slosh out onto his toga. “Shut up, Rob. And the rest of
you can shut up too.”
A wordless exchange passed between the four guys before the three numbnuts formed an expression I was sure I’d never seen pasted on their faces—understanding.
“You hear about our Beckett being the top contender for president of Nu next year? The most prestigious frat house at Sinclair, if not the whole country.”
I rolled my eyes. If I had a buffalo nickel for every time a frat boy claimed his frat house was the best in the country, my bank account would be about as worthless as their claims.
“The chicks will be flocking to him in droves.” Dorian nudged Beck, jacking his brows. “Like, fucking droves.”
“Yeah, so if you want my man back, you’d better start your petition now, Charlie.” Rob clamped his hands over Beck’s shoulders. “The competition might be rough now, but next year?” His eyes skimmed down me, disapproval etching into every line on his face. “Yeah, forget about it. Better get your slice of Beck pie while you still can.”
Men. When would they figure out they weren’t the zenith of all creation? “In case you’ve forgotten, Dorian, I already had a ‘slice of Beck pie.’ A whole six months of it. But don’t worry, I forgive you. Overconsumption of alcohol and excessive masturbation are the leading causes of memory loss, so it’s a miracle you can remember your name.” Again, I kept my smile to keep them guessing. Was I playing their game, or was I being a flaming bitch? If they’d taken the time to get to know me last year, the answer would have been obvious.
“Oh, yeah. You guys were a thing last year, weren’t you?” Dorian asked, scratching his proverbial brain . . . also known as the only brain he had.
“We were a thing.” When I glanced at Beck, he mouthed I’m so sorry, which I waved off. I never passed up the opportunity to witness frat boys making giant asses of themselves.
“And you wouldn’t give him a second chance?” Dorian waved his finger between Beck and me, like it was as simple as that.
Hard Knox Page 23
