by Jess Bentley
“Oh, hey—what? Why aren’t you dressed?” she asks me urgently, her ebony-black eyes open wide. She reverses course and drags me back into her room with her, holding her hands out in front like a traffic cop.
I actually thought I was dressed an hour ago, I think, but don’t say.
“Okay, stop,” she pants. She takes a couple breaths like she’s going to say something, but nothing comes out right away. I hold out the headband thingy that Lizzie gave me as though it's some sort of clue.
“Oh, okay! Did Lizzie give you this halter? We can work with this!”
She whips around to yank a string of pink and black beads off the bedpost and I stare at the flimsy scrap of fabric in my hand. This is a halter? When Claudia turns back to me she seems amazed that I'm not wearing it yet.
“Just go ahead and put it on. We've got, like, minutes. I’ll turn around if you want me to?”
I shrug, pretending I’m not embarrassed. But as soon as her back is turned again I whip off the black top and my bralette and stretch the pink fabric over my head. It loops behind my neck, forming a crisscross over my chest and leaving me feeling almost completely naked. My nipples poke right out through the fabric, small and hard. It’s just so obvious, and it doesn’t feel very sturdy. I'm not even sure I have enough volume to keep this thing from riding up into my armpits if I lift my arms.
Claudia whips back around again, her gaze seesawing back and forth over me as she nods urgently. “See? You have the perfect body for this thing! You look amazing!”
I stare in the mirror on the back of her closet door. Amazing? Standing next to Claudia, whose dancer-muscular body ripples under her pink and black striped bodycon dress, I don't see it. I look like the little sister she's being forced to take to the grown-up sister party.
“Wow, I wish I had your flat stomach,” she groans.
“Are you sure?” I hear myself say, my voice smaller and less serious than I usually strive to make it. Over the last two months I've done everything I can do to really seem like I fit in here, but sometimes it's just too much. I'm not a homecoming queen, lead cheerleader, or marketing executive in training like all of them seem to be. Sometimes I think I'd rather just go home, and then I remember I don't really have a home to go to.
As though Claudia can sense what I'm feeling, she takes a couple steps to the door and then stops, pivoting on her tall wedge sandals so she can face me again. She claps her hands lightly in front of her a couple of times and lowers her chin, looking me dead on.
“Kita? You know you're almost at the end of this, right?”
I swallow, nodding.
“And as soon as we’re done with the bake sale, you're practically guaranteed to get in. You know that?”
“But —”
“No buts!” she declares and takes my shoulders in her hands so that I can't get away. She stares right into the middle of me with her deep black eyes, so dark I'm practically pinned to the spot.
“Kita, we all believe in you. Out of all the rushes, you're the best one. You're my personal favorite—did you know that?”
I shake my head. Am I really?
“Yes, you silly thing! Actually, everybody's rooting for you. But you gotta do good today, okay? Just do whatever needs to be done, sweetie, and then you will be one of us. Won’t that be great?”
“Yeah.”
She narrows her eyes at me and wrinkles her nose in exaggerated disapproval. “I can't hear you!”
On cue, I give her my cheerleader smile, the one that so wide it makes my upper lip feel like it's going to crack. “Yeah!” I practically yell.
“That's my girl!” she hoots, then shoves me toward the doorway. “Okay, see you in the minibus!”
She releases one shoulder and slaps me on the butt cheek as I leave her room. It stings, but I don't let her know.
The rest of the sorority house is in chaos. At least a dozen of us are all dressed up in black and pink, our house colors, rushing to the minibus before the house mother leaves without us. I just keep my arms clapped over my naked belly and hunch in one of the back rows, trying to keep warm as the cold vinyl of the seat chafes against my legs.
All around me are clones of Lizzie and Claudia, clapping and chanting our songs, apparently unbothered by the brisk September air. Every time one of them happens to glance my way, I make sure my smile is as hard as concrete. Just keep smiling, that's the trick.
When we get to the Crow Bar, there is a black and pink banner stretched over the entrance, fluttering in the breeze. Welcome to the Chi Rho Pi Bake Sale! It's painted with cartoonish hearts and extra exclamation points that glow in the black lights that pulse on and off.
The minibus pulls up in front of the entrance and as we file out, the bouncer pulls the velvet rope aside for us. Huge and broad as a pillar, he stands there nearly exploding from his tight, white T-shirt and shiny, black-washed jeans. He looks each of us over with dark eyes that slide a grueling trail from top to bottom. There's something lizard-like about the way he looks me over, like he's licking me with his eyes.
Glancing behind him, I see the people waiting to get in. It's mostly men — actually I guess it's all men? — and they press forward, peering at us with undisguised interest. There’s at least forty of them there, from frat boy age on up, leaning against the rope like carnivores at the zoo. Instinctively, I flinch back to the safety of my group.
I feel a hand circle around my elbow and almost pull away defensively before I realize it's Lizzie. She tugs me closer, and for a second I'm grateful to be under someone else's care. Feeling so many sets of eyes on me is making me feel even more naked than I am.
“Oh, you're going to do so good!” she hisses in my ear as she jams something plastic against my ribs. “Here, drink this. It'll get you started off right.”
I take what she's handing me and hold it up against the neon glare of the bar signs. It glows faintly blue and I guess it's a bottle of some kind of energy drink, but it looks like she's already opened it.
“No, I'm okay…” I mumble and try to shove it back toward her as the bouncer herds us into the darkened dance club.
“It's for charity,” she reminds me again, raising her voice against the pulsing bass of the dance music, her eyes narrow and dangerous.
I don't even understand what she's talking about. But at this point, can I really afford to just piss her off over an energy drink? As I cross the threshold, I pop the top off and take a long swig, smiling like it's delicious and then I hand it right back to her. The bitterness curdles on the back of my tongue but then my mouth is coated in a film of sugar. She wrinkles her nose at me in approval and nods.
“That's a good girl. Your place is over there. Now, break a leg!”
“Break a what?”
Claudia swoops over to my other side, boxing me in. “You ready, Kita?”
Suddenly, I don't really feel like I’m ready for anything. I look around the room and realize it's nearly empty. The bouncer must have been holding back the customers until we got here. There's a large, empty dance floor with three raised platforms arranged in a triangle with about ten feet between them. On each platform is a barstool.
Lizzie and Claudia start to guide me toward the closest platform. Out of the corner of my eye I see the other two pledges being led to the other two barstools. One of them looks nervous and keeps flipping her long, honey-colored hair over her shoulder and giggling. The other one, Serena, just looks pissed.
What I don't see is any kind of cakes, cookies, or even a candy bar. This is supposed to be a bake sale. What are we selling?
“Claudia, I don't know what I'm supposed to do?” I confide, leaning toward her as she guides me toward the stool. She just rolls her eyes.
“Just smile, cupcake,” she snickers. “You'll figure it out in a minute!”
Chapter 27
Daniel
It's getting late.
My flight was delayed. And trying to get through the warehouse district during peak fratern
ity club hopping hours is wearing down what’s left of my patience. My driver, Freddie, maneuvers my Mercedes around small groups of college kids who stumble through the poorly lit streets. It's a wonder more of them don't get flattened in traffic accidents every weekend. Idiot kids.
Freddie could have gone around the district, but he knows I like to run through it. This is my neighborhood, and I can't help but feel responsible. At one point or another most of these old rail yard warehouses belonged to me.
The last thing I expected when I sold the first one to some jackass with a trust fund and a pinheaded idea for a nightclub, was for the whole block to end up being the center of university nightlife. So, you could say I feel responsible. I should have seen it coming.
At this point, there are eight clubs in this half-mile stretch, and they're always up to something. Somebody's always trying to arrange some new underage drinking scheme or coming up with the brilliant idea to trick sorority girls into going topless. A de facto strip club, is what they want.
Unbelievable, these kids.
You'd think with a whole Internet full of porn, they'd at least find ways of entertaining themselves that didn't involve ruining the lives of underage girls whenever possible. But no. Like the old saying goes, you can never go broke underestimating the depravity in men's souls.
As Freddie rolls slowly down the street, I stare into the lines of young people, looking for troublemakers I know, catching a glimpse of the interior of the clubs. For the most part, it seems like a low-key Saturday night. None of the obvious signs of an amateur pornography video studio springing up in the middle of the block. Not again, anyway.
That's only happened three times in the last four years. Luckily, our local sub-geniuses don't seem to realize that kind of broadcast bandwidth leaves a signature that's easy to pick up. Easy for me, anyway.
Not that I'm spying on them, but it is useful for me to keep at least a finger on the pulse of what's going on. I at least need to keep aware in case somebody needs to step in. Most of these kids seem like they left their parents’ house way too damn early. Before they learned any real sense, anyway.
A flash of white and pink catches my eye up to the left. As Freddie rolls up to the Crow Bar, I see the sign they've got stretched over the door. My mouth fills with bitterness.
Goddamnit. Not again.
“Freddie, stop,” I growl. He saw it too. He doesn't even need me to tell him. He swerves to the curb and I get out, my fingers already twitching like I’m about to clench my hands into fists. But I don't. Not yet.
Big Boy, the bouncer, turns around as I'm coming, like he heard me. Maybe he did. Maybe I'm making some kind of sound. He's got about six inches on me so when he stands there, more or less blocking the entrance, I can't see in.
But I already know what's going on. He's bigger than me, but that doesn't always mean anything. And if he wants to keep standing there, he's going to have to make a decision about how he wants to treat the situation, because I'm definitely getting inside.
“Mr. Lockwood,” he says, his voice low and even.
I don't say anything. I just stand there as his eyes finally flicker to each of my shoulders and then my knees. It's an old military thing: checking out your opponent’s corners to see how committed they are to the fight. You want to see if they’re actually ready — rigid and coiled to spring. And I am, so he steps aside.
Once inside the bar, I stand outside the circle for a full fifteen seconds, taking deep breaths and counting backward from one hundred. It's worse than last year. There are sixty guys in here, all in a circle. In the middle of the circle are three young… I don't even know what you call them. Women? Girls? They’re on these little stages, dressed up and painted like Christmas hams, ready to be eaten.
And all these… I don’t know what you call them either. Men? Certainly not men. Boys? Animals?
Yeah, animals.
These animals think they’re bidding. They think they're buying these girls.
“Daniel!” I hear, and I don't want to look, but she's right in front of me. I won't lower my chin, so she steps back, right into my eye line. It's Claudia, from last year. She's not a girl, she's a woman. She might be a little on the young side, but she's got something going on that’s way beyond her years. And not in a good way.
She’s about half evil. Not genetically, but like she’s play-acting something she saw in a movie. She’s playing with things she doesn’t truly understand and if she doesn’t watch herself, she might just end up this way forever.
She knuckles her hips with her fists, casting her weight to one side and bouncing subtly, a move that probably works on simple-headed males. It doesn't work on me.
“Aren't you going to say hi?”
She quirks an eyebrow at me. I start to move past her, but she sidesteps deftly, landing right in my way. She is so close that if I didn't stop I would have bumped right into her. Which is what I'm afraid she actually wants. I don't have a lot of choice but to retreat, so I do.
“You want to buy me a drink?”
“Where's Lizzie?” I say, surprised at how even my voice sounds. That's good, because that means I’ve still got some self-control left. I won't put my hands on a woman in anger, but I'm not going to let her get in my way either.
I hear her suck her teeth in disgust. “Oh you like redheads, do you? Lizzie’s over there, on the mic. I bet she’d love to see you. You want me to get you a bidding paddle? Round two is just about to start. I’m sure you can… catch up.”
Then I see her, when the overhead light catches a penny-bright flash of coppery hair. Elizabeth Whitmore, Lizzie to her friends. If she has any actual friends, that is. I'm fairly certain that everyone in her orbit is just a tool to be used.
She’s dangling a microphone from her fingertips as she struts around the perimeter of the circle, batting her eyelashes at every guy in this place. Got to be the center of the show, that Lizzie. If not as the sideshow, then as the ringleader.
“How about that drink, Daniel?” Claudia purrs as I sidestep past her. I hear her scoff as I walk away, cutting through the circle to come face-to-face with Lizzie.
This one, she's actually, utterly, irretrievably bad. Deep down bad as though brought up simmering in it. She doesn't even flinch when she sees me. Instead she squares off defiantly, setting her jaw and planting her heels about shoulder width apart. In all likelihood, she loves this: someone else to join her in the middle of the ring. When I feel everybody's eyes focus on us, I realize that's exactly what's happening too.
“Elizabeth, I believe I made myself very clear to you last year. This event is not sanctioned. Break it up now, or I will call the police.”
She tips her head to the side and pouts, her lower lip jutting out pinkly, glistening with a thick coating of honey-like gloss. She pauses dramatically, waiting for everybody to watch.
“I don't know what you mean, Daniel,” she simpers. She tosses her hair back extravagantly, letting it fan out in the light.
I lower my voice to a near whisper. I don't want to play into her games. “You know exactly what I mean. I'm only going to give you one chance, Elizabeth.”
She stares me down for a full ten seconds, her gaze never wavering, never blinking. She doesn't even twitch. I've seen grown men, trained men with decades of military experience who can't manage that kind of aggression. Truly, she is a terrifying beast.
And after that ten seconds, she winks at me and sticks out her tongue, then thumbs the switch on the microphone and turns on her heel so she can address the crowd.
“Sounds like somebody is mad they’re late to the party!” she announces over the PA, sauntering away from me, then pausing to jerk her head back in my direction. The circle of men laughs along with her, some nervously, some loud enough to indicate they’re already too drunk to have much sense left.
I stand there, considering my options. With this many people in the room, it's likely that at least a couple dozen are underage. Getting arrested in this
town for underage drinking is an automatic expulsion from school. Since it is not exactly Ivy League, getting expelled from the school would mean the last chance a lot of these kids have for a college education would be going up in smoke.
I really don't want to call the police. I'm only slightly infuriated that Lizzie saw through that immediately.
She spins back around to face me again, taking a ridiculously exaggerated pose of sympathy. “Come on, Daniel! Big spender! You know you want to bid on some of these fine Chi Rho Pi cherry pies! Am I right, everybody?”
She sweeps her hand around the crowd, whipping these jackasses up into a bunch of catcalls and hoots. They think she's on their side. She knows getting them riled up means I'll have to back down.
The goddamn bake sale. It's a sorority “tradition” to haze the new girls by putting them through an auction of sorts. Tell them the money is going to charity. Tell them it's all for fun. But after one of these guys gets drunk and forks over a few hundred dollars to charity, he's going to think he's got some girl’s cherry pie coming to him, by rights. It makes me sick to my stomach.
I didn't want to look, but I can't help it. To my right, there are three girls on platforms, facing out to the crowd. Overdressed — or should I say underdressed — blinking against the bright lights and not saying a word.
One of them is absolutely clueless. She keeps brushing long strands of golden hair over her head and making cute little waving gestures at different guys in the crowd. Wow. I'm glad she at least appears to be enjoying herself.
The next one, a dark-haired girl with big, liquid eyes and a stubborn set to her jaw, looks like she's about to explode. She keeps scanning the crowd with her eyes narrowed, as though picking out potential targets. That's a good girl. That's definitely the right attitude.
Behind them is the third girl, facing away from me. She sways back and forth from foot to foot, her head tipped back slightly as though she's looking at the lights. The way she is swaying, I wonder if she's drunk. Another freshman trying to bounce out of college the minute they get here. So stupid! Were kids this stupid when I was their age?
