The Dare

by Elle Kennedy

  The alumni luncheon is being held in Woolsey Hall on campus. So far, it’s consisted of listening to a bunch of people get up and talk about how Briar made them the men and women they are today, giving back, school spirit, blah, blah, blah. The assigned seating cards have split up the athletics department, along with representatives of the Greeks, student government, and a handful of other notable student organizations, among the many tables with the alumni guests. Mostly it’s been smile, nod, laugh at their bad jokes, and tell them, yes sir, we’re taking the championship this year.

  It’s not all bad, though. The food’s decent and there’s plenty of free booze. So at least I’ve got a little buzz going.

  No matter how good I look in a suit, though, I still feel like they can smell it on me. The stench of poverty. The hospital stink of new money. All these rich assholes who probably spent most of their college years snorting coke through hundred-dollar bills from trust funds that have been earning interest since their ancestors were involved in the slave trade.

  Seven months ago I showed up at Briar a punk-ass kid from LA. Exactly the type the good folks of Ivy institutions prefer to have mopping their floors rather than attending classes. A stepfather with deep pockets, however, does wonders for one’s image in the eyes of the admissions board.

  Yeah, I clean up nice, but shit like this reminds me I’m not one of them. I’ll never be one of them.

  “Mr. Edwards.” The older woman seated next to me has what looks like the entirety of the Queen’s jewels hanging off her neck. She slides one boney hand over my thigh and leans into me. “Would you be a dear and see if you can rustle a lady up a gin and tonic? Wine gives me a headache.” She smells like cigarettes, peppermint gum, and expensive perfume.

  “Sure thing.” Hoping she can’t pick up on my relief, I excuse myself from the table, thankful to break away for a bit.

  Outside the main ballroom I find Hunter, Foster, and Bucky at the cocktail bar, where the catering staff is packing up after the hors d’oeuvre reception.

  “Can I bother you for a gin and tonic?” I ask the bartender.

  “Yeah, no problem.” He starts pouring the drink. “More bottles I empty, less I have to carry out of here.”

  “Gin and tonic? Bro, when did you become my grandmother?” Bucky jokes.

  “It’s not for me. It’s for my cougar.”

  Hunter snorts and sips his beer.

  “Please don’t laugh. A couple more gin and tonics and she’ll legit be trying to hop on my dick.” I nod at the bartender for permission, then steal one of the Stellas he’s got sitting in a box on the floor.

  “From what I hear,” Foster says, “your dick’s been pretty busy this week.”

  I pop the cap on my beer with the ring I wear on my right middle finger. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Way I hear it, you spent the night with a Kappa last Friday and jumped right into bed with a Tri-Delt on Thursday.”

  It sounds crass when he says it that way. But yeah, I suppose that’s how it looks. He doesn’t know, of course, that Taylor and I shared a lovely platonic evening of conversation. And I can’t defend her honor without also blowing her cover. I trust these guys, but it’s inevitable that anything I say gets back to their girls and, well, people talk.

  “Who told you about the Delta hookup?” I ask curiously, because Natalie’d snuck me into the sorority house after midnight. Apparently the Delta house has some ridiculous rule about dudes sleeping over.

  “She did,” Foster answers, snickering.

  I furrow my brow. “Huh?”

  Bucky slides his phone from his pocket. “Oh yeah, we all saw that pic. Hold on.” He taps the screen a few times. “Yeah, here it is.”

  I peer at Bucky’s Instagram feed. And yup, there’s Natalie in a selfie giving the camera a thumbs-up while I’m in the lower corner of the frame, sound asleep. Below it, the caption reads, Look who scored. #Briarhockeyhottie #StickIt #BuzzerBeater #Goooaaalll

  Real nice.

  “I give it high marks for lighting and composition,” Foster says, laughing. Jackass.

  “Hashtag puckbunny,” Bucky adds. “Hashtag—”

  I take the gin and tonic from the bartender and head back inside to deliver it, shooting a middle finger at the guys as I leave.

  It’s not the ribbing that bothers me. Or even the picture, really. I just feel kind of…cheap. Someone’s fuck for likes. I might be a little promiscuous, but I don’t treat women like conquests. A simple exchange of physical pleasure, where everyone gets what they want and no lies are told, is perfectly healthy. Why go and make the other person feel like a piece of meat?

  Then again, I guess it isn’t any more than I deserve. Act like a fuckboy, get treated like a fuckboy.

  When I return to the ballroom, the concert jazz band is playing and the plates from lunch have been cleared. Most of the guests have taken to the dance floor now, including my bejeweled cougar. I set the drink on the table and have a seat, praying that nobody comes over to force me to dance. So far, so good. I sip my beer and people-watch. Soon, a conversation a couple tables away catches my ear.

  “Oh please. Don’t give her so much credit. It was a dare, okay? It’s not like he was hitting on her or something.”

  “Trust me,” a girl’s voice answers, “I heard what was going on in there. He saw those porn star tits and ass and probably figured as long as he fucked her from behind, he wouldn’t have to look at her butter face.”

  “I’d bang Taylor’s body with your face,” a dude responds.

  My fingers tighten over the beer bottle. These asshats are talking about Taylor?

  “Are you kidding me, Kevin? Say that again and I’ll put your balls in my flat iron.”

  “Damn, Abigail, I’m kidding. Down, girl.”

  Abigail. Taylor’s sorority sister who made her take that stupid dare?

  I spare a quick peek over my shoulder. Yeah, that’s her. I remember her standing in the hall at the Kappa house when I made my walk of shame that morning. She’s sitting with a group of Kappas I recognize from the party, and a few other guys. Taylor was right; she’s a grade-A bitch.

  Assuming she must be here somewhere, I scan the room for Taylor, but I can’t find her.

  “You know she wants to be a teacher?” another girl says. “She’ll totally end up like one of those chicks who gets pregnant banging their students.”

  “Oh, dude, she should do teacher porn,” one of the guys responds. “Those double Ds would make mad money.”

  “How does anyone still make money on porn? Isn’t that shit free now?”

  “You should see the stuff we have on video from pledge week. It would crash your spank bank.”

  It isn’t until the cougar returns for her gin and tonic and leaves a smudged lipstick print on my cheek that I realize my fists are clenched under the table and I’ve been holding my breath. I’m not entirely sure what to make of that. These people suck, yeah, but why I am getting all bent out of shape about a girl I knew for one night? My teammates always joke that nothing ever fazes me, and normally they’re right—I’m very good at letting shit slide off my shoulders. Especially when it doesn’t directly pertain to me.

  But this entire conversation is pissing me off.

  “You see that Delta’s post on Insta? Conor wasn’t even coming back to Taylor for seconds.”

  “Some girls are just made to be one-night stands. That’s her place,” Abigail says, her tone smug. “Landing a guy like Conor is an unattainable goal for Taylor. The sooner she realizes that, the happier she’ll be. It’s sad, really.”

  “Omigod! I bet she’s already doodling Taylor Loves Conor on her notebooks.”

  “Writing Taylor Edwards in blood in her diary.”

  They laugh, rolling all over themselves. Assholes.

  It crosses my mind to go over there, confront them. Taylor didn’t do anything to deserve this shit. She’s a cool chick. Smart, funny. It’s been a long time since I’ve actuall
y wanted to spend a whole night talking to a total stranger. And not because she was a pity case or I needed an alibi. I had a legit good time with her. These assholes aren’t allowed to talk smack about—

  Speak of the devil.

  My shoulders stiffen when I catch sight of Taylor walking in my direction. Her head is bent, engrossed with her phone. She’s wearing a knee-length black dress, a short pink cardigan buttoned up to her neck, and her hair in a messy bun at the nape of her neck.

  I remember the way she’d lamented about her curves, and I honestly don’t get it. Taylor’s body is a thousand times more appealing to me than, say, Abigail’s scrawny one. Women are supposed to be soft and curvy and squeezable. I’m not sure when they were brainwashed into thinking otherwise.

  My mouth goes a bit dry as Taylor approaches. She looks really fucking good tonight. Sexy. Elegant.

  Undeserving of these people’s scorn.

  Something compels me. A sense of justice, maybe. The triumph of good over evil. I get a tickle on the back of my neck, the one that says I’m about to have a stupid idea.

  As she passes the table beside mine, unaware of me sitting here, I jump to my feet to catch her.

  “Taylor, hey! Why didn’t you call me?” I say loud enough to draw the attention of Abigail and her group two tables away.

  Taylor blinks, stunned and rightfully confused.

  Come on, babe. Play along.

  I implore her with my eyes as I repeat myself, my tone extra forlorn. “Why didn’t you call me?”

  6

  Taylor

  I’m trying to listen to what Conor is saying to me, but the sight of him in a suit is affecting my concentration. His big shoulders and broad chest fill out that navy-blue jacket like nobody’s business. I’m tempted to ask him to do a little spin so I can assess the butt situation. I bet his butt looks amazing.

  “Taylor,” he says impatiently.

  I blink, forcing my gaze back to his face. “Conor, hi. Sorry, what?”

  “It’s been a week,” he says, with a strange eagerness about him. “You haven’t called me. I thought we had a good time together at the party.”

  My mouth falls open. Is he serious right now? I mean, yeah, he technically said “call me” as he left Saturday morning, but that was part of the performance, right? He hadn’t even provided his phone number!

  “Uh, sorry again?” I wrinkle my forehead. “I guess we got our wires crossed.”

  “Are you avoiding me?” he demands.

  “What? Of course not.”

  He’s acting weird. And sort of whiny. Suddenly I’m wondering if this is some kind of personality disorder thing.

  Or maybe he’s drunk? There have been a lot of free drinks at this thing. Hence why I’d been making a beeline for the restroom before he’d lunged from out of nowhere and ambushed me.

  “I can’t stop thinking about you, Taylor. Can’t eat, can’t sleep.” He rakes an agitated hand through his hair. “I thought we made a connection that night. I wanted to play it cool, you know. Not come off too aggressive. But I miss you, babe.”

  If this is a joke, it isn’t funny.

  Clenching my fists to my sides, I take a step back. “Okay, I don’t know what this is, but for what it’s worth, I saw that Instagram post of you in bed with some girl. So I’d say you’re coping just fine.”

  “Because you messed with my head.” He lets out an agonized groan. “Look, I know I screwed up. I’m weak. But only because I’ve been so hurt thinking that amazing night we spent together didn’t mean anything to you.”

  Now I’m worried about him.

  Exasperation has me stepping forward again. “Conor, you’re—”

  He grabs me without warning. Envelops me in his arms, digging his big hands into my waist as he dips down to bury his face in the crook of my neck. I freeze, stunned, and honestly a little scared of what’s happening right now.

  Until he whispers against my ear.

  “I promise I’m not a weirdo, but I need your help and I won’t touch your penis. Just go with it, T.”

  I pull back to meet his eyes, glimpsing a gleam of urgency and a twinkle of humor. I’m still not sure what’s going on, though. Is he trying to get back at me for what I did to him last weekend? Is it a joke? A silly callback?

  “Con, man, leave the poor girl alone,” an amused voice remarks.

  I turn toward the dark-haired guy who’d spoken—and that’s when I notice Abigail and Jules. My sorority sisters are sitting with their boyfriends and some of the Sigma guys and this is all starting to make more sense.

  My heart melts a little. The world doesn’t deserve Conor Edwards.

  “Get lost, Captain,” Conor drawls without turning around. “I’m wooing my woman.”

  I swallow a laugh.

  He winks at me and squeezes my hand in reassurance. Then, to my complete dismay, he drops to his knees. Oh God, everyone who wasn’t staring at us before is sure as shit staring at us now.

  My good humor comes precariously close to evaporating. With his heart-stopping face, I’m sure Conor is used to being the center of attention. Me, I’d rather have wood slivers shoved under my fingernails than be on the receiving end of it. But I can feel Abigail’s eyes laser-beaming into me, which means I can’t convey weakness. Can’t show even a trace of the anxiety currently eating away at my stomach like battery acid.

  “Please, Taylor. I’m begging. Put me out of my misery. I’m ruined without you.”

  “What in the actual hell is happening?” another male inquires.

  “Shut up, Matty,” the first guy admonishes. “I’m dying to see where this goes.”

  Conor continues to ignore his buddies. His gray eyes never leave my face. “Go out with me. One date.”

  “Um, I don’t think so,” I reply.

  A shocked gasp sounds from the vicinity of the Kappa table.

  “C’mon, T,” he pleads. “Just give me a shot to prove myself.”

  I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. Hysterical tears well in my eyes. When I hesitate for a long time, it’s not because I’m trying to create drama and tension. I’m worried if I open my mouth, I’ll either burst into laughter or sob from embarrassment.

  “Fine,” I finally relent, shrugging. To appear even more aloof, I sort of gaze off toward the stage, as if I’m bored with this entire exchange. “One date. I guess.”

  His entire face lights up. “Thank you. I promise you won’t regret it.”

  I already do.

  We don’t stay at the alumni banquet much longer after Conor’s big performance. Considering I hadn’t wanted to go in the first place, I’m more than grateful to leave.

  Last year Sasha and I got tipsy and had a blast, but she couldn’t attend this time because she had a last-minute rehearsal for her spring showcase. Which means I’d just spent the past several hours smiling and mingling and pretending to be BFFs with Kappas who either hate me or are just indifferent. Not to mention this stupid cardigan I’m wearing; I’d thrown it on earlier after growing weary of all the ogling being directed at my cleavage, and I’ve been sweating like crazy.

  Conor offers to give me a lift back to my apartment since we both live in Hastings, but turns out he’s some kind of sneaky mind-wizard because somehow we end up at his place instead. I don’t know what compels me to agree to dinner and a movie. I decide to blame the two glasses of champagne I drank at the banquet, even though I feel completely sober.

  “Fair warning,” he says, as we stand outside a townhouse on a quiet tree-lined street, “my roommates can be a bit excitable.”

  “Like trying to hump my leg excitable, or easily startled and afraid of loud noises?

  “A bit of both. Just smack ’em on the nose if they get out of hand.”

  I nod and square my shoulders. “Got it.”

  If I can handle a classroom full of two dozen six-year-olds raging on a sugar high, I’m well up to the task of taming four hockey players. Although it’
d probably be easier if I had pudding cups.

  “Con, that you?” someone calls when we enter. “What do you want in your grain bowl?”

  Conor takes my coat to hang on one of the hooks by the door. “Everyone put your dicks away,” he announces. “We’ve got a guest.”

  “Grain bowl?” I ask, confused.

  “Team nutrition rules. We’re all eating like mice. No wasted calories.” He sighs.

  I know the feeling.

  He leads me around the corner into the living room, where three men of imposing figures are spread out on the couches, two playing Xbox.

  They’re still in their suits from the banquet, albeit in various stages of disarray, with ties undone and shirts untucked. Together they look like a GQ cologne ad that ostensibly attempts to portray the aftermath of a fashionable boys’ night out in Vegas or something. All that’s missing is disembodied female legs in heels draped over their shoulders, and maybe a pair of lacy red underwear elegantly slung over the armrest.

  “Guys, this is Taylor. Taylor, these are the guys.” Conor strips out of his suit jacket and tosses it on the back of a chair.

  For a moment I’m transfixed, watching the way his muscles push against the crisp white fabric of his shirt. His chest straining against the buttons. He may have just ruined me for suits.

  In unison the guys reply, “Hi, Taylor,” like we’re all in on a joke.

  “Hi, guys.” I wave, now feeling awkward. All the more so because it’s hot in this room and I really, really want to take off my sweater.

  But the dress I’m wearing must have shrunk in the wash yesterday, because my tits have been attempting to jailbreak out of it all afternoon. It’s discouraging to walk around a room full of former White House officials, Nobel laureates, and Fortune 500 CEOs, and find that they still haven’t perfected looking a woman in the eyes since their fraternity days.

  Men are a failed species.

  “So you’re the one.” Hunched forward with a game controller in his hand, one of the roommates raises an eyebrow at me. He’s handsome, with the kind of dimples that leave bodies in their wake.