G-RING: A Bad Boy College Romance

by Diana Gardin

  Every month since I left, I’ve sent my mom a check. I include a note, telling her to use it for groceries, bills, whatever she needs. I don’t know what she actually does with it, but I would bet my left nut that it ain’t groceries.

  Sighing, I pack my laptop into my backpack and spear Counts with a look of surrender.

  “Fine. I’ll poke my head in, make sure she’s alive. Then I’m out. I’ve got the Ring tonight.”

  His expression looking relieved, he nods. “Yeah. I’ll come by later. Help you with the books.”

  “Countin’ on it.”

  Twenty minutes later, I’m sitting astride my jet-black Harley, the one I bought with one of my first earnings I made when I first started running the G-Ring.

  The ride to the trailer park is short, less than twenty minutes as I weave through the edge of the city and into the oblivion beyond which they call a “transitional” neighborhood. Turning right past a questionable apartment complex that should be considered a mansion next to the place where I grew up, I follow an unpaved path toward the cluster of trailers hidden back behind a thicket of old oak trees.

  Passing the first three, I glance at the bent and dying grass in front of Counts’ dad’s place. The trailer is a dingy white, planted on the ground without any wheels. It’s not even a doublewide. The place just looks…sad.

  Every time I pull into this park my hackles rise, my brain goes into overdrive plotting the quickest way to get back out again.

  I continue driving the short distance from his trailer to mine and dismount the bike, my boots kicking up dust as I plant them on the ground.

  My mom’s trailer sits apart from the others, a doublewide monstrosity with flower boxes on the windows. Flower boxes with no fucking flowers in them. Sometimes she goes on these kicks, where she decides she’s gonna “pretty up the place.” Hence the empty flower boxes, the broken hummingbird feeder hanging on a bent iron stake in the scraggly yard, and the “handmade” wreath of twigs gracing the paint-peeling front door. When I was little, I’d get excited about it when she’d go on one of her kicks to make our little trailer feel like a home. She’d drag me from store to store, buying stuff that made no sense to me but seemed to make her happy. I used to live for the moments when she was happy.

  But then later, I realized that those trivial things she bought for the house meant we’d have to go without something else we really needed. Like dinner that night and breakfast the next morning. Or our light bill. Eventually, those little stopping sprees stopped being fun.

  I jog up the three wooden steps and place my hand on the doorknob, hesitating.

  Why do I do this to myself? What am I gonna find in here that’s any different than the last time?

  Then I hear it. The sound is faint, but it’s there. It’s a wet, muffled noise that ends with the smash of something inside shattering, and I’m through the front door in seconds, slamming it against the thin wall in my rush.

  The plaster cracks. It just adds to the growing spider web already lining the wall.

  My eyes widen in shock, my hands instantly curling into fists at my sides.

  It’s not because of the empty liquor bottles strewn across the tiny living room. No, that’s a sight I’m used to seeing. It’s not because the mess of fast food bags, empty pill bottles, and pizza boxes littering the place. Also nothing new.

  It’s not even the smell that keeps me frozen to the spot.

  It smells like rat shit and spoiled milk. Something else I’m very familiar with.

  No…the thing that turns my heart into a glacier, refusing to pump blood to my veins, is the sight of my mother, lying on the floor, her dirty blonde hair strewn around her in a distorted fan, being choked out by a man I’ve never seen before in my life.

  I’m only frozen for a second. And then I’m moving. Flying, really. Soaring across the room in two long strides, ripping the piece of trash away from my mom and throwing him up against the wall.

  I hear her start to cough, feel her movement as she leans over and retches. That sound lets me know she’s okay, so I focus on him.

  He’s wasted. That much is clear from his red-rimmed eyes and sluggish movements. “Who the hell are you?” His speech is slurred.

  I glare at him. “Right now? I’m your worst nightmare.”

  My fist lands a solid right hook to his jaw. He goes down. The pain of it stings my hand, but the feeling is glorious. It’s been a long time since I’ve let the beast inside me out, and this guy, this man who had the gall to put his hands on the woman who birthed me, is about to feel the full wrath of it.

  I kick him in the side, a roar bursting free from my chest. And then I’m down on top of him, one punch after another raining from my fists. The sound of his face turning into a bloody pulp is good. His eyes swell, and that’s good. He starts blubbering, crying, begging me to stop hitting him, and that’s better.

  There’s a little voice inside my head telling me to stop. That I’m better than this now. That I don’t have to let this anger consume me anymore. But I can’t hear it clearly enough. It’s lost behind the roar of the rage.

  Behind me, my mom screams. It’s a startling sound, because her voice is hoarse, and yet she still yells. “Ace! Ace! Ace!”

  But I ignore it. I ignore all the noise, all of it except the dull roar inside my head that tells me not to stop.

  And then I’m being pulled backward. I fight, but someone with an iron-clad grip drags me backwards. I glance over my shoulder, wild, and see my uncle gripping me tightly.

  “Enough.” His voice is low, commanding. “Ace, man, you gotta stop. He’s down. She’s okay.” He just keeps talking, keeps saying the things that I need to hear.

  My eyes are glazed over as I take in the scene around me. The dude on the floor, beaten to a bloody pulp. He’s not moving.

  “Is he dead?” My voice is flat.

  My mom gasps between the words she’s shouting into the phone. “Help us! My son broke into my place. He just beat the shit out of my boyfriend!”

  The words should sting, should wound me like daggers piercing the skin. But all I feel when I hear them is rage.

  And pity for a woman who can’t get her life together, even when she’s seconds away from losing it.

  I glance down at my hands. Red and sticky with blood. His blood.

  I should be freaking out. I should be hurting. I should feel regret.

  But all I feel is numb.

  “You’re so damn stupid!” My uncle’s tone is like acid as he tosses the words at his sister. “You never deserved him, you know that? Rot in hell. If you or that sorry sack of shit over there even think about pressing charges against Ace, I’ll come after you my damn self.”

  We walk out of the trailer, without looking back.

  Three

  NAIMA

  The hard, metallic music rages in my head, traveling from my ear buds straight to my lonely heart. The harder the music, the more it feeds my desire to just…be.

  Be me.

  Be free.

  Because no one can hear what I listen to. It’s my own little secret, and here in my room, lying on my bed in the preppy sorority house with my favorite bands roaring in my ears, it’s the only thing that saves me from going absolutely insane.

  The knock on my bedroom door doesn’t budge me because I don’t hear it. It’s not until Rose, our sorority house mom, pokes her head gingerly in through the cracked door that I sit up and take notice.

  “Rose?” I pull the buds out. “Sorry. Were you knocking?”

  Her light blue eyes peek at me through her glasses, and she evaluates my face before she answers. Her expression softens as she takes in the tear-streaks that I tried so hard to wipe away first.

  “Dinner’s ready.” Her gentle voice coaxes me, full of understanding. “Come eat.”

  I sit up right away, planting the bright expression on my face, the norm for everyone in my life. Even if I’m not really happy, it’s just safer if everyone thinks I am.r />
  But Rose knows me better than that. Not only is she the house mom of our enormous, prestigious sorority house, she’s the only person in my life who makes sure I’m taken care of.

  No, scratch that. My parents take care of me. My dad works all the time at his established real estate development firm to make sure our family has the best of everything. My mom sits on the boards of about a hundred charities in Charlotte. Because of her hard work, I’ve always had the best connections possible, a golden road paved for my college and professional career.

  So, yeah, they take care of me. And I had a better head start in life than so many other people my age. I’m aware of that.

  I’m thankful.

  But they don’t know me. They’re so busy making sure we have the best that they forgot about getting to know their daughter.

  But Rose? She gets it. She sees everything, even the things I wish she didn’t see.

  She pushes her short blonde hair back behind her ears as she steps into my enormous champagne-colored bedroom. I’ve decorated it with black accents, enough to make me happy without raising my sorority sisters’ eyebrows.

  Black chandelier, black and white art on the walls. Black, four-poster, canopy bed, complete with a delicate lace hanging. Everything else?

  Tasteful, elegant, and plain.

  Rose smiles. “I made your favorite. Chicken-fried chicken and white gravy, okra, and mashed potatoes.”

  I scoot to the edge of my bed, moving fast. “You don’t have to spoil me like that, Rose. The other girls already call me your favorite.”

  She smiles. “Our little secret.”

  Rose knows how much I love her Southern cooking. My family’s Moroccan heritage means that my parents completely reject this type of food, but I can’t get enough of it.

  She heads for the door, and I clear my throat. She turns.

  “Thanks, Rose.” She smiles, and I shoot her one right back.

  It’s a genuine smile. One that I keep in the reserves. Smiling at people makes them think that they can take advantage of you. Or that you’re willing to give them more than you are.

  I make a habit of keeping my smiles to myself.

  I follow Rose down the winding spiral staircase, my eyes skimming over the pictures in frames, spanning years of the Kappa Theta Theta sorority’s existence. Thick tapestries hang on the walls. My gaze stutters and then pauses on my reflection in an antique gilded frame. My eyes skitter over my thick, black hair slung over one shoulder and my creamy, sienna-colored skin. My chocolate-brown eyes are set deep amidst thick, black lashes, and my high cheekbones stand out against otherwise harsh, prominent features.

  I love my heritage. I love that my culture makes me special, makes my appearance so much different than that of the sorority sisters at my large, prestigious university. I love that it gives me a place in this world where otherwise I might have none.

  It gets tricky, for sure, being a Moroccan-American twenty-something with African-born parents. They’ve embraced American culture to a certain point, but not to the extent that I have. Sometimes I’m caught between two worlds.

  Trapped in them, really.

  The aroma of spicy, country-fried chicken assaults my nose as I enter the kitchen, and my mouth instantly waters. I drift to a seat at the island, and Rose frowns. She points to the long, rectangular dining table where all the girls who are home in the evening sit down for dinner. Now, eight junior and senior girls who don’t have other plans tonight are busy setting the table and chatting.

  Rolling my eyes, I sigh. “I don’t mind just eating my dinner over here.”

  Rose gives me her sternest look. For a woman who lost the love of her life when she was in her twenties, never remarried, and never had children of her own, she’s very good at mothering a houseful of college-aged girls.

  “We eat at the table, young lady. Together. How many times do I have to tell you?” She points a finger at me. “And if you roll those big brown eyes at me again, they’re gonna get stuck that way.”

  Smothering my smile and pretending it doesn’t cause something warm and gooey to form deep in my chest when she cares, I plop down at the table beside my little sister in the sorority. The only sophomore living in the house with us, she grins over at me before reaching across the table to crab one of Rose’s cornbread muffins. It’s one of the reasons I chose her…she was one of the only pledges during her season who didn’t care too much about what she ate and how it would make her ass look in her jeans the next day. I admired her for her free-spiritedness.

  Then I pop right back up again, to help Rose bring steaming platters of chicken and potatoes to the table. Just as I’m piling gravy on top of my meat, my phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull the black-glitter encased cell out of my jeans and check it.

  “Read it now, because once everyone is seated at this table, there’ll be none of that,” Rose calls as she carries a platter of hot okra over to the table.

  I lean over the island, reading the text.

  Bryn: Get your cute ass dressed up. I’m picking you up from the house at eight.

  I toy with the phone, considering her words. Aubryn Walt’s my best friend, and not a member of my prestigious sorority. She joined a different one. Just as filthy rich as my parents are, hers sent her to the same private school. We met in sixth grade and have been inseparable ever since.

  We’re nothing alike.

  The most notable difference is the fact that even though we attend the same Charlotte university, Bryn’s never met her parents’ expectations. She doesn’t achieve the Dean’s list grades, she doesn’t run in the expected social circles. She’s decided that when she graduates this year, she’s going to start her own business as a fashion buyer and stylist for the rich and famous, and she’ll be amazing at it.

  And she doesn’t need the connections from a sorority network to connect the dots. Everything she’s built for herself, including young, elite client list she already works with, she’s done on her own.

  Me, on the other hand? I crumbled under the pressure from my parents to join the sorority that before me, had seldom accepted women of color. They were certain that by becoming a member, I’d cement my mother’s charity connections she’s been making in the community and draw a certain successful path to my future. My grades are perfect. I’m on track to become something my parents will be proud of.

  Never mind the fact that I’m still not sure what I want that something to be. I don’t have my future figured out. Hell, I don’t even have tomorrow figured out. I just know I’ve always done exactly what I’m expected to do: rise to the top.

  My fingers are a flurry as I text Bryn back.

  B…it’s Thursday night. I have an early class tomorrow morning.

  Her reply is quick and true to Bryn form.

  U worry too much for a college senior…I’ll have you back in plenty of time for your beauty rest.

  I sigh. Bryn isn’t going to let up on this. I know my bestie well enough. This is happening. Whether she breezes in here to drag me out for some fun, or I do it, I’m getting pulled into her little BMW whether I like it or not.

  And let’s face it. Of the two choices: staying in my room all night listening to music by myself like a hermit, or going out with my best friend?

  Option B all the way.

  I’m waiting for Bryn out in front of my house. I can hear her coming, the solid bass of her insanely expensive sound system tearing up the air as her car cuts a speedy path up the pavement. Her tires squeal when she reaches me, and she lowers the passenger side window on the outrageous, candy-apple red coupe.

  “Get in, bitch!” she screams, punctuating each word with a hand clap.

  Rolling my eyes at the same time I grin, because I can’t help it when it comes to Bryn, I slide into the smooth leather of the passenger seat.

  “If you wreck us tonight, I’ll never forgive you.” I shout to be heard over the sound of Panic At The Disco. She’s cranked it up, because she knows it’s one of
the few bands she loves that I don’t vehemently object to.

  “Oh, don’t worry. I’m not driving. We’re heading to my apartment, and then Jaxon and Noah will pick us up.”

  I throw my head back onto the headrest.

  We met Noah Loche freshman year. But, since this past spring, he’s been a little more than a fiend. We crossed a line at a party, making out for an entire night and that’s all the motivation Noah needed to call us a couple. Noah’s an arrogant fraternity boy, but he calls it confidence. I deal with it because he has a family from hell and there’s no way a kid doesn’t turn out a little worse for the wear when growing up with people like that in his home. Noah’s under constant pressure from his dad to succeed, and I empathize with that. My parents aren’t outright pricks the way Noah’s are, but there’s always been an understanding that I wouldn’t defer from the path laid out for me.

  He picks me up, and we hang out sometimes. I’m by no means in love with the boy, but I’ve known him for so long there’s history there. And it’s hard to forget history.

  Bryn and Jaxon are another story. They’re a solid couple and have been since high school. Now that we’re getting close to college graduation, they’re talking seriously about their future.

  Bryn scans my outfit. Short, strapless and black. Black ankle high-heeled boots to go with the slashing pattern on the top lends a little edge to the shoes, something Bryn would have never chosen for herself. It’s also something I’d never wear during the day or in front of my parents.

  Her pink-painted lips curve into a smile. “Ny, you look hot.”

  Despite myself, I smile with satisfaction. “Thanks. You always look gorge, B.”

  She smiles, and without even glancing in the rearview mirror, swings us around backward, turning a perfect three-sixty in the street before propelling the little car forward and down the drive.